I complained to Sean two years ago that I was, at the time, writing (or trying to write; or putting aside time to write—however you want to put it) for only forty-five minutes a day. Sean replied that forty-five minutes is infinitely better than nothing.
It’s been a long time since I took math, but mathematically, I think he’s right. To put it another way: one word a day means a novel finished in two or three hundred years. No words a day means a novel finished never.
See also: “One Word a Day, Five Hundred Days,” by Rebecca Donnelly.
And somehow this seems related?:
“I just don’t like writing… I’m not a compulsive writer, never was, never could be. I don’t need the bread any more. Let’s see—compulsion, money—those are the only two reasons to go through the hell of trying to fill 500 blank sheets of paper.”
But isn’t the third reason—the habit, the practice, the doing for its own sake—the only healthy motivation in the long term?
But I’d better stop there for today.