Okay, so I’m being a little melodramatic … but only a little.
There’s a reason I typically don’t write in December. The biggest reason is that I generally don’t have any big projects on my plate. My novel-for-the-year is done, I won’t edit the Origins anthology until the New Year, I’ve already turned in the story for an anthology that was due in mid-December, that sort of thing. December is my month to watch movies, send Christmas cards, go to parties, eat too much food, and maybe–just maybe–poke at a short story or a query letter. Maybe.
This year is different. I have a novel due at the end-ish of February, and I’m a slow writer (it turns out I’m even a slow writer when I have a full outline and I know exactly where I’m going) with a full-time job, so of course I’m working on it over the holidays. Throwing another monkey wrench into things? The husband and I are buying a condo in January and so will be moving. Also, I have a 5-day trip planned for my 40th birthday in February.
I am no where near where I wanted to be by this time. I am no where near close to being even a quarter of the way done with this novel. I am starting to get stressed. Freaked out, even. In the back of my mind I know I’ll get it all done because I have to get it all done, and yes it will be stressful but it will happen and life will go on and the world isn’t going to end.