Everybody loves statistics! And statistics love you!

I've found some interesting statistics about my writing. OpenOffice.org--my word processor (and other stuff--I've only recently begun to use the spreadsheet program) productivity suite of choice, due to its a) cost [none!] b) stability [it works!] c) ease of availability [no need to find those damned Windows CDs!] and d) lack of registration key [no need to find that damned sticker that came with your Windows CD!]--keeps pretty good track of the amount of time spent working on a particular document and the number of times a given file is saved; the stats even carry over nicely when you do a save-as to a new file, which I tend to do when I'm nervous that I'm about to ruin everything. (Though I honestly almost never look back. I figure that'd be like saying, "Yeah, I had my life right the first time--let's start over from puberty." Yech. No thanks.)

So out of curiosity--and to confirm my theory that the last story was...insane, somehow--I checked the stats for the three stories I've completed this year.

• "Blasted". This story, which I did entirely with no save-as-es, clocked in at eleven hours of editing time, with a total number of 15 saves. "Gosh," I think, looking at the numbers; "that seems like a nice, pleasant amount of time to spend on a story."


• "We Were Calm" reached four save files. Hmm. Document properties suggest I spent about 18 to 19 hours on the story, with a total of 92 saves. "Gosh," I think, looking at the numbers; "that first story must really suck."


• I know there was something goofy about March the very moment I open the folder for "Gravel Chords" and find 14 save files. Either I made a lot of mid-stream critical changes, or I was feeling extremely in-touch with my knowledge of my own ability to destroy my newest masterwork. Opening up the final file, I learn that, somehow, during those blurry weeks, I burned off approximately 47 hours saving files-in-progress, which I did 309 times. "Gosh," I think, looking at these freshest numbers. "Just...gosh."

Judging by the arc those numbers begin to form on the imaginary graph in my mind, I can safely extrapolate that, by the end of the year, when I'm fulfilling my currently rapidly deteriorating commitment to produce a new story each month, I'll be living entire lifetimes inside each month, each story requiring progressively more and more save files that, come December, I'll need to convert most of Ohio into a server farm the likes of which will leave the Weta Workshop shaking and quivering in pure awestruck lust.

As long as we've got some numbers in front of us, let's play: imagine that third story gets published after I spend three more hours of my life printing cover letters, addressing envelopes, standing in line at the post office, crying my guts out over rejection letters, and being anxious. And lets say the lucky publishing literary journal pays its authors in contributor's copies. If, say, that journal is 100 pages long, then the ultimate hourly rate paid out for my work will be two pages of literary journal per hour spent on the story.

Pft. And people think there's no profit in this business.

Of course, the math gets a bit more testy once you introduce "bespectacled literary groupies" into the equation...though I bet the powers-that-be classify them as "job perks." I hope that doesn't play havoc with my tax forms when I'm famous.