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Man, don't even THINK about asking to see the novel I'm writing right now. In its current form, there's only three people allowed to look at it: Me, Myself, and I.

OK, I'm done now. Mister Rub-ber-bur-ner. Seriously.

But, seriously, it's ... not ... good. I've got until midnight tomorrow to write about 30 pages, so needless to say we're down to the wire. Going into this month, I had one idea, but it was more suited for a short story rather than a novel. I was thinking 10-20 pages would be grrrreat for this. Well, I thought I could build a novel around it, decided to scrap that idea, came up with a new one on the spot about four days into this month, and now I'm taking that original idea I already said was better suited for a short story and sticking it in there randomly.

You've heard of improv comedy right? It's what Michael Richards so brazenly failed at last week at the Laugh Factory with the ni- ... afro Americans. Well, essentially, what improv comedy is, at its essence, is the actors/comedians are given a loose outline of a story and make the rest up from there. Like on that show, "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" The actors have their roles, and someone from the audience shouts out a place or a theme or something.

Well, what I'm doing with this novel here - rather unintentionally - is writing an Improv Novel. I've so far taken exactly zero notes, I've got nothing for an outline, and I've got approximately three characters and a bunch of random oddities thrown in and tossed out recklessly. Every day, I sit at this computer, or at my laptop at home, sometimes I've got an idea for that day's scene, sometimes I don't. Mostly, I'm just winging it off the top of my head. But, even if I DO have an idea for that day, it's never anything beyond that one scene.

In other words, what this Novel In A Month thing has sought out to do is frustrate me to no end. I haven't had an opportunity to sit and think about my story because I was pushed into it with the late start (the late start, incidentally, being required because of the other aborted novel idea getting chucked), and I've been hellaciously playing ketchup ... catch up.

I'm taking December off for obvious reasons, at least from novel writing. I've got a few short story ideas I want to pound out (I choose to give my roommates Christmas presents in the form of personalized short stories because I'm a cheap tightass with no money). I just can't wait for Thursday to come and go. The next two nights are gonna be fucking brutal.
 
 
Current Mood: Yeah, whatever. I guess I'm not all smart like you