Part of the thrill of writing for me is slipping between words and reality and weaving the two of them into a meaningful tapestry. I could not create without this life that holds my attention firmly in its gaze, and I recognize that things will inevitably come up to keep me from the page. But really. This month has not been playing fair.
So far, November has given to me:
One laptop battery with heart failure,
Two sick daughters,
Three school holidays,
Four vomit-splattered rooms,
Five significant letters to write,
Six apologies by our homeowner’s insurance provider,
Seven days I’m going to be doing the solo parenting gig,
Eight thousand individual loads of laundry draped on radiators, furniture, and spare limbs to dry.
(That last one might be a slight exaggeration.)
After bidding farewell to the hope of 50,000 words and its shiny sense of superhuman accomplishment, I adjusted my personal goal to 40,000. After all, that’s exactly half of the recommended first-novel word count, and I could feel pretty good about writing half a potential bestseller in a month. However, I’m currently in the 27-thousands and wondering if I’m even going to make it to 30 before December accidentally knocks my free time into its glass of eggnog.
We shall see if I have any superpowers in me yet. I would love nothing more than to blast this month back into its lair of iniquity and emerge the victorious author, but if not… well, there’s always the eggnog