My inner lemming will be released on Tuesday. Bobby and Susie are jumping off the cliff, therefore so am I. November is National Novel Writing Month. Clap your hands and grab your keyboard. (Not you, Sis, relax. Stop reading this and get back to work.)
“But Auntie,” you say in bewilderment. “Haven’t you already written five unpublished novels? Didn’t you spend years agonizing over each one, not a mere month in which you lose a week to cooking Thanksgiving dinner?”
You are a honey pie to remember. Yes and no. The fifth novel was never finished, and I don’t have a complete copy of the fourth. It only takes four days to cook Thanksgiving dinner. But all that is beside the point.
NaNoWriMo is a phenomenon. I’m constantly amazed by the number of people to whom I’ve mentioned it who say they’ve either done it or will be doing it this year. After a lifetime of dogged individualism (insert bitch joke here) it’s time to try a bit of compliant conformity.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll probably take the lazy way out. At the moment, I’m thinking of calling it “Therapy” and doing 1,667 stream of consciousness words a day. Because if I’ve learned nothing else about NaNoWriMo over the years, it’s that although lots of people write it, nobody ever reads it.
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1 comment:
thanks for the reprieve, Sis! and i will happily read yours, after the thou-knowest-what.
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