It’s easy, once I’ve started a project, to get discouraged when I figure out how much work it will actually take to complete. This goes for writing novels, creating games, and any other similarly large tasks.
With the average metric of 200 words per hour I got from a Writing Excuses podcast (a metric that so far I haven’t been meeting, but that may change as I get further in and there’s less background work to do), I figured out that if I get five hours per week to write it will take me about two years to finish a novel. Given that so far I haven’t been able to even snag that much time, and that demands on my time seem to only tend to increase rather than diminish, that’s a pretty bleak outlook.
But that’s not really the point, is it?
What I should focus on more is the question, if not writing or working on some other project, what else would I do?
I start these projects because at the heart of each them is the reason I am living this life at all. My purpose, what I came here for. Doing anything else may not entirely be wasting time, but it’s not the same. I have a constant feeling that I’m behind, that I should be further along by now with these projects. A subtle, constant tension between reality and these works which I have not yet enabled to exist, but should. It’s been building, growing like snow slowly piling up on a mountainside, or the swelling of a dammed river.