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.

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