It’s almost a month into the new year. I’m seven chapters and a couple of dreadful, pained paragraphs into chapter eight (because killing a major character is proving more difficult than I’d expected, so that’s regrettable). I’ve also watched three seasons of The Legend of Korra and a whole lot of Parks and Recreation, which is just great for not being productive.

Brianne and I had a delightful conversation about my writing, by which I mean she reminded me to stop focusing on what I haven’t accomplished. There was a specific mention of One Hundred Days of Blogging, the details of which are a bit blurry because I vaguely recall words intermingled with me screaming internally, and then an idea happened. It started as only a couple words, which was enough to lead to it finding a spot in my Miscellaneous Shit Notebook That Deserves a Better Name.

Let me make it perfectly clear that I hate myself so much for the words I’m about to type. 

With a little bit of creative thinking, coupled perfectly with my overwhelming capacity for self-loathing and self-destruction, this happened. I am resurrecting One Hundred Days of Blogging, but this time I’m handling it with a measure of organization. Take that in, folks. I did something involving organizing something in my life.

Each day has a specific, deliberately broad focus so as to help make this less of a fiasco, and there are three built-in days designed to help my brain rest and recover.

But Phil, you might say, aren’t you working on a novel already? Wouldn’t finding time to write a blog entry every day on top of working on a new novel, all while working, be a bit difficult?

…

That reads a lot more like a self-congratulatory gesture than I thought it would, so let’s just move on.

There isn’t a set word count requirement, and there’s no guarantee I won’t make other blog posts some days. Alternatively, I am also making it a point to prevent myself from posting pictures of a meal I cooked or my adorable cats as the only post for a particular day.

I’m issuing a challenge to myself this year. I’ve got a book published (which is now available in Kindle format over at Amazon), I’ve had short stories published, but now I fear I could be growing complacent. Lazy, perhaps. This is going to be the year that I make damn sure I focus on keeping my writing a constant process. Going along with this, I’d also like to announce that I plan to challenge myself to submit something, at some point in the next five or so years perhaps, to HarperCollins for consideration. I accept–no, I embrace–the strong probability I will be met with rejection.

As a writer, as well as someone who could buy all of the mansion on the planet if delusions of grandeur were a currency, I can’t let fear of rejection become fear of failure. Worth noting: I would probably spend at least two entire days sobbing happy, albeit embarrassing, tears if I did earn a publishing contract with HarperCollins, the home of most of my very favorite authors. For now: baby steps.

Ninety-nine days remaining.

…

Yeah. This is already a terrifying, horrible idea. Let the madcap shenanigans commence!