Titles?! We Don’t Need No Steenkin’ Titles!: November 28, 2007

In which there are hospitals and cannibalism.

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Sheesh. Every time I try to make a comeback on this blog, I suddenly find I’ve earned a starring role in that late-night classic, Attack of the Real-Life Issues. And then there is no bloggage for a month, and that makes me look like a flake. A FLAKE, I tell you.

But! I have excuses! Really good ones, I swear! Like… like…

Excuse #1: My Mother’s Innards Are A Mess

So my mother has this medical condition which (besides having a name like a Russian novelist) makes her extremely prone to intestinal obstructions. Like, “every nine months she has to go to the emergency room” prone. And hey! Guess what! Last week she reached the nine month mark since she had her last obstruction! As usual, she celebrated with vomiting, intense abdominal pain, and a visit to the local ER. Heck of a party, that.

But what makes intestinal obstructions so truly exciting is that there are only three ways to treat them:

  1. lie around, dull the pain with morphine, and wait for them to go through (which can take anywhere from 1-10 days)
  2. surgery
  3. drink half a bottle of Drano and flush with boiling water

Of course, one of the above options is just me making a joke — as if anyone really lies around and waits for these things to work themselves out. In my mother’s case, they generally do fix themselves, but only after a week or so. BUT! This time! It only took two days! And then everything was back on track, and my mother was alert and pain-free and complaining about her soup being cold and asking the nurses where they got their shoes and generally being her odd little self again. So, after two more days, they let her go home. Let us all say yippee and woohoo and various cheers of all sorts, for short hospital stays are a rare miracle and must be celebrated appropriately.

Excuses #2-#3: My Fingers Are A Mess, And So Is Cannibalism

Alanis Morissette was wrong. Irony isn’t a black fly in your Chardonnay, or a death-row pardon two minutes too late. Irony is finally having a NaNovel plot that’s so damn brilliant it practically writes itself, so fucking fantastic that for the first time in all the years you’ve done NaNoWriMo you’re thousands of words ahead of schedule and zooming towards that final word count… and then getting RSIs in your wrists and fingers from all that typing and ending up seven thousand words behind, just like every other year. Isn’t it ironic?

And in case you were wondering, I am tapping this entry out with a pencil clutched between my teeth. Seriously. I kid you not.

But really, this year’s NaNovel is great. Awesome. So much fun to write. It has gunplay and wilderness survival and cannibalism and consumption and everything, so I have yet to run out of plot twists and fun-to-write scenes and fake historical appendices (which are a great way to pad your word count, by the way). Today’s scheduled scene involves a case of bad manners wherein a man fails to greet his guests at the door to his abode, but only because he has been buried alive in the back yard with his tongue cut out. Tomorrow, I kill a baby and feed him to his siblings. The fun never stops around here!

Of course, I am still 9,000 words behind. But hey, I thrive under pressure…

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