Count the words, then forget the number

A word count is a measure of presence. It tells you that you turned up and that the turning up produced something with a length. It is a poor measure of worth, and a disastrous measure to watch while the sentence is still being born. Count at the end. Forget the number in the middle.

Set the target low enough that a bad day can still clear it. A target you miss three days running becomes evidence against you, and the block collects evidence. Two hundred words, three hundred, twenty-five minutes: choose a floor, not a ceiling. On the days the floor is easy, you may keep going. The floor is what you promised.

Do not count the notes about the book as words of the book, or you will become a person who is excellent at planning and mysteriously bookless. Count the draft. If you are stuck inside a scene, a timed sprint of new sentences counts. A rearrangement of yesterday's sentences does not, or the number will flatter you.

A weekly look is more honest than a daily obsession. One thin day means nothing. A thin week means the session is in the wrong part of the day, or the scene is missing a turn, or you have started editing instead of drafting. The number is a symptom. Read it as a symptom.

When the draft is finished, stop worshipping the count. A book can be too long in the same way a day can be too busy. The number got you to the end. The end is allowed to shrink.