It’s National Novel Writing Month. And I suck at it.
It starts:
Every morning she tripped over the rug. Every morning. Then she got dressed, drank coffee brushed her teeth–did all the things a person is expected to do every morning. I point the rug out to you reader, because it seems to say something particular. Only a particular sort of person would not remove the rug altogether or at least relocate it. But she tripped, usually just a little, morning after morning, and did nothing about it. Truthfully, she barely noticed it.
Not great, AND I have since gone WAY off in another direction. How do people write novels? How do people stay faithful to one story for so many words? I am writing and writing and writing. I could write forever, and I still don’t think I’d have a novel. New respect for the novels in the pile by my bedside. Those people are rockstars.
