I don’t know how many words I’ve written.
I stumble and stammer and drool and I stare uncomprehendingly at a wall wondering how it got there.
I might be jumping the gun, I may be jinxing myself, but baby, I feel like I’ll make it. I’ve managed to write. every. single. day. for the last 27 days and I’m turning the corner and running slipshod spastically down the last coupla hundred yards, sloppily headed towards the finish line.
A weird thing is happening to me. The closer I get to it, the more I kinda dread the end. I think I’m gonna miss my poorly constructed characters and shoddy story line. I’ve lived with them for a month now, watching with dread their slowly emerging awfulness.
I love them the way you love a puppy with a tumor.
I gotta stop, right? I can’t just keep going can I? Or can I? Bernard Moitessier entered an around-the-world sailboat race and fell in love with it and just kept sailing on past the finish line, sailing around the globe twice. So yeah, maybe I’m actually starting to think that I’ll just keep rolling on after NaNoWriMo folds up it’s tent and moves on.
Where is this all going?
I’m some 32,000 words into it and I’m getting a little bit edgy.
I’m getting a little bit worried, no strike that, a LOT a bit worried that I won’t finish, that my subconscious will tie me up and hold me down and fuck me and laugh at me while it does it.
I’m soooo close, I can almost smell the finish- it washes over me like a freshening breeze.
Come on, baby, I can DO this.
I’ve made it halfway. If I was running a marathon I’d be sucking down juices and wolfing energy bars and wondering why the hell I’d ever started this in the first place.
I am and I am, except the juices are coldies and the energy bars are, well, more coldies.
I was going great guns and then on Friday I had a drunken energy bar moment and somehow forgot to save like 1200 words. Then, on Saturday, Miss Carol and me joined some friends on a boat ride to a pig-pickin’ and when I got home I tried to write and it looked like this-
thijeuuo, wnnoeihrfla;, owoowhiiok
So I gave up.
When I awoke on Sunday, I was facing a 4000 word day just to catch up with the ever relentless word count that is NaNoWriMoandMo.
I honestly didn’t think I could do it, I was painting the big L on my forehead when Miss Carol said, buck up little buckeroo. Man up, you can do it, she said, waving her pompoms.
So I sat down.
And I did it.
I wouldn’t wanna do it again, but I DID it, I caught up.
So, yeah, I’m feeling pretty awesome.
I just completed day nine of my NaNoWriMo, which means my word count is somewhere in the 14000 range.
My fingertips are uber-sensitive after typing that many words and the keys on my keyboard are shiny with use and hot to the touch.
And I wonder if it would be too chick-like to say that I’m plumbing depths never plumbed, that I love peeling away these layers of me and applying new lipstick to what remains.
It wouldn’t, would it?
Be too chick-like, I mean.
What a ride. I wouldn’t suggest everyone throw themselves up against this NaNoWriMoShit, but it sure is working it’s magic on me.
Just three days and three nights into NaNoWriMo and the effects are deep and life-changingly scarring.
I’ve written almost six thousand words so far which in oceandoggy blogworldland would be about a month’s worth of effort. But way beyond the word count is the feeling, even though largely insomniamaniacally driven, that I’m changing.
I know, I know, it’s only been THREE days, but I’m feeling about 2 inches deep and 3 miles wide right now.
And it feels gooooood.
It started today.
My personal marathon of words. Somehow, some kinda way, I’ve got to average 1700 words every day for the next month and write a 50,000 word, 175 page novel.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bitching. I’m as excited as a Clyde when some girl finally sticks her hand down his pants.
I just don’t know how I’m gonna pull this one off.