On the morning of day five, before I’ve even written a single word towards my day’s goal total, I pause for a moment. Just a moment.

Between keeping an eye on the American election results, learning that we’ll be welcoming a new puppy into the house in less than two weeks, and simultaneously trying to write a NaNoWriMo novel in a single month it has been a whirlwind of action around here.

And that doesn’t even account for my usual schedule of working full days, playing dad-taxi, fitting in a bit of fatherhood work, and still trying to fit in a run every couple of days.

Yet I thought it worth pause for long enough to write a post, first because I’m still trying to re-start a consistent web presence for myself, but second because cheering on one’s own little successes when sharing the results of those successes (ie having someone else actually read my writing) would likely derail everything.

So, in there was the answer to the question that you never asked: no, you cannot read my novel, at least not until December. And maybe then I might want to skim through it once or twice first with an editor’s mindset.

My progress feels remarkable. I write that previous sentence under my own evaluative perspective knowing that I’m both negatively and positively biased towards myself, and that the sense of feeling good is winning from the mess of self-doubt and self-congratulation and steady word counts and huge looming word goals — that’s a good thing… question mark.

I’ve drafted four chapters (one chapter per day for thirty days which is exactly how I framed everything before starting) containing a little over seven thousand words (which is about three hundred and fifty words ahead of the required daily pace.) I have some distracting days ahead, including a day booked for some travel, a new puppy arriving, and (to be completely honest) I’m sure to hit a burnout moment eventually. But for now (fingers crossed) I’m feeling good.

Characters are forming. Hopes. Fears. Relationships. Wants. Needs. Strengths and weaknesses blurred into some reasonable actions and dialog.

A plot is priming up, like a ball on a string being lifted to it’s apex and ready to be let loose.

Tensions are taking shape.

Story is emerging.

And that’s about all anyone can ask from a crazy (but possibly epic) attempt to write a novel in just thirty days. Right?

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