It doesn't seem to want to end, almost as thought it's achieved a measure of self-awareness and now has the sole purpose of driving me insane. Of course, I'm talking about my research list.
National Novel Research Month doesn't exist. At least, I don't think it does. I've been researching for this book idea I got stuck in my head. The idea's been floating around for about a year. I've been doing hardcore research for about a month now. And because I don't want it to drag on and on, I've given myself a New Year's Eve deadline, so I've still got about a month and a half to finish it all.
A lot of that research is history-based. Looking at The Document the other night, I was surprised to find that the history section is about 130 pages long. If each page yields three pages of fiction, I've got a novel right now. But I'm still pressing forward like a maniac.
By my guess, I've got about 67 hours of documentaries to screen still. Part of me really doesn't want to do it. Part of me thinks it's just a little while longer. Part of me wants to hire someone else to take notes, but the rest of me says, "You can't afford a research assistant, moron!"
I wish I could ignore job-hunting for a teaching post or a story analyst position. I wish I could call in to my day job with a fake illness. But I know I can't. I think the only thing I can do is reserve the evenings. The evenings are the one part of the day when I know I'm afforded writing time to myself, even if I stare at a blank page for a couple of hours.
Shit, I guess it really does come down to that, huh? Slow down and be the tortoise when I'd rather be the hare? I'm rambling out loud, of course. Or in writing. Or whatever the bloody equivalent of stream of consciousness is.
All I can really think of right now is how in over my head I'm feeling. 67 hours. Even at only two hours a day, I can meet my deadline, but geez, it seems like such a hill to climb. If I do get through it, I swear my New Year's resolution will be to set aside a day and veg out.