30 November, 2006 - 12:39am local time. 50,621 words. Call that puppy done. (My bride, incidentally, finished two days prior, but only had 50,597 words. That's right: I wasn't going to quit writing until I had surpassed that number. Another buddy of mine, who shall remain nameless, has verified on his NaNoWriMo author profile, has written 101,912 words... Steve, we hate you.) And how is my novel? Is it the gripping page-turner that is destined to climb the ranks of the New York Times best-seller list? Is it an epic work of fiction, destined for awards and an eternal place on the mandatory summer reading lists of high school juniors? Are there three coherent sentences strung together in one place? Well, ok, yes to that last one. Maybe. Hey, it's about quantity, people, not quality. And while I did have a good time writing it, and surprised myself a couple of times during the process with unplanned events or characters that seemed to fall out on the screen unexpectedly, like when you find that stale, overlooked piece of popcorn in the bottom of the air popper, but hey, it's only been a couple of days since you put it away, after all, so why not eat it? No one's judging you here. I actually ended up with a piece of work that's nowhere near completed, and rough enough around some of the edges that you could use the print out to sand down that rusty metal porch chair you keep meaning to fix, but with a couple of pretty solid, halfway likeable characters, and a framework that could be readable, given some work. But it was fun to do, and hey - what did you accomplish in the last 30 days, eh? That's what I thought. But don't worry. There's always next year. Now that we're done, I can get back to all of the normal hobbies that I've dropped this past month. Like reading, or playing the banjo, or regular showers. You may now bask in the glow of our accomplishment. Go ahead. Bask.

Ok, novel. We're 20 days in. And I hate to say it, but the shine is starting wear off. It's not that we're not making progress. We are. We're at a hair over 34,000 words, which puts us just a smidge ahead of schedule. But I have to admit that I'm struggling. I don't know if it's that the newness has worn off, or that you're just not interested in this relationship anymore, but the excitement, the passion, the tingle just aren't there like they used to be. Now I admit that I've been a little distracted too. I've got the house in California, and travel for work, and alright, I've been using pretty much any excuse to just put in my minimum effort. Yeah? Well, entice me. Giveme some characters that sparkle, some dialogue that's snappy, some plot twists that leave me breathless. Give me ninjas, dammit. My Bride, after all, is a few thousand words ahead of us. And that is just plain wrong, I tell you. Come on now, 10 more days. You can do it. We can do it together. More caffeine, less TV watching.

Ah, my novel. How I love you. You and I have a long way to go together still, I know, but I can tell already that we are going to be the best of friends. We were clearly meant for each other. It has only been two days, but we have come so very far already, what with you and your 9,183 words, and me, with my itcy, furiously flying fingers. Your characters are shapely. Your dialogue pert and witty. Your adjectives numerous. You do not find it odd in the least that the best music for our spending time together is inexplicably either Afroman or Barry Manilow, or better yet, a combination of the two. You have not commented on the massive uptick in my caffeine, chicken strip and peanut butter cup consumption, because you know that this is only because I want to spend more time with you. You, my novel, are clearly better than any other. Particularly my Bride's, with its paltry 5,676 words. Let's throw spitballs at them later to prove we're better. Some people describe what we feel as euphoria. As ephemeral. As fleeting. But we know that it is meant to last. At least for the next 27 days.