It’s the sound of NaNoWriMo. Calling to me from the piles of dead leaves outside, whistling around the clouds that slouch fat with rain above my lawn.
It’s November 3. And all my projects are done, way ahead of schedule. Dare I start NaNoWriMo late? Do I have the stones to thumb my nose at the prospect of failure and just toss my hat in the ring for the funsies of it?
I could fail. It’s possible, and maybe even likely. Instead of 30 days to write a novel, now I have 28. I’m like February over here.
Still, I can’t stop feeling angry whenever I see people hunched over laptops in coffee shops, writing what I’m sure are thousands of words of novels I want to read.
Screw prudence! I’m doing it. 50,000 words, I’m coming for you.