More insanity on the horizon. In July, it's the Tour de France and the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. In November, all thirty days of November, people all across the country, and perhaps around the world as well will sit down with parchment and quill, pen and paper or a computer. Armed with energy fueling snacks in order to stave off starvation and coffee strong enough to walk we will try, or we won't write a novel of 50,000 words. We'll have thirty days. One thousand, six hundred and sixty-seven words per day. It's only seventy words an hour, if you stretch it out over twenty-four hours.
I'll be playing again. I've never succeeded. I can offer up excuses, real life getting in the way, lack of preparation, a plot that I couldn't sustain. Truth of the matter, it's all me. Lack of motivation, big surprise there, lack of discipline, an even bigger surprise. ADD issues. Yada, yada, yada.
This time around, I'm trying a different tack. This year instead of one novel of fifty thousand words I'm going to
I'll be playing again. I've never succeeded. I can offer up excuses, real life getting in the way, lack of preparation, a plot that I couldn't sustain. Truth of the matter, it's all me. Lack of motivation, big surprise there, lack of discipline, an even bigger surprise. ADD issues. Yada, yada, yada.
This time around, I'm trying a different tack. This year instead of one novel of fifty thousand words I'm going to
do a ten micro-novel Lester Dent style "Pulp" style serial.
Thirty Days and Nights of Literary Abandon!
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