So, here we are. Two days remain at Camp. Less than 48 hours, and I've only got 1500 words left to go. One-tenth of my original goal. Yeah, I only set it to 15,000 words. I thought 500 a day would be all I could handle, and I've managed to make it despite a few "off" days and starting late. I'm too close to lose now, but I'm questioning myself. Could I have done better? Could I have done more? Am I not doing my story justice because I made my limit not even a full third of a normal NaNo?
I'm trying to convince myself that it's all okay, because ultimately, I've DONE it, but it's not an easy thing. We doubt ourselves, writers. Any artist, really. Our masterpiece will never be good enough. Our magnum opus will never be perfect, and that kills us. In bits and pieces, it tears us apart. Each word we hate, each scene that we run up against, every second of writers block makes us doubt, resent, lose faith, wonder if we should keep going at all. And from what I understand, that never goes away. I think it was Neil Gaiman who said as much in a NaNoWriMo pep talk several years ago. You can be published several times over, a success, and you will still doubt yourself, your stories, your characters. We're looking at a lifetime of torturing ourselves, questioning our worth and tearing ourselves apart as we struggle to make our stories come to life from nothing.
And yet, there's still nothing I want more.
Does this make me a masochist?