the plot: wreaking havoc

This post will be point form since I need to save my really good writing for my novel. Which is crap, by the way.

These are the things I know to be true in regards to writing a book, or the first 50,000 words of a book, in 30 days:

-my head hurts. A plethora of things are to blame. Chinook, endless reading and writing at the computer, kids who interrupt every 2 seconds, men who wake me up at 5:30 am with all their bed hogging and snuggling.

-men? I mean man. Just one man. The man. He is driving me bat crap crazy. I need my own bed.

-I am capable of procrastination in the most ingenious of forms. None of which include folding the laundry.



-the kids are digging through this daily and no one is complaining. So I'm going with it. It's all clean, what's there to whine about?

-I am 37,935 words into a book with a stellar beginning and a wicked ending and nothing in between. It literally is the book that went nowhere. Fast.

-actually, really slow. Painfully slow. I'm making it up as I go so it's a lot of blah blah blah blah............

-I should have taken typing 20 and 30 in high school. Yes, mother, you told me so.

-it's hard to know if what you are writing is any good when you are the one writing it. Youknowwhatimean? I see it like a movie in my head. It's as real as if I was there. But would you see it too if you were reading it? This must be what drives writers insane.

-I'm feeling a little insane.

-I have taken jammie day to a whole new level. And what is make-up? Someone remind me please.

-bra? Bra shma.

-I have practiced the piano more this month than I have in the last 4 years combined.

-my hips get achy and I need to walk around every two hours.

-time is flying. I only have 6 days to get 12,065 words written. They literally may be "blah blah blah blah" at the rate I'm going.

-writing makes me tired. Not hot yoga tired but a kind of tired that makes me stare at my couch in the middle of the day like a long lost lover who has finally returned to me. "Come to me" it beckons from across the room. It's hair blowing in the wind. "Fabio? Is that you?"

-I am all caught up on American Horror Story. I've been watching it online because the computer is right in front of me all the time. I love that show. Plus, it has the coach's wife in it. Her hair. Oh, her hair.

-It is possible, perfectly conceivable, quite literally probable, that I am eating myself to death.

-and there isn't enough Diet Pepsi.......... or Advil Liquigels, on the planet to reduce this chaos into something comprehendible.

-if I was a writer, an actual writer, I'd be that writer you'd talk about at dinner parties. The crazy one. The one you saw at Safeway in her jammies. The one who never washes her hair. The one who lives off ichiban and Diet Pepsi. The one who drank a 36 pack in 4 days. Now that's something to talk about. The one you wouldn't let your kids talk to or touch if you met me anywhere because "she's crazy, children. Stay away." There is a level of unkempt that can only be defined with the aid of a doctor. A straight jacket kind of doctor.

-I need a schedule. And not one that has a deadline.

-I have to stop now because I could do this all day. Plus it's making me anxious. And I have a deadline.

Toodles.