Judging from the watch I'm not wearing, it's about three hours from November 1st. Not normally a big day—it's not a solstice or free Ben & Jerry's ice cream day or anything like that—but as the first day of November, it marks the beginning of National Novel Writer's Month. Courageously (read: foolishly), I decided I'd throw my hat in and participate. Which was especially tricky since I haven't even worn a hat in four years. In case you didn't follow the link (or even if you did), this all means that in the thirty days of November, I plan to write a novel. I plan to write a really bad novel. I plan to write a really bad novel that I never intend to show anyone. Because in my foolhardy attempt to reach 50,000 words in thirty days, my only real plan is to write.
I haven't outlined a single thing. The idea for the novel started as a joke in a text to a friend a week ago. To be honest, I don't have a clue how I'll get it done. If I even near word 50,000, that's when I'll probably notice that the whole book has been all one chapter. Or even all one paragraph. I've always been one to miss the finer details when focused on the big picture.
But the point is, I'm going to be writing. And sometimes, even if it's 200 pages based on a text messaging joke, that's all that's important.