Tags: nanowrimo


So, In How Many Languages Do I Rule, Again?

That's right. Let's hear it. Roar of the crowd. Go ahead, lose control, you know you want to.

I am THAT awesome.

Oh yeah. I am BAD ASS.

Official NaNo counter word tally is 50,670. My Word document count is a little higher, but I won't quibble.

I finished at around 10:30 PM, after coming home and writing the last 3500 words I needed at, actually, a leisurely and unstressed pace. I even took a South Park/dinner break. I did it in a month where I hosted Thanksgiving AND turned in *three* articles more or less on time.

AND, I have a REAL ending. Not a chapter full of tumor talk.

(Sorry. I promise to find something else funny for future bardic circles.)

The story actually ends, and I didn't even have to rush the final events that much. I feel like I fired all the guns I put on the mantel in Act 1. I am PLEASED.

I am going to go buy a little bottle of champagne now. And then, I GET TO SLACK!!!

*victory dance*

Who's Fucking Awesome? ME!

Who's the badass bitch that's a sex machine to all the chicks? SHUT YO-just talkin' about ME.

One month. 50,000 words. Over 30,000 since Sunday.

You may touch the monkey.

I pulled it out. With FIVE MINUTES on the clock. Oh yeah. 50,273 words, to be exact. And, ok, so the last two chapters were little more than complete jibberish, but what-fuckin-evah. I did it and I lived to tell the tale, muthafucka. It wasn't about the writing-- it was about the finishing.

Now I get to WATCH TV and SLEEP. Wheeeeeee!

*runs off doing the "Oh Mommy, Oh Daddy, I Am A Big Ole Baddie HUH!" dance*

The 25th mile feels so much longer...

I haven't felt like this since I was in high school writing my term papers the night before they were due (which I ALWAYS did...how I still got good grades is sometimes a mystery to me).

I might pull an all nighter tonight. We'll see how it goes. I'm still going to work, though, because it should be pretty quiet and because if I don't I'll end up sleeping all day.

Things are chugging along. But I feel like I'm trying to run in the sand. Can't seem to write fast enough to please myself.

Am blatantly ripping stuff off from my life now. Don't care. Going to get done with this damn thing.

I will not post again until midnight tomorrow or 50k words, whichever comes first.

Final stretch-- wish me luck!!!


I had wine.

And I put the lunatic with the gun into the Corner Bistro.

It actually kinda worked. At least the characters started talking in their voices and not mine and they DID SOMETHING.

Who knew?

Time for this little lunatic to try for a few hours of sleep.

Bitching Break

I just needed to get away from noveling and piss and moan for a while.

I hate my novel right now.

I don't want to do any more tonight. But I haven't met my goal yet. But I don't wanna.

The story sucks and I don't know where the next chapter is going and my imagination has short circuited and I'm tired and I want to watch TV and I wish I was already done and I kind of just want to say fuck it and go to bed but if I do I'll either stress myself out massively for the next two days or I'll be depressed that I failed to accomplish yet another thing in my life.

I don't know how I'm supposed to end this thing and I don't really have the luxury of time to figure it out and I am on a new chapter and I don't know what needs to happen at this point. I have a suicidal angel and a girl who has spontaneously healed a whole mess of psychological wounds which of course she's all fucked up about and a mysterious skeleton who *I'm* not even entirely sure how the guy died and a former cult leader ceremonial magician witch and a missing and presumed dead mother and a secret wisdom hidden in plain sight that contains a key to the aeonal shift and all this really does tie together in a weird way and you'd think that would generate its own quirky developments when I get stuck but right now all anyone seems to want to do is go out for a burger and muse about things and that's so goddamn French of them that I swear I might just have the Corner Bistro taken hostage by a lunatic just to make things lively again.


I hate writing badly. I hate first drafts. It feels like such a waste of time to put down crap that I am 99% sure I'm just going to take out later in the hopes of finding some unexpected little thing that turns out to be perfect, or at the very least in the hopes of just getting the damn thing done.

This is why I can never finish anything. Because I get so bogged down in meticulous detail, trying to make everything perfect, that I end up getting overwhelmed and feeling like I can never live up to my own expectations. DAMMIT. I hate being such a fucking perfectionist. It's supposed to be about enjoying the journey. DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT.

Every time I sit down I wish I was writing any of a hundred other stories that, in my mind, would be infinitely better and more interesting than this one. And every time I sit down I wish I had a writing style like any of a dozen authors I like to read, anything but my own banal voice. I wish I was writing humor. Or horror. Or pulp. I use all these fifty cent words and I feel like I must just sound completely pretentious and cold.

I wish I was playing Pharaoh.

I'm not sure if I'm more afraid that I'll find out that I'm not really a very good writer, or that if I take away all my excuses I won't have any reason not to do this again.

I feel like I did when I was a kid trying to make myself dive off the diving board, when it seemed a million feet high and I knew if I dived I was probably going to belly flop and it would hurt a lot and knock the wind out of me and make me feel like I was drowning, but if I didn't then climbing back down the ladder was going to be a long walk of shame.

There's got to be some way to use this state of mind in the writing. That hostage crisis is looking like a very real possibility.

I think I need a drink.


I was afraid of this-- between a generally busy schedule, and a game, and a holiday, and being sick, I got waaaaaay behind on my writing for NaNoWriMo this month.

So now I am churning out the verbiage to try to make the deadline.

It's certainly a legitimate point that if this exercise gets you sitting down and writing at all, that's better than a month that goes by without having even attempted anything creative. But as I explained to someone recently, for me there's no point of pride in "well I wrote X pages this month" in and of itself. I've written thousands of pages in a wide array of genres and styles in my lifetime (not counting things like email or LJ). I know I can write a lot. The whole point of doing this was to finish it. To meet the goal. To have something I can hold in my hands (besides the crappy novel I wrote when I was 20) and say "I did this and it's done and it might need a lot of work in rewrites but it's a whole story."

I really need the pride of *finishing* right now.

Today so far I have turned out about 13 pages (single spaced). I want to get in at least another 5 before bed tonight. I have 2,000 words to meet my goal for the day but I think I can push and get another 2,000-2,500 before I go completely crosseyed.

I have to keep reminding myself that it's ok if it sucks and that I can take out anything that doesn't fit or make sense-- AFTER the wordcount gets registered on Wednesday.

Right now, taking a much-needed break.

Probably moving from laptop to desktop is not a real break. Ah well.

time to get some dinner...