KILL THAT MESSENGER! Until he dies from it!
I failed Nanowrimo's November Writing Month. No report card, no long-drawn crappy/non-crappy story, no big fat A+ for my 50 000 words. I barely got past 5000 words. "( And even that I dare not show because of dangerously high levels of suck. Pathetic.
This I can actually attribute to my lack of discipline. Writers need discipline. And a proper desk/desktop. And commitment to a particular story, whether or not it tastes like dung huts in Tanzania. But most importantly, a period of time religiously set aside to worship the word-constructing mechanism that is the keyboard (or oldschool pen), and systematically build a story without the annoyance of the INNER EDITOR.
Okay, I kinda enjoyed that. BUT. Pity Party over. How about a Pithy Party instead. Where everyone can bask in each others' collective wit. Ha.
An excerpt from one of my auto-writing exercises:
"just a little notebooking.
the air has changed. it smells different in the mornings now. a sharper, chillier, december scent.
somewhat nostalgic of thailand, somehow, clear mornings when you feel your life's in order for once, and you're fucking with that order by sleeping at 6.53am because dammit, you want to. ") Joanne Harris' lyrical French culture on the rusty fire escape listening to the tuk-tuk drivers wake their wives for breakfast.
just hearing chiangmai wake up. mmmgorgeous."
yesithas.
Off to throw vegetables at a friend's band at Gas Haus! Buying kailan later.
Btw. I love Dooce. She just makes so much sense to me.