Nanowrimo 2k5: The Rubber Baby Novel

Sitting next to me currently in this nameless eastside cafe are a trio of young medical students, one of whom has not stopped jabbering, dropping medical terms, and bloviating endlessly about her stress and ADD and Very Important Life even long enough to intubate a patient, likely not absorbing a single word from the imposing medical tomes serving as her latte coaster, and I realize that this woman will likely be cutting one of us open on a table somewhere in the coming decades, based on the knowledge she has accrued during study sessions just like this one. Which has nothing to do with the Rubber Baby Novel, I am aware, but it makes me nervous all the same.

Right now, I am currently attempting my third Nanowrimo novel, currently untitled, concerning a middle-aged women obsessed with two inanimate silicone babies. To this you may rightly wonder WTF? unless like me, you had encountered this article in the 11th hour of October 31st, when you were entirely bereft of noveling ideas, and had sworn to all who cared that this was the year you were officially hopping off the novel bandwagon, in favor of putting more research into the career history of Neil Patrick Harris.

Fortunately for no one, inspired by this grim scrap of journalism detailing the fevered delusions of lonely old women, I sprung into action, creating dumpsters of prose about what it might be like to be, or be related to, such a woman yourself.

Thus far I have already written myself into a tangent about a lecherous boss, knowing only that something terrible happens to those rubber babies in a future chapter, without knowing exactly what.

Welcome to Nanowrimo. This is how it always goes. So far, everyone I know is staying away from this novel in progress as though it were a test tube of avian flu virus. Alas, they are fools.