My
NaNoWriMo is at 17,823 words. The big start I had has given me the cushion to withstand a few slow days. I'm still on track to hit 50,000 by the end of the month, but I'm behind the pace I wanted to be setting. I'll be traveling during the last week of November, with uncertain opportunities to write. More importantly, I don't know what my connectivity will be, so I need to get NaNoWriMo finished well before the end of the month.
Here in Week Two, I am, as usual, convinced that this book is the dumbest waste of time and effort I've ever undertaken. My inadequacies as a storyteller are revealed more plainly with every dreary thousand words I fling onto the page. The manifest truth is that I was never meant to be a novelist. The searing, brutal, reality of this is inescapable.
This isn't about me. For the good of society, I should a) stop writing, and b) burn everything I've written up to this point, lest some unsuspecting innocent happen to come across it. I'm committing a crime against humanity, creating a weapon of mass destruction. This book is a bucket of powdered polonium, a mylar balloon filled with uranium hexafluoride, a rack of leaky vials of the Zero Hour Plague. This book I'm writing is the fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse, the one God loved the world too much to set free.
And I'm behind schedule on it.
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Help keep the words flowing.
