Internets, I have made a contract with myself.
I’m going to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.
That’s right. It’s National Novel Writing Month, and people the world over have agreed to ignore their spouses, hygiene, and housecleaning for thirty days while they sculpt 50,000 words into a quasi-meaningful plot under duress! All for the prize of being able to say, “I wrote a novel in thirty days”. Isn’t that thrilling? Kinda makes you want to run at full speed into a barbed wire fence. Because that would be less painful.
Oh, and in case that wasn’t ambitious enough, I’ve also agreed to post 30 times in 30 days to this blog. Know why? Because it’s also National Blog Writing Month! So, now you get to enjoy the antics of CLH and me (and the Leagues of Indignant Seattlites I live amongst) EVERY DAY for thirty days. Who knows? This could really turn my commitment-phobia around.
The only problem with this whole situation is that I am master dilly-dallier. Tonight, for example, I scoured my pantry for the oldest, hardest legumes I had so that my split pea soup for dinner would require hours of watching the stove (and not my computer screen). I also opted to clean out my spice drawer, catch up on the Oprah show, and paint my nails. All so I wouldn’t have to come in here and write. Clever, huh?
The soup has been simmering for two hours now. CLH wants to know why my vegetarian split pea soup smells so good. Is there ham in it, he asks? No, honey. The secret ingredient is procrastination.