November 1 kicks off National Novel Writing Month. For those scribes who participate in NaNoWriMo--a competition that pits the writer against herself and the calendar--it means writing through blocks, persistent ringing telephones (leave a message, for crying out loud!), stomach cramps, raging fevers, the Black Death, hunger pangs, super sales at Kohl's, birthdays (you'll get a stinkin' "belated greetings" card on 3 December, okay?), baths (which cuts down considerably on folks' dropping by to chat), dogs clawing and whining at the kitchen door, and firemen using a battering ram to break down the front door. It's not that the writer isn't concerned about his house burning. He cares. He just doesn't notice. He's in the moment, immersed in the story.
Fifty thousand words in 30 days: that's the goal. That's pressure. So don't pop in with a casserole. Don't call. Don't send email. Don't die. At least not until 1 December.
Happy NaNoWriMo, writers!
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