Sometimes I have conversations with myself.
Okay, all the time I have conversations with myself.
Sometimes these conversations are audible.
“Kassie,” says I, “That decision, love, was patently stupid. No. That decision was nigh unto irresponsibly immature and thou must needs return thine Grown Up card to the powers that be, post-haste.” My subconscious has lexicon related identity issues.
Typically these conversations transpire after events which usually involve me saying exactly what I’m thinking to whom I’m thinking about. Or, with a frequency even more alarming, at times when I convince myself that staying up/sleeping in just a few more minutes won’t matter to anyone except my hair. But this time, dear readers.
This time that conversation was preemptive, as I made the official decision to dive into Nanowrimo yet-a-frickin-gain. And I’m recording that conversation here, so that three weeks from now when I’m griping and moaning and complaining and tearfully chugging copious amounts of. . . . . coffee. . . . ., my subconscious can snap me out of it with: “Get over it, you whining moron. You knew this was a completely insane time to try and churn out 50,000 more words, so suck it up and write, damn it.”
In a rare moment of realism I had the good sense to agree to modify the challenge to “Write 50,000 words in whatever medium you can”, which is far less impressive than being able to shrug and off-handedly comment about the status of my latest novel. But it’s already been established that me and chic don’t exactly get along.
I have too much hair for that.
But here’s to you, fellow nanowrimoers. Enjoy your last few days of sanity before. . .you know, The End.