I’m giving up on NaNo. It may be that I’m pissed off there are only 10 days to go and I haven’t written a single word on my supposed NaNovel in the past 5 days.
I’m on day 11 or 12 of this migraine (because time is now irrelevant) and that means I flamed out around 6 or 7 days into it. Also, there is something very honest about pain. It makes you sort out priorities.
I love to read. Love it, love it, love it. Actually, I should say I love to read books that I like. Many of my favorite authors are still writing books and every so often when I’m caught up on their works, I peruse different authors. They write plenty. I read around 300 books a year. We’re not at a loss for words here, people. When I run out of books to read, I read them again. Many of my favorite books have been read so many times that I have to replace them due to pages falling out.
In all my collection of books, from the classics and antiques to the MMP that I bought last week at the grocery store – I have only read and enjoyed ONE self-published author. No, make that 2, because M. J. Rose has become somewhat of a legend. Do I believe I’m talented enough to write and publish a novel through a mainstream publisher? Yes. Do I believe I have the attention span it would take to do it? No. I don’t. Do I have any wish to live a life of research and discomfort it would take to write an accurate novel? No. I live a life of homemade computers and down comforters with a ton of kids and animals and I like it that way. If I had to interview a single member of law enforcement on procedure or how life really is out there, I would probably wet myself and pass out before I even said my name. (Which is very odd because I’ve never done anything remotely illegal… I guess I’d be more comfortable with policemen if I had more reason to interact with them.)
Blogs are interesting creatures because they’re more like conversations than memoirs. Really, you probably spend more time pooping than you do reading blogs. If it weren’t for Google reader, I would spend less time on blogs and more on pooping than I do. However, I get an average of 30 hits a day because this blog lists most of the Sweet Valley books in order. It is my service to humanity. I can’t very well go scouting yard sales and Goodwills (and the Potter’s House, and the Main Street Thrift Store) to liberate books from leaky ceilings and black mold when I’m spending all my time in front of the computer screen or laying flat on my back in the bed clutching a tube of chapstick and my cell phone with a pillow over my face.
So, sorry NaNo, I love you guys and all you NaNo Authors out there, but I’m flaming out. Write me something worth reading, would you?
Secondary to my thoughts on personally flaming out are my thoughts on people who SHOULD flame out as a service to humanity.
There is a reason the English language includes the word cunt. It’s because that’s the most accurate description of some people.
I’ve informed my kids that if they get suspended from school for punching a bully in the nose, then we’ll have a week of ice cream and Chuck E. Cheese. People who think it’s fun or think it makes them look good to tease and taunt other people deserve a bloody nose. (The other side of this is I also informed my kids that if they came home with a bloody nose because they were bullying someone, that they deserved it and they deserved every punishment the school could give them, and still come home and do chores until bedtime. They may not fear other kids enough to not tease people but they respect me well enough to know when to STFU. I’m very creative.)
I fully expect a call from a teacher when one of them quotes me (because the only thing kids remember verbatim are things you wouldn’t say in front of your pastor) and says “but Mommy told me to punch the little cunt in the nose, then they’d shut the hell up and probably would reconsider the effectiveness of that idea in the future.”
Then I’d get the calls from the angry parents who are all mad because my kid called their kid a cunt and I’d invite them over for a cunt waffle with some cunt syrup just so they wouldn’t call me anymore. If they laughed, we’d probably end up being best friends and sending random poop mail to each other. If they got upset, I’d have a thought that would impact my karma and go on with my life.
If they kept calling, I’d tell them that my kid had some new form of ghonnasyphillherpiles that was uber-contagious to children squeezed from cunts and that our children should probably never interact again.
And now I’m going to stop writing while you practice saying ghonnasyphillherpiles out loud. It’s said gon-NA-sif-i-herp-i-leeeeees. Now you try.