There is less than a month to go till the end of the year. Five days less, to be precise. It is thus the time of the year when I glance at my meticulous writing records ever more anxiously. Spreadsheets, damned spreadsheets. How many pieces have I written so far? Or how many addenda extending all the pieces I have written to date? And how many words have I added to my sprawling opus? No matter how hard I try to control this urge to contrast and compare my output with that of previous years, my anxiety grows by the day. Before I sign off, lying prostrate in the dark and trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the ceiling, I lecture myself with growing fervor, and in an ever-louder voice, about the futility of my fretting. As well as its uninspiring pride. But the end of the year is still far off. Twenty-six days, to be exact. There are records to set still. There are heights to reach before it is too late. Which is why I eventually shut my mouth, and close my eyes as if in peace.

Addendum (December 9, 2016)

There is less than a month to go till the end of the year. Nine days less, to be precise. It is thus the time of the year when I glance at my meticulous writing records ever more anxiously. Spreadsheets, damned spreadsheets. How many pieces have I written so far? Or how many addenda extending all the pieces I have written to date? And how many words have I added to my sprawling opus? No matter how hard I try to control this urge to contrast and compare my output with that of the previous years, my anxiety grows by the day… Yes, I am repeating myself. And on purpose, as it were. As a matter of fact, I am poking fun at myself. To no avail, though. Close to the end of the year, the urge to contrast and compare my output with that of previous years is beyond me to this day. Alas, the end of the year is still far off. Twenty-two days, to be exact. There are records to set still. And so I keep lecturing myself with growing fervor about the futility of my fretting…