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I’ve counted my progress not in pages, but in sentences. It’s six o’clock, and I’m struggling for just twenty more lines. Twenty more lines will get me four pages, and I can throw in the towel for today. It will be a relief. Four pages is progress, and on a day like today it’s as much as I can drag out of myself.
Well, as often happens on days when I’ve beaten my hands bloody on the metaphorical wall, that last desperate effort when I was dead tired, discouraged beyond measure, and hadn’t give up on anything but a pyrrhic victory, is when I get the most pages done. It’s almost like all those false starts, thrown away pages, had to get out of the way to let the good stuff through. Whatever I have ten pages for the day. Ten pages, respectable, and very happy to have it.