the pieces of my life

Sparks, Nevada Random thoughts for a random day:

• Not only had my bags marked for the special x-ray (again–happened last time I was in New York), but that also means I got an up-close and personal search when I boarded the plane, complete with hand metal-detector wand search and a complete unloading of my carry-on bag. I am just too lucky.
  
• So far, so good in the staying up late. I’d love to make it to 5 a.m., but I think I need to call it quits. I’ve already lost a bit (I won’t say how much) at black jack, but I will say the table kept me occupied for a good three hours. I figure when you factor in the free beers, I’m doing okay.
  
• My favorite sight tonight: the woman at the open mic night at the Great Basin Brewery who was holding a book entitled Step by Step to Stand-up Comedy. Unfortunately, the folks before her were too painful (or too bitter) to listen to.
  
• So much great story material here. I’ll have to work on it.
  
• How is it no substantial work is supposed to be getting done in the office, but i have over 200 e-mail messages in just over 36 hours. Pisses me off.
  
• Speaking of pisses me off, I’m so sure I psyched Adam out when I claimed I wasn’t feeling well and could we postpone our b-day celebration for him (since I will be gift wrapping in Fernley on his actual birthday of Dec. 8). I needed a way to get him to Ballard without suspecting. Yet, when we pulled into Le Gourmand, he said he knew where we had been heading. Between that and the present incident (he said three days before we were celebrating his birthday “you know, I think at one time I would have said I wanted a robe, but I really don’t think I do,” when I, of course, had been listening to what he had said, and had bought him a robe a month before that was hiding under our bed), I think I’m ready to wash my hands of his birthday (see what you get, Adam, for being a wise-ass?).
  
• I have the humidifier going, my personal soothing sounds alarm clock set up, all my food out and pretty, and still, I’m ready to be home. What will it be like when I start work tomorrow night?
  

Okay, can’t keep the eyes open any longer. Good night.

I feel somewhat at a loss now that we come home and I don’t have to run to my novel. I’m not yet ready to start the slicing and dicing on it, and I certainly don’t have the energy to start anything new.

Last marriage class tonight. I’ll miss going–it was a lot of fun. And now, now I have Fernley to look forward to. Oh, joy. Fernley. I cannot contain the excitement,

I’m having a hard time dragging myself off to bed. I want to revel in my 50,000 wordness.

I’m doin’ a jig, I’m doin’ a jig. Because 50,565 is such a wonderful place to be. So what if there are massive gaps, huge plot problems, and disappearing characters? I have a beginning. I have a very long and dragged out middle. And–surprise!–there is an end. An actual end. My novel is done.

And I have no idea what the hell I am going to do with all this free time I will suddenly have. Maybe I should start another…?

It’s my bed time. 10 p.m. And I’ve had too much red wine. BUT I CAN’T QUIT NOW! I don’t care if don’t go to bed, I’m about to kill off my protagonist’s love interest and I have just a mere 865 words to go!! No sleep for the novelists!! I feel like I need to run around the block or something to work off this energy. I’m feeling very sad about killing off this love interest. I’ve grown rather fond of him. As I told Adam, if it weren’t for the fact that this character is going to die, I might consider leaving Adam for him.

Home stretch territory. My spelling and grammar have become atrocious. I can’t remember even the simplest words until I see Word correcting them for me. At this points, it appears only Maria, from writing group, and I are the only ones in running to finish this thing. Spent this morning shopping (two pairs of comfy Fernley shoes, plus some holiday presents for my friends) and this afternoon and evening writing, writing, writing. Word count: 45,935. The end is in sight (although Adam just pointed out to me that I originally wrote “site,” which just proves my point about the spelling. When you are writing for speed, nothing counts but the number of words on the page).

Oh did you see that? That was my “I hit 40,000” dance. Do-do-do, I’m dancing, I’m dancing. Actually, I’m at 40,907 and I’m calling it a night. Tomorrow, I plan to buy sensible shoes for Fernley and to hit at least 45,000. I can do this. Oh, yes I can. Now, to go back to my dancing. Good night!

Everyone in my novel shrugs too much. She shrugged, he shrugged, and for a change, he grinned and shrugged. These people must have amazing shoulder muscles.

Time to resort to the Maker’s Mark. I’m getting there, by God, I’m getting there. I survived a great Thanksgiving (14 guests), with surreptious trips to the computer. I toiled all of last night. I have been at this computer for the entire day, except for one series of frantic chuppah-related conversations with my family and a trip to the gym to help this nervous energy. I am still going. At this moment, I am at 38,620. I hate my novel. I hate my main character. I hate the cliched and tedious story line. I hate the fact that my narrator and about 12 characters disappeared about 12,000 words ago, and I’m not sure where they are at the moment. I know the motto was “no plot no problem,” but I was better than that. I was supposed to be writing brilliantly, with insightful characters, humorous situations, and just the wittiest dialogue this side of Dorothy Parker, but all I am producing are merely words on a page! I almost found myself cutting three extraneous words, and I thought, what the hell am I doing! So I added three more extraneous words. Oh the agony of nanowrimo. Only five more days after today.

P.S. Check out the particularly biting article on nanowrimo in the Seattle Weekly. It wouldn’t be a Weekly article without an Amazon.com dig. As Adam said, they probably get paid more per slight. This time, however, it’s more annoying, as the only Amazonians he most likely met (other than himself, as he admitted to being a former freelancer for toys or kitchen or something) were those of us at the kickoff night. Screw him and his pathetic word count.

I’m not out of this yet: 30,352. And a pie, a cake, and three kinds of cranberry sauce. Not too shabby a day. Tomorrow, though, I will go to the gym, cook a turkey, and plow through my word count.