Notes from a hack noveling death march

In August or so, I sent out a call for others to join me in the annual hack-noveling death march known as nanowrimo, knowing from long experience that the challenge would remain unheeded, owing to that universal, bogus excuse of "busyness" upon which everyone relies to, ironically, avoid being busy.

And so unsurprisingly here I am on day 26, toiling alone, scrabbling out desperate, rootless chapters with no purpose long after blowing my opportunity to write The All Important Turning Point at around day 20. Week four is terribly grim: it is that part in the Donner Party story when folks broke out their sporks and started eating their relatives. It's that part in the Titanic story when the water finally reached steerage, and little doe-eyed Irish ragamuffins were trapped behind the gates. It is the end of the train line, where you realize that your journey has only taken you so far, and that destination is not quite as far as you secretly wanted it to go.

Fools, why do you deny yourselves this annual french kiss with your own creative limitations? Why do you turn your backs on instant-onset carpal tunnel syndrome, conveniently precluding the usual months of absenteeism, physical therapy, and whining? Why do you leave me alone every November to toil in anonymous hackery while you watch "How I Met Your Mother" with your feet up on the coffee table?

I think I may have already written this exact post in 2000's 4 and 5, and none of you had a damned thing to say about it then, either.

Fine.

I write alone.