After all the coming and going recently, what with the brand-engagement day at work and the leak in my east-facing wall, with the death of my cat and my own neck injuries, with work piling up like a snow-drift in 1968 Ontario, I just have not done much of anything with my NaNoWriMo project.
Quel dommage.
How sad.
I've promised my godson that I'll write all week and finish something. I've promised to send it to him.
I can hardly sit still these days, so that was quite the rash promise. But, I'm thinking novella and I think I can do that. I'll just get neurotic and go like stink. The end result will probably be a bit ripe, but there will be a story there.
I could just keep a journal, but my life, in truth, has such a broad story arch that people would be bored before they got to the critical bits.
Besides, I want to try something more interesting than chewing over my own wretched existence. I want a story in which the hero achieves some sort of resolution.
Speaking of which, I had an idea for one of those reality competitions that are so popular: short story writing. But Martha said it wouldn't translate well. So, maybe short plays. Each week, contestants write a short play, present it, and get marked on their skills. The judges would talk about the story structure and so on. I'd watch.