NaNoWriMo, it's a movement. Today, 72,682 people have signed up to say they think they might possibly try to maybe write 50,000 words in a month.
I snookered/talked someone else into signing up/maybe possibly giving it a try, so now I'm bound and determined to write 50,000 words, even if they're no good. I worry about that, the being no good part. I've been revising my first completed 50,000 words and I think I am highly amusing. That really can't be a good sign, can it? Still, I'm going to do my best to polish it up and send it away so that it can earn a rejection letter. Everyone's gotta start somewhere, right? Right?
And I was re-reading the garbage can post. I sound a little angry. My knee's throbbing helped. And driving home, I was talking to someone who should love and care for me and want only good things and be very concerned about my health and well being. As I told her the story, she guffawed. And gurgled. And didn't even try to pretend that it wasn't funny. Clearly, she's no novelist. Know how I know? She said, "You ought to put that in a book." Way ahead of her there, but writers or "writers" like me know everything goes in a book.
Y'all, I'm telling you I could have died. D-E-A-D. And there's very little hyperbole there, but I picture in my head what the funeral would look like and that does seem to make a really interesting book beginning...
And when it happens to someone else, it makes me laugh.