Yesterday afternoon I got home and realized I hadn't written my 'daily story' here, so I knocked that out on my laptop. I made up a vignette in a vaguely India-based region, inspired by a postcard on my desk. I hope it was entertaining.
But in the evening, when my wife left to see a friend, I sat down at my workstation and started a story idea that's been rolling around my skull for some time. I wanted to challenge myself with a genre that doesn't particularly appeal to me, and I wanted to write within it as though I were fully into it. I picked out a large goblet, hoisted my jug of Carlo Rossi sangria, and closed myself up in the office, writing.
Five hours later I was done. I did not stop typing in those five solid hours. Rebecca came home, touched base with me, and gave me my space as she prepared for bed and went to sleep. I'm very grateful to her, I know it's hard to live with an artist who needs large amounts of time alone, necessarily leaving one's spouse alone too. She has been very supportive of my writing career, in every way, for as long as I've known her.
It was very gratifying to knock out this written piece. Fourteen pages, all told, and an extra half hour to comb over what few typos/grammatical lapses the word checker can't pick up. I was stunned to look at it all, lean back in my chair and become fully aware of what I'd just cranked out. I cheated myself out of a lot of sleep last night, but I'm proud of my accomplishment.
I wonder if it can be replicated?