I've been floundering around for the past couple of weeks. Feeling so much stress and pressure about finishing by May 9. Trying to find more and more time to write, as if that were the only answer. It's not.
Lately, every time I sit down and try to write, the pressure to go as fast as possible has paralyzed me, and prevented me from losing myself in the story. It's been frustrating and upsetting and not what I want writing to be. Lately I've felt I have to rush so I can finish by this arbitrary deadline I've imposed upon myself. Ironically, that desperation to go as fast as possible has frozen me and made my progress even slower than usual.
Yesterday, Scott took the kids out on errands for a couple of hours. It was my time to get a lot done, but I just couldn't find the words. I started and stopped and started and stopped and the longer I tried, the more panicky I felt. I knew I had to write as much as possible, but nothing I wrote sounded right and my fear and paralysis grew and grew.
But then I had one of those flashes of insight that seem to come out of the blue. I remembered I'm a slow writer. I can't force myself to go quickly. It comes as it comes and it can take a long time. It's nothing I can rush. This realization filled me with peace. I started the section again, and once more the story spoke to me and I knew which words to use. Strangely enough, once I allowed myself to take my time I was able to write more in one sitting than I have in weeks. And this morning the peace was still with me. I'm moving forward fluidly now and should finish the current scene tomorrow or the next day. It's all coming relatively easily again, because I'm not trying anymore. I'm letting it happen as it happens.
I know I will finish my novel--maybe by May 9, and maybe not, but I will finish.
I can't force it. I can't rush. I have to let it come as it comes.