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?