Novel-writing month dropout?

I’m not sure if I can do this NaNoWriMo thing and maintain any sense of dignity. What the HECK was I thinking to take that on when life has been such a challenge lately? And to let Alex commit to 25K words? Did I have a little mini-stroke that night that rendered me temporarily without any common sense?

Already Alex has told me that writing isn’t fun anymore, it’s more work than anything else. I’d have to agree (although I resist the urge to tell her). I’ve quit hounding her, after all… if I manage to take a talented writer-in-the making and turn her against writing, I fail. (Epic fail.)

So, I’ve looked at my own puny word count. I’m not saying that I’m throwing in the towel yet. But I didn’t anticipate the vBlog project (cool thing, more on that later), or the stuff that’s happened in my personal life, or the work load with one of my clients that has required so many off-site days of late when I said I’d do this.

Do I sound whiny? Maybe that’s because I am.

I also signed up to write a blog a day and I’m beginning to think that’s more my speed. Blogging, I can do. Heck, if I could add my word counts in from the blog, I’d proabably be much closer to my goal!

My issue is that I’m not “stuffing my editor in a closet” when I can take the time to sit down and actually write. When I write… that’s when she really comes out to play.

She’s a witch.

She whispers things like… “should that character really be from Mexico? What the heck do YOU know about Mexico, you can’t even remember your Spanish from a decade ago. Some star student… if you had to order your dinner in Spanish, you would starve.”

She says, “Shouldn’t you be spending this time on actually EARNING a living?”

She says, “Gee this room is a mess, wouldn’t it be easier to write and to be creative if you swept the floor first?”

“I’m hungry,” she moans, “I need to pee” and makes *swisshhhh* sounds until I need to go too.

“A good mother,” she leans toward me conspiratorially, “would spend this time with her daughter. They grow up so quickly, you know.”

She taunts, “Write what you know. REMEMBER?!?! So it should be female, single, middle-aged, and chubby who never gets enough sleep and dreams of being a novelist. After all, that’s what you REALLY know, isn’t it?”

Then she slumps back in the velvet chair beside my desk and crows, “Who are you fooling?”

Cross-legged, balancing her impossibly pointy red high heel shoe on the edge her right big toe, she declares, “You aren’t THAT kind of writer. You, my dear, are NO novelist!” Then she cackles like that was funniest thing in the world, until she’s rendered breathless… grasping for air and holding her sides.

Secretly, I hope she dies.

I push a few of the almonds from the little pile on my desktop toward her, hoping she pops one into her mouth and chokes on it.

(photo courtesy of dmscs on