I have to admit that it is not as big an accomplishment as I'd like it to be. But it's still enough to make me pause in my typing to stare at the lower left corner of my Word document and squeal like a small pig: I've written 10,000 words. In a month. Granted, for any other writer, this is merely as small as taking a trip to the grocery store, and this triple-zero number has just become part of life.
I still continue to squeal. And alert my parents and my friends, and half of the strangers I see on the street. Sixteen pages of an actually started novel, in which I go in chronological order. This is the real monumental act of intelligence. I used to jump from scene to scene, attempting without much success to create an actual novel.
But here I am in the middle of the night, typing an inner monologue when I stop and feel like I should be throwing confetti in celebration. Sure, I have more to go, more to say, and a lot to edit, but for right now, I'm afraid to add anymore - that 10,000 just looks so pretty.
I hope when I'm older, or in the coming months, when I make it to 20,000 and 30,000 or even something like 60,000 that I never get tired of it. Taylor Swift said that one of her biggest fears was not being able to get excited by the little things, which I suppose we have in common. No matter how many words, they'll always be a story.
But 10,000 still makes me smile.