Today kicks off NaNoWriMo, and I’m participating this year because I have waaay too much stuff going on in my life to not take on a major project to distract myself.
I tell you what, I’m super sick of doctors and specialists.
Anyway, I asked Ian for an idea yesterday because I couldn’t make up my mind between the two ideas I had for this year’s NaNo.
So quick survey, should I write it offline, or should I make a new blog for Norman the Mole Boy and his adventures in life, love, and the underground?
P.S. I’m aprilvak on NaNo’s website if anyone needs another buddy.
Definitely going to post more.
And maybe not have so much bulging disc in my neck.
And hopefully find out if I have lupus or what.
And walk more since I’m too tired to run.
And sketch more.
Until a few days ago, when I received my very first fountain pen, I didn’t even know that they use special ink. Fortunately, while searching for a video on how to fill my pen, I learned this fact.
The nearest stationery store didn’t have any, Office Depot doesn’t keep it in store, and after several minutes on hold with Michael’s we decided to just head up there and check for ourselves.
I found some sweet washi tape rolls for my card making endeavors, but the spot for the single type of fountain pen ink they carry was empty.
At least we found it at the Hobby Lobby down the street from the first Michael’s, otherwise we’d have had to drive another ten miles to the next nearest one, which also happens to be by a Hobby Lobby. I never thought about that before.
Anyway, we got home after stopping for frozen yogurt, and I filled my pen. It writes beautifully, thank you. Now to put some fancy inks on my Amazon wish list…
I got plans for writing things. Big plans. These plans are stupendous. Really.
But jeez, Christmas in retail.
Not often, but sometimes Jeremy would exhibit signs of being a cat. Oftentimes, this illness exhibited itself in the form of stealthily knocking full glasses of water off the coffee table and staring his mother in the eye as she waited for him to take responsibility for his actions.
At other times, he would poop in a box he kept in the corner of his bathroom full of kitty litter. This was his mother’s least favorite.
Sometimes he enjoyed batting a small piece of plastic around the linoleum of the kitchen floor, especially while his mother was trying to cook dinner.
Rarely, he would lie on the kitchen counter, roll casually to one side, and expose his belly for an indeterminate amount of belly rubs before he would widen his eyes, bare his teeth, and go for blood.
Doctors eventually gave up on conventional medications and recommended a flea collar.
Rosanna flipped through her submission one last time. She wasn’t reading, merely making sure that the words were still on the pages. She took a deep breath and sealed it up in the addressed envelope before dropping it in the mailbox.
Immediately, she went over the guidelines in her head, as best she remembered them. Which was pretty darn well, since she’d read them a hundred times if she’s read them once. Making it into this publication would be a dream come true.
Was her plot well thought out? Were her characters believable? Would they like her style? Was her story good enough? Was she good enough?
Rosanna made a fist with the hand that rested on her thigh. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She was good enough. Her story was good enough. Her characters, her plot, her style: all good enough. It was going to happen this time.
She picked up a pint of Ben and Jerry’s on the way home to begin her waiting game.