Blood in the Water

“There was no specific title for what Brevyn Steed did, no appropriate shingle to hang outside his door. While the terms of investigator, negotiator, mediator, and mole could all be applied to the brash and brilliant young Englishman, none of them quite covered the entirety of his particular and rather unique skill—a skill for which his clients paid quite dearly.”  (page 1, Pound by Chloe Stowe)

 

After suffering yesterday morning with an imagination as limp as a wet, over-cooked noodle, I was able to finally knock down 500 of my 700 word daily quota on Book Three.

I mention this rather dull tidbit as a means to direct our attention to the double-edged sword we writers call the… Word Quota.

*the house lights suddenly dim*

*the “Jaws” theme begins to pound threateningly through the speaker system*

Alright, the Word Quota is hardly as intimidating as that. We don’t need Spielberg to direct this blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tale of good versus evil.  Me and my 15 pounds of canine fury and fuzz have got it covered. (Yes, I realize that is probably a grammatically incorrect sentence, but I’m pleading poetic license. Mr. Spielberg would understand.)

Back to the point, the Word Quota can be a terribly useful tool that challenges authors to keep going, to keep pushing toward that finish line no matter how rough or shark-infested the writing waters are that day.

That’s all fine and dandy. As you well know, I use the method every day.

But…

In the wrong mindset (and aren’t we all in the wrong mindset from time to time?), the Word Quota can be played as a terrific excuse for bad writing.

Sometimes, the fever or the obligation to reach that quota overrides all things good about our writing.

It pushes us to accept poorly formed sentences just so we can get our daily obligation of word-crafting over and done.

It okays crappy storytelling by providing the conscience with the handy excuse of “Hey, I got my word count in. That’s all that matters. Now, get off my freaking back, Jiminy Cricket!”

So, as with any tool we drag confidently out of a workshop, we must always watch our fingers.

After all, the last thing we need is blood in the water when Jaws and Spielberg are sniffing around.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe