As of today I am officially 3,000 words behind target.
I've crapped out.
And I don't know how to get going again.
Rather than work on the new novel in order, I took the NaNo opportunity to just jump in and write the scenes I wanted to write. Chainsaw accident? Yay! Tornado? Why not! Burst appendix? By all means! A ... um. A ... huh. A what? I churned out 18,000 words in a little over a week and then NOTHING.
What a bummer.
So I've turned off Fb. Honestly, I was just getting sick of people. Everyone seems so angry or sad or annoyed. Politics here in the UK and in the US is constant. Freaking red cups have people up in arms. Planes are being blown out of the sky. Petitions are being passed round. I don't watch the news, for reasons. But Fb is coming to replace the news, and I just can't right now. Lately I've been having enough problems with my own anger and depression and annoyance. (Suffice it to say: while my life is relatively good, there is a lot that I want that, so far, ain't happening, and hormonal crap ain't helping either.) So no Fb until Monday.
I've put on my headphones and am gonna crank up some Christmas tunes. (Hey, you write to Metallica, that dude over there writes to Chopin, I rack up the words to the dulcet tones of Michael Buble. Don't judge me.) This book won't write itself.
Behind my shield or on it.
Wish me luck!
I've crapped out.
And I don't know how to get going again.
Rather than work on the new novel in order, I took the NaNo opportunity to just jump in and write the scenes I wanted to write. Chainsaw accident? Yay! Tornado? Why not! Burst appendix? By all means! A ... um. A ... huh. A what? I churned out 18,000 words in a little over a week and then NOTHING.
What a bummer.
So I've turned off Fb. Honestly, I was just getting sick of people. Everyone seems so angry or sad or annoyed. Politics here in the UK and in the US is constant. Freaking red cups have people up in arms. Planes are being blown out of the sky. Petitions are being passed round. I don't watch the news, for reasons. But Fb is coming to replace the news, and I just can't right now. Lately I've been having enough problems with my own anger and depression and annoyance. (Suffice it to say: while my life is relatively good, there is a lot that I want that, so far, ain't happening, and hormonal crap ain't helping either.) So no Fb until Monday.
I've put on my headphones and am gonna crank up some Christmas tunes. (Hey, you write to Metallica, that dude over there writes to Chopin, I rack up the words to the dulcet tones of Michael Buble. Don't judge me.) This book won't write itself.
Behind my shield or on it.
Wish me luck!
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