Like, whoa.
I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life, but presently I find myself smack-dab in the middle of one of the dumbest. Actually, I’m not even remotely close to the middle of it, and that’s the problem. On a whim last week I decided to sign up for NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. In short: write 50,000 words in 30 days, which averages out to about 1,666 words per day. Why would I do such a thing?
Well, this is how they got me:
“Once you start evaluating your story in terms of word count, you take that pressure off yourself. And you’ll start surprising yourself with a great bit of dialogue here and a ingenious plot twist there. Characters will start doing things you never expected, taking the story places you’d never imagined. There will be much execrable prose, yes. But amidst the crap, there will be beauty. A lot of it.”
Writing crap is what I do best, usually I just do it with a lot of effort. I figured I could just go ahead and chalk it up to an efficiency win.
For instance, last night I was stuck in the middle of some dialogue I couldn’t quite work my way out of, but I knew I had to keep going in order to finish my word count at a reasonable time. And so I wrote, and I quote, “And to that he’s all, like, whatever.”
I’m only five days in, but already it’s wreaking all sorts of havoc on my mind. I jolted awake a couple of times in the middle of the night last night, and the first panic-stricken thought flashing through my head was “CAN I USE THAT DREAM IN MY STORY?” (Answer: “No. No, you cannot use the dream about stealing all of the crushed Oreo bits from the ice cream shop in your story. Or can you?” NO REALLY. YOU CAN’T.)
Time is now measured in words. I can’t possibly hand wash that sweater now, it’ll take me 200 words to get it done! Wait, wait, wait? You want to have what? Dinner? Do you know how many words that is? You must be out of your ever-loving mind.
Last night, Y Chromosome came in to the bedroom to chat with me while I was working, and I lasted for about 30 seconds before replying, “Darling boyfriend, of whom I am absurdly fond, I believe that you have some homework to work on in the other room, and it would be delightful if you would resume it posthaste. Love of my life, darling sweet beloved.” To the untrained ear, however, it may have sounded something like, “BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BAAARRRRKKKKKK!!!!” And to those people I say, go pick up a copy of Muzzy on your way to hell.
So it occurs to me that this project very well may kill me, if Y Chrome doesn’t get there first.
And to that I’m all, like, whatever.