NoNoWriMo, that is. That's National Novel Writing Month for those out there who aren't part of the insanity, don't write, or know someone who does. Now that I've coerced Lala and Roi into saying they'll do it, I don't know if I can. Today, the very first day, when the rubber's supposed to meet the road, I felt around up there where the words are supposed to live and all I found was an echoing emptiness. That's not good. I'm supposed to poop out 1,667 words today and every day this month to reach the 50,000 word goal by the 30th. I've got a vague idea of what I want to write, a mental snapshot of a running woman, but that's about it. I guess I'll just haul out my Alphasmart and start typing. Something's bound to come--and I can always type "this was a dumb idea" 333.4 times and I'll be golden. (Yeah, like I'd do that.) Something will come. And I can always fall back and retype my last novel (which really needs it) to fulfill the quota and get a chore I'm avoiding done. I even have a cool jump drive bracelet to put my novel on... so why am I cowering in the basement (of my mind)? If you have the answer, let me know. Today's Photo a Day theme is "something beginning with "c" and I bring you COLD. (I woke up thinking I wasn't going to do PAD because I'm doing NaNoWriMo. I do NOT need two things I "have" to do daily in my life, this month or any month. I swear to god that the older I get the more scatterbrained I get and piling on the "should"s has never been a good idea for me and it's not getting to be a better one anytime soon. Still I persist in doing it. What is it with me? Do I have a crazy wish? (I know I don't have a death wish, there're just too many things I still want to do, but I seem bent on driving myself batshit crazy. What gives?)) I stepped outside the patio doors around 7:15 to top up the birdbath and there were little white pellet-like things falling out of the sky making a pecking sound on the dry leaves. Hmm. Snow? Sleet? Ice balls? Pick any one, add in the darkness, and the equation adds up to C-C-C-COLD. Daylight savings time can't end soon enough (this coming Saturday night/Sunday morning--set your clocks & change your smoke alarm batteries!) for me either because the sun wasn't up, wasn't even tinting the clouds on the horizon yet. That happened 20 minutes later, see? Oh hell, it's 8 o'clock. I wanted to be done with this by now so that I can drag a brush through my hair. The fixit guy is supposed to be delivering our tuned-up snowblower and lawnmower between 8 & 10 and Durwood's still pounding his ear, the darling. I'm envious that he can roll over and go back to sleep and I have to get up when my %^$#@ alarms ring. Humph. But I do like the quiet. It's a trade-off.
November 1--Tunisia, Folio from the Blue Qur'an. The lake was like midnight blue glass with streaks of golden starlight on the surface. Jean sat in the Adirondack chair on the end of the dock listening to the frogs and watching bats swoop and dive catching insects. There wasn't a breath of a breeze to ruffle the lake and the moon had yet to rise. What had Steeno meant when he said that Gramps had fallen behind? She knew the place had been paid for generations back. The dock trembled. She looked over her shoulder to see their old Lab, McGee, coming to keep her company.
With any luck I'll have a tiny piece of a new novel (or some tidied-up old one) to put up there tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed.