In the past month, I've written about 6,000 words on the current novel. At my target rate, that's about a week's worth of work in a month's time. So, clearly I have not reached my writing goals for the month of May.
So why am I so happy?
Well, rewrites of an earlier chapter went far better than I expected with wonderful comments from my crit group. The chapter accomplishes everything I'd hoped it would and I feel like the plot is structurally sound.
I've figured my way out of 2 plot holes and have a clearer sense of how the final 1/4 of the story needs to unfold.
I've written half a dozen poems last month that I'm pleased with and feeling more and more confident in my critique skills.
All this and dealing with a bout of pneumonia/bronchitis/and/or general ick that forced me to miss a week of work and become closely acquainted with my sofa and gravity.
All in all, not the May I expected, but a May to be pleased with. After all, while goals are *useful*, they are only a target. Nothing rides on my hitting the goals, other than my own sense of accomplishment--all my deadlines are self-imposed. Perhaps if life is kind enough to lead me to become a published author, that will change, but for now, I write for me. And it is a joy.
May it always be so.