"And died stinkingly martyred."

Don't ask me why, but the squirrelly part of my writer-brain, the part that finds odd things to ponder (and then usually buries them somewhere and forgets about them thereafter) started thinking about death lines this evening. That is, the things people in books/movies/plays/etc. say when they're about to die or in the process of dying. Shakespeare, for all I love him, was a melodramatic little wretch where those are concerned. I think one of my favorites comes from Dorothy Dunnett -- it's a bit of a cheat, since the hit doesn't actually kill Lymond, but he believes it's going to (and it really would, were it not for some bloody-minded medical intervention) -- anyway, having done something good at what amounts to the sacrifice of his life, this is how he exits:

"And died stinkingly martyred," said Lymond, with painful derision; and losing hold bit by bit, slipped into Erskine's gentle grasp.

Which is why I love Lymond: he mocks himself even as he's bleeding out of rather too many holes for anyone's peace of mind.

What's your favorite death line?

goal anxiety

I've come to realize I have a moderately dysfunctional relationship with goals.

(This applies to more than just writing, but writing offers a good, clear-cut illustration of what I mean.)

Let's say I'm working on a novel and my goal is 1000 words a day. One evening, out of laziness, I write only 800. Or -- more likely -- I just don't write at all. (If I put my butt in the chair, I tend not to leave until I have quota.) I treat that as a deficit I need to make up; I write 1200 words or 1500 words until I'm back where I would have been had I not been short one day.

This is moderately okay. Especially since I usually manage to cut myself some slack for occasions when something (like travel) takes me out of commission for several days at a stretch.

The dysfunctionality comes in when I write above quota. Take a recent example: I'm working on something where my weekly goal is 10K. Which means, in general, 1500 a day, with one day where I can cut back a bit and just do 1000. This past week, I wrote 1500 (and change) for a couple of days, and then 2K one day. I built up a surplus.

This does not get treated the way a deficit does -- as slippage that should get averaged out.

No, instead my obsessive, goal-driven self tends to ignore all surpluses. Who cares that I'm more than 500 ahead; I should still write 1500 every day. Including that day that was supposed to be an easy 1000. Then I'd be a thousand ahead of where I meant to be! But don't let that fool you into thinking I could do just 9K the next week. No, it'll be 10K or bust, and if I can squeeze out more, than full steam ahead!

From the perspective of finishing books (or whatever else I might be working on), this seems pretty good. I'm beginning to notice, though, that it might be a little hard on me -- it means I never earn a break. Any such break would have to be earned in advance, and once I've done that, I just keep pushing. More words written, more pages read, more cleaning done, whatever the task at hand is, I keep going. Until it's done.

And then I look for something else to do.

My fiance is probably beating his head into a wall, having read this far; he's a big advocate of me relaxing and not being so hard on myself. But he (and the rest of you) can take heart: I've made a baby step in mending my ways. Having built up a surplus earlier this writing week (which is, for uninteresting reasons having to do with this project, Thursday through Wednesday), I let myself cut back a bit for the last three days. I wrote over 1K each time, to hit my weekly goal, but didn't make myself do 1500. Right now I'm sitting pretty at 53 words over target -- in the middle of a scene, no less, which I decided to leave as a carrot for tomorrow, rather than finishing it tonight.

Mind you, I've got other things I need to get done, which is another argument for not driving myself to oblivion on one project only. But nevermind that.

Goals: they're to be met, but not always exceeded.