If you have a gorgeous handcarved bed like this, will you want to desert it for bloodsucking varmints?
As I check the website, I see there are less than four hours left and over 652 million words have been logged. How about my 50k, you ask? Horrible failure, really, less than last year. So why am I smiling?
1) I have around 10,000 words of a new novel that's interesting and challenging to me. It deserves finishing, I think. It's filled with crazy notions that I doubt I would've explored in novel format without the absolute disregard for quality of outcome that marks NaNo.
2) I lived a great month. Lots of events, lots and lots of visitors. Lots of derailment from writing.
3) I learned I'd reached a new level of productivity. I think the daily discipline of these few, ill-thought words has helped, too. I now know I can write a thousand words an hour on anything. Anytime I want. Won't be good or grammatical, but the fear of production is past. No writer's block, just smooth creation of awful, unentertaining text as easy as pouring sludge from a wheelbarrow. Believe it or not, this is a great thing. Not to worry about the horror of the blank page is a relief, and all real writing happens in revision. Even errant squiggles across the whiteness give you somewhere to start fixing. In writing, perhaps more than any other field, shinola is transmuted to gold every day.
So I'm happy.
Competive eaters and fascinated gastroenterologists are also happy.
This man who pulled a truck with his penis is happy. (via Apostropher)
The people living in New York with bedbugs are not.
If we ever become infested, I swear that I will begin a local blackmarket in DDT that'll make cocaine profits look like milk money.