The word count, as of 8 a.m. — when I shut down my laptop to get off my morning train — was 4,767. I'm still on pace, but I'm only two days in.
Tonight will be a shorter writing night. My father is in town, and I'm meeting him and my grandmother (yiiiikes) at the Metra station in Wilmette, then we'll all drive to Skokie for a big Italian dinner at Maggiano's Little Italy. At the mall.
Expect a long entry tomorrow on why I love the city so much.
As for the story itself, the words I actually see on the page when I'm not obsessed with my word count?
I'm swimming in memories. Many of them fuzzy but all of them indelible. And it's hard to know what I should include as plot and what's just life fluff, shit that happened to me but no one will want to read about whether it's truth or fiction.
But that's part of this whole "shitty first draft" thing. Anne Lamott has given me a pass to be a terrible writer for the next month or so. Thanks!
Now scroll down and read the thing that's actually worth your time. Maybe. Please.
It's about Starbucks. And happiness.