My Perfectly Dreadful Novel

I am only up to 12,000 words currently, which is unfortunate.



Things I've done today instead of noveling:
1. had a large frosted snowman cookie and tea for breakfast
2. Watched Ong-bak again-- yeah!!!
3. napped

The prognosis is not good.

Additionally, acquaintances have indicated that I may be rather mad for attempting to write a 50,000 word novel in 25 days.

There is utter disbelief when I inform people that:
1. Yes, I am doing this willingly
2. No, there is no cash prize
3. Yes, it is utterly terrible but I am writing it anyway

phone conversation I had with my friend Carlos, the Puerto Rican With a Twist:
Carlos: "So, what are you doing?"
Me: "I'm writing that novel-- remember?"
Carlos: "Oh yes.... do you have to finish it today?"
Me: "No. I have until the 30th"
Carlos: "So, who's going to read it?"
Me: "Um, no one probably. Insane people..."
Carlos: "hmm... you're writing a novel no one's going to read.... is there a prize? Do you get cash?"
Me: "Uh, no."
(extended silence)
Me: "Are you there?"
Carlos: "Yes, yes.... and why are you doing this?"
Me: "Because I can?"
(extended silence)
Me: "Like climbing Mt. Everest... to challenge myself? I guess....?"
(extended silence)

so, there you have it. I'm insane

today's excerpt:

It was around one thirty in the morning when the pounding commenced.

I wandered blearily out of bed in search of some aspirin when I bumped into Reginald and Ethan Ghastly, both looking quite distressed and huddling outside the door to the study. Other members of the house party stood around in various states of undress. Everyone looked quite hungover and terribly ill.

“What’s going on?” I asked censoriously. I was a bit irritated, really, for it is my personal opinion that people shouldn’t be allowed to just roam around in their night clothes to bang on doors at seven in the morning, which is practically the middle of the night.

“We think father’s in there – he’s had some sort of episode we think — and we can’t seem to get the door open,” fretted Ethan. “I mean, he often misses dinner and just shuts himself up in the study for half the day and night, but he never misses breakfast. He loves to drink his prune juice and yell at the cook. ” He grimaced and hurriedly rubbed his eyes.

“We’ve been banging away for simply hours,” added Reginald petulantly, “and no one can seem to find the key, and he won’t answer.”

“Will this do?” I asked as I pulled out a bobby pin, which I promptly bent and inserted in the lock. A collective murmur broke out, as if I’d pulled some elaborate feat of magic. The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open.

Helms inhaled sharply “Why…. it’s Ghastly!!”

And so it was.