“I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”
–Douglas Adams

I’m quite fond of deadlines. I like them enough that I even impose them on myself when I think I have good cause for them. I decided I wanted to be a serious writer and so I started writing seriously, putting deadlines on like layers to insulate myself from the cold, grey night of idleness and perceived uselessness (see also: depression, funk, or gloom).

Look at the comic, for starters, updating daily. I don’t make pages for it every day, and I don’t quite think about the comic every day (though I still think about it quite a lot), but it’s on my mind constantly (which you can also tell by reading this blog, of course). I have deadlines. Chapters and pages and story arcs must be completed. A page a day, two chapters a month, a story arc every three months.

Before the comic, I had myself on a “fill one notebook a month” schedule. I had to fill an entire (70 page, college-ruled) notebook in the span of roughly thirty days, and with my tiny handwriting, that came out to be about 10 words per line, 30 lines per side, 2 sides to each page, about 42,000 words per month. Almost a NaNoWriMo novel.

Since I began the blog in September, I have four entries a day, five days a week. That’s twenty entries a week, reaching another hundred-post milestone roughly every five weeks. (I have a couple placeholder posts on the weekend to indicate that there aren’t any new posts on the weekend — they help me to delineate the weeks.)

How does this leave me? Where? When? Why? I have things. Stuff.