We Have a Winner!

Well, I don't know what I will do with myself for the rest of the month, but I am finished with this year's awful first draft! Just made it to the end, and, if my last novel-in-a-month is any indication, this one needs about five more years of work before it even makes sense.

So, maybe I will be blogging a bit more frequently. Take that as a promise or a threat, but for today, I am tired of writing.

The Hair of November

As I furiously try to catch up from my unproductive (writing-wise) weekend, a fortnight ago (I hope to sail past 40,000 words tonight and continue until I am at least on schedule, or ahead--time is getting short), I thought I would take a short break to update you on the one thing that I am able to do simultaneously with writing--growing facial hair.

This picture was taken yesterday. I decided to go with the smiling picture. The other one makes me look too much like John Bell Hood.

Dead or Canadian?

The fatal injustice of it all. The true end of an era. The cosmic angle CA to Michael Jackson's AB and John Hughes' BC. The rule of three (sorry, Farrah, but you were of a different time). I refer to the startling news this morning that Ken Ober is dead.
Yet, Colin Quinn lives...go figure.

Significance That Signifies Nothing But More Work Ahead

Hey! As I said earlier, I have been dedicating my writer muscles to NaNoWriMo, but I thought I would send out an update to those who might wander by here while I am occupied. This evening, only two days behind schedule, I reached the mid-point of this year's writing marathon. At 25,000 words, I don't know if I am at the midpoint of the novel itself, but I am at the midpoint of the prescribed monthly word count quota of 50,000. And, since I must say, it feels good!

Also, a shout out to Boring Election, who is also endeavoring to complete a 50,000 word marathon this month. Wish us luck, folks (and think about giving it a try yourself, next year)!

November, The Bastard

November is a month without a rep. The Great Pumpkin has forsaken us again, and left us drunk, wet, and cold, shivering in the pumpkin patch to welcome All Saints' Day alone. Kris Kringle is still many weeks away, with his thin reeded pipe, his coal-black boots, his snowy evenings, and his merry freaking self.

What does November have? The broad-breasted white turkey? Perhaps one of the stupidest birds around, bred only for the bodaciousness of its white meat? The hand? That which we all, as children, transmogrified into a rainbow colored version of the aforementioned whitey?

Really, it's not much.

So, as I spend most of this month making up sentences to turn into a novel that many people don't believe is possible, I won't be posting much. After all, what is there to say in November?