Sometimes it takes only a few minutes to write a chapter, sometimes it takes days. It’s the fear of screwing up, the worry that everything that comes out of my brain and down through my fingertips is actually a load of bollocks, that makes my progress slow to a gastropodian pace. And sometimes I get in such a bother over it that I feel like maybe it’s better not to commit myself to writing at all, because my mistakes won’t exist if I never make them.
But I just decided, while I was trying to rock my querulous infant back to sleep at 1am, that I don’t care. Or that I shouldn’t care, at least.
Once I finish this novel (I WILL finish it, dammit), and if I read it over and it isn’t as brilliant as I hoped it would be (it never will be, nothing on paper is ever as good as the thought it starts out as) then I just put it aside and start another.
Failing to write because of fear of bad writing is worse than writing bad writing. At least writing badly is progress.