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.