11.01.04: I Could Kick Your WriMo Ass ‹ Blog

If you start with a bang, you won’t end with a whimper.
T. S. Eliot

I Could Kick Your WriMo Ass

11.01.04

Twenty-one hours into NaNoWriMo, and I’ve already got three chapters under my belt and the plot all figured out. That’s 4,289 words so far, and they’re showing no sign of slowing down. And I’ve still got the time and energy to write an entry for this journal.

Don’t you just hate me?

I’ve decided not to write my fantasy novel, for a variety of reasons. Instead of working on that story, which definitely has publication potential, I’m writing a novel that has no chance of being published at all, and that will most probably end up as a web serial somewhere on this site. Maybe I’ll put up PayPal buttons and beg for donations, to try and get some money out of it. (Or maybe I’ll post excerpts right now, and you can pay me to stop writing. Yes, it’s that bad.)

I’m taking it easy right now; with three chapters—that’s 4,289 words, in case you forgot—already done, I figure I’ve earned a little break. Besides, I have to get up ultra-early tomorrow to go stand outside the local polling place in the freezing cold of a Minnesotan autumn morning. Joy! Voting’s going to be a major chore this year, and not just because they’re expecting a record turnout. See, when we moved from one voting precint to another, we figured we were close enough that it wouldn’t technically matter—leastways that’s what the volunteers on the hotlines told us several times. Turns out the volunteers are dumber than a bag of bricks, and we were actually supposed to completely re-register—nice of them to tell us that after the registration deadline had passed. So now we have to stand in the registration line, go through that whole process, then go all the way to the end of the registered-voters line and stand some more, until we either get to vote or are blown up by some crazed Nader supporter who can’t find his leader’s name on the ballot. Or maybe the voting machines will explode, or we’ll all freeze to death in the chill November air.

(“Chill November air”? Sorry. This NaNoWriMo thing has gotten to me.)

Well, I’m off to bed to dream of plot twists and character development. If you don’t hear from me ever again, I either died at the polling place or committed suicide because Bush won again. Or else my twenty-five chapter novella turned into a three-volume epic and my Muse has become like the lady from Misery, and she’s holding me hostage and forcing me to write, and OH GOD SHE’S GOT AN AXE! ANNIE, NO!

Ehm. Sleep now.