It’s now the 25th of November, and NaNoWriMo is entering its final throes. Thanks to a combination of sleep deprivation, sheer bloody-mindedness and disregard for the conventions of good literature, I’m on target to hit 50,000 words some time in the next few days.
At the time of writing, I have 7,500 words left to go. I also have plenty of surplus plot, and (as of last night) a slight diversion involving bacon sandwiches. All this is good.
What’s not so good is the fact that I also have an increasingly painfully nagging case of RSI in my right wrist, and a gradual deterioration of my enthusiasm for writing (and the will to live).
I’m currently at my parents’ house, trying to write some songs and crack on with the final push towards NaNoWriMo glory. I have made slightly less progress than I expected, being distracted by the twin temptations of crap telly and my mother wittering on about village scandal. Apparently there is a deep rift in the world of the local flower arrangers and Kath won’t speak to Gavin any more, and goodness knows how they’re going to run the Church festival next year…
Anyway. Here’s a quick taster.
I scoured the room looking for my shoes and purse, pulling the red dress back on. It was a bit of a state, and I very obviously looked like a dirty stop-out. He opened his wallet and pulled out a card I read it and laughed – Jim Cassidy: Lover, Fighter, Balloon modeller – with a phone number and email address printed underneath.
“Balloon modeller? That’s a bad pickup line if ever I heard one.”
“No, no,” he protested, smiling, “It’s true.”
He pulled a small, dangly balloon out of his wallet and blew it up, supporting the growing phallic latex as it stretched. After a few squeaky twists, he was holding a sausage dog. He put the spindly tail into his mouth and sucked, giving it a little poodle-style ball for a tail. I may have possibly squealed with delight as he handed it over and kissed me gently on the lips, whispering in my ear.
“Give me a call, yeah?”
See you at the finish.