Nano whatever, yo.

I don’t want to talk about my Nanowrimo progress. I don’t feel like flaunting my wordcount. This might change in time for the weekend, but I wouldn’t put money on it.

What I am stoked about, though, are chores.

Effing chores. I was avoiding them one night while reading blog posts about increasing productivity. Yes, lol. The article itself is lost, because I read it more than a week ago, and googling “productivity” isn’t quite specific enough. No matter, because the main idea was “do stuff”, just like every other blog post about increasing productivity.

One of the suggestions that I did like, though, was that it’s easier to get stuff done when your environment is prepared for it, so you don’t find yourself intimidated by all of the things you have to do to even begin doing stuff. I took this as a personal slight against my housewifey chores, and ever since then I’ve been getting mega dishes done! Even the big gross things that I usually avoid. Even the things that aren’t allowed in the dishwasher. I always leave one dish undone, though. You’ve gotta leave something for tomorrow.

Now, when I get home at Stupid Late P.M., I arrive to a sparkly-clean kitchen with a fork in the sink. And it makes me feel all warm inside.

I’ll try not to get too carried away about vacuuming, because Mr. Hoover finally sucked up his last bit of debris and has been replaced. Mr. Hoover had a terrible habit of smoking in the living room. It’s no kind of behavior for a vacuum cleaner, but I’ve tolerated it over the years because I know Mr. Hoover has a tough job, what with our fluffy kitty and two grown-ups with long hair who sometimes get a bit messy with the quinoa. We’re not particularly easy on a vacuum. But Mr. Hoover was not particularly easy on me, either. Mr. Hoover is gone now, and nobody misses him. He’s been replaced by a snazzy snazzy Dyson. Mr. Dyson makes me want to dump stuff on the carpets, just for the chance to whip him out again.

And vacuuming is the worst of all gateway chores, because once the carpets are impressive they start to make the walls look all smudged, and floors unkempt, and the blinds unbraided.

Chores. They are done. Words, not so much. But as long as nobody dirties a dish or tracks in any carpet debris (lookin’ at you, jerk of a cat), I’m so ready.

Not exactly right now, though. There’s a bath and wine. And potential banana bread.


Water words

It has been a busy November, just like most of my Novembers.

It’s the big changeover month where work transforms from a long-blown popsicle stand to a manic hive all abuzz with delightful and charming bees. It’s the month that I spend writing terrible novels.


The novel is going swimmingly, by the way. I seem to be keeping up with the required daily word contribution of just under 1700 words, getting ahead on the weekend, barely scraping by on Wednesday, and completely blowing it on Monday (thanks to my Danish classes) and Tuesday (because of dodgeball).

And here I am now. Sparkly and practically begging to ruin the trusty Bluetooth keyboard that’s been my buddy for at least five years now. The typing has been free of mishap so far, but I’m making no promises. If I drown my keyboard tonight, at least I’ll comfort myself knowing that we had a good run.

Hey, USA, good job picking a president. I can’t imagine what more could possibly be said about that. I’m sure the rest of the Information Superhighway has no comment.

All of these words are not counting as part of my novel. I’ll bet I can sort that out before the water gets cold.



I’ve got a yucky confession. I don’t do Halloween. It’s taken years of forgetting, avoiding, and resisting coming up with a costume to realize that I’m a non-celebrator, and it’s certainly not something I’m proud of. I can’t deny it any longer, though.

I can barely dress myself on regular days. To come up with a costume, and a clever one at that, and to do it well is beyond what I can or will do. And because this is the season of parties with prerequisites, it means I stay home. Or maybe it means that I show up to parties where sexy kittens and sexy police officers and sexy Charlie Browns shriek “where’s your costume?!”, but when I know something like that is waiting for me, I mostly just leave ‘er hanging.

I don’t dislike Halloween, not even a bit! I’ve been oohing and aahing and giggling over Facebook all day. Good job, Facebook friends!

I’m just a Halloween spectator. I will cheer for your efforts, and I will never upstage you. Not today, at least.

Laziness aside, I may have my reasons. November starts with the letter M for a growing (ooh, see what I did there?) number of people, and my beloved Scott is one of them. Most Novembers, he participates in Movember while I tap away at Nanowrimo, and if all goes well he ends up with a moustache and a bucketload of donations for the cause, and I wind up with a 50,000 word novel that I vow never to show anyone.

This year, my beloved is stepping into my turf. Luckily, I don’t have the face-follicles to step into his. See, I don’t have time to be scraping off face-paint right now. I can’t spare a minute to comb out a silly wig, or return a rental. I have a novel to write!

I hate winter, but I secretly love November.


Pre-Nano restlessness.

I am on the cusp of greatness. Or the opposite of that, I’m not yet sure which. What I do know is that November is mere hours away from taking over my life, and I’m feeling about 83% prepared for it, which is a billion times higher on the preparedness scale than I was last year. And last year I won! I’m not big on math, but I think all the calculations lead to imminent success. 

This year, I’ve got it all: an outline, well-defined characters, and a plot that has to end up at a very specific point. Not to mention all the technology! Last year, all I had was a limited supply of moxy. And technology. I can’t help but doubt myself, though; all this ambition coursing through my weak little veins is glaringly reminiscient of First Day of School Eve, when you’re high on the smell of a brand new Trapper Keeper and the luxury of a clean slate. The world is my oyster. Or maybe my novel is an oyster? I don’t like oysters. I’m in trouble.

I’m also well aware of how quickly things can get out of control. Until I actually reach the 50,000 word landmark I like to call Winnersville, I’m only a few lazy days away from washing up on the shores of Totally Fuckedmonton. I want the anticipation to be over. I want to be in the middle of it, so I’m that much closer to the end. I want a good excuse to carry our iPad around with me wherever I go (which I can assure you will not be far). I want to start. Starting is my specialty. Come on, November.



Firstly: I have finally captured my cat’s love for bananas. If you’ve ever met me, you’ve heard about my cat because I’m a crazy cat lady and have little else to talk about. And when I talk about my cat, I have to bring up the bananas, because it’s impossible to enjoy a banana in the presence of this cat without him muscling in on your territory and stealing a lick. By the way, my vet says this is perfectly fine. Weird, but fine. That’s Max for you.

Secondly: November’s coming, and that means that it’s time for me to write my second shitty novel. I’ve attempted National Novel Writing Month a few times over the years, but up until 2010 I failed every time. Now that I’ve done it once, my goal is to write a somewhat less shitty novel, and the worn-out excuse that I’m too busy is not going to fly.

Last year, I was working six days a week at two jobs. Now I’m down to a forgiving four days at one job, so time isn’t an issue. I’m sure I’ll figure out a way to make it an issue, but I’ll be lying. I’m also arming myself with an outline. I’m taking it semi-seriously, because I have these characters and I know about all these horrible things that are going to happen to them and I’m going to spend November trying to put it into (a minimum of fifty thousand) words.

There you go. An actual blog post. Get used to it?

No promises.