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The 100 Day Project 2025, Day 5

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It worked last year. Maybe it’ll work again.

That’s it. That’s my logic. That’s why last Wednesday, I started another 100-day project. Because I’ve been stalled on my novel for way too long, and I’m hoping this will work.

I’ve already given myself permission to fail, sort of. After telling people last year that the new Claus book would be out for the holidays, I’ve given myself permission not to be done on time. I’ll be apologizing all over the place, and sales will likely be in the toilet, but I’m not going to push just to get a book out the door by an arbitrary, self-imposed deadline and have the book be lousy.

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Missing the Deadline

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Image credit: Mohamed Hassan on Pixabay

I set a deadline for completing the second draft of my novel: I would finish Draft #2 by January 31.

As of today, February 2, I have not finished it. Nor will I be able to do so this week, or probably next week.

In all fairness, I’ve had many things to do this week, primarily work. Still, when I set the deadline, I knew I’d be working, and it seemed reasonable anyway.

As regular readers of this blog know, I’m a huge fan of things like planning, scheduling, and setting deadlines. Having a deadline is what lights a fire under me. Otherwise, I’d meander along life’s path, talking about how I’m going to do this or that “someday”—which, of course, rarely comes.

So why didn’t the deadline work for me this time?

I could point to a number of causes, but probably the main one is the simplest: I failed to plan for delays.

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Anyway

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Photo credit: Koushik Pal on Unsplash

Nothing is convenient.

The sooner we learn this fact, the better. (By “we,” I mean me.)

Case in point: my workload was slow for the first half of May. Scary-slow. The kind of slow that makes you think, “Well, this is it. I had a good run, but it’s over.” Like Blockbuster, or the people who made 8-track tapes.

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I Wrote a Book

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Sixteen years ago, I was going in for minor surgery, and it occurred to me to wonder what would happen if I didn’t come out of it. General anesthesia carries that risk. The funny thing is that I didn’t regret not marrying or not having kids. As I filled out pre-op forms, I realized that if I died, what I’d regret most at that last moment was that I’d never written a book.

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