Just as sometimes my eyes are bigger than my stomach, my hope to be competitive in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is bigger than my ability to follow through. It appears that my mascot, who cheered me into thinking I could produce 50,000 words in the 30 days of November, has conned me with a load of utter horseshit. Pollyanna cannot see into the future. She lives in The Now. She is taking the hit on this one.
I have a post up over at The Stiletto Gang, The Four Fs of November, during the first week of NaNoWriMo and where Pollyanna describes how haaaaard it is to write 1,667 words a day; but she is nevertheless muscling through as many word counts as she can to cross the finish line with the hope of being greeted by the angelic cyber squeees of an infinitesimal fraction of the blogosphere. You did it! You wrote 50,000 words! Yay, you!
Alas, we're beyond the halfway mark, and I've written roughly 7,000 words--a far cry from the 30,006 goal for the 18th day of November. Yet, even now, Pollyanna is hanging over my shoulder, pep-talking me to distraction: Stay at it! Don't give up! Double your writing time! Catch up! Forget about that Day J.O.B. Forget that you are freaking tired. Drink even more caffeine!
And while she yammers on, I entertain fantasies of backhanding her and stuffing a ball of yarn into her happy mouth. If only I had a ball of yarn.
Sorry. Since the election, I've become a cynic, entirely immune to Pollyanna's nagging implorations to be glad. Doesn't help that I just finished reading Margaret Atwood's The Handsmaid's Tale. If you haven't read it, you should. It's wonderful by any measure. And all too poignant, considering the election ramifications.
But I digress and hereby officially throw in the proverbial towel. Though I'm still writing as I can on my works in progress, November will be henceforth known as NaNoWriNot.