I heard that somewhere. For all I know, it might even be true.

I certainly hope so. I've stopped panicking now, and have downgraded my condition back to mildly insane, just as God intended. Speaking of which: God, please forgive me for linking You with portuguese internet providers in any way, shape or form. I promise never to do it again, and not only because I know I'll be needing a lot of Your help in the very near future.

What I've decided to do is participate in NaNoWriMo. Call me crazy. Everyone else will, including the 7000 plus people (so far) who will also be attempting to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. And who picked November, anyway? Couldn't you have at least picked a 31 day month?

Ah well. Too late now, I suppose.

The point of this little excercise, as I said, is to finish a novel in a month. Fifty thousand words isn't even really a novel these days, if it ever was. It's more of a novella, but that's beside the point. And it doesn't even have to be good: in fact, it's pretty much expected that it won't be. Which comes as a relief to terminally plot-challenged people, such as myself. Plot? Solid Characterization? Continuity? Forget that crap, Word Count is all that matters. Write it down, get it done.

I need to do something like this. I'm good at starting novels, or I used to be since I don't even bother to do that anymore. I never seem to get past Chapter 3, I'm so busy rewriting Chapter 1 that there's no time to go forward. And I obsess about my inane characters, my implausible plot, my stilted dialogue, my complete and utter lack of skill and talent when it comes to writing.

Oh, I know deep down that none of these are true, or at least not as bad as I make them out to be to myself. The real problem is that I am a perfectionist and that I am afraid to fail. I should be able to write a wonderful novel, but what if I don't? What if it stinks? What do I do then?

You can't fail if you don't try.

It's much easier to admit to myself that I am a coward than to pour my heart and my soul into something that fails. And, yes, I am well aware that most first novels never sell. Most first novels are, in fact, crap. And, yes, I do know that many, many wonderful and successful authors have the manuscripts of their cruddy first novels tucked away in the bottom drawer. I know all this, but it doesn't help.

I quit my job, my career, to be with my husband. And I have never regretted it. I've gotten to travel, to go places I'd never have been able to see if I'd kept my career and he'd found a different job. I get to be with my wonderful husband, which is worth it no matter where we end up. And, as I said to Elvis when he asked if I was sure about the whole thing, I've always wanted to write a novel. Now, I'll have the time!

All I've got to show for it so far is the first three chapters of three different books. Actually, one of them may not have even gotten that far. Nine chapters, plus a bunch of notes and research. What a waste.

That's why I need to do this. I need to get going, I need to write more than poetry and this journal, with maybe the occasional essay thrown in for variety. I need to finish a novel, no matter how small or how painfully awful it turns out to be. And I'm airing my intention to do so here, in public, to make damn sure that I do.

I never break promises, except to myself.

So. What I need, essentially, is a beginning, an end, that bit in the middle and 50,000 words. I also need to turn off my internal editor, which may prove to be a bit harder.