Tomorrow is the final day of NaNoWriMo and I should be sailing through to the finish. Happy, exultant and relishing in my 50,000 word novel first draft.
Instead, I am curled on the sofa 3,247 words from the finish wondering if I can give up yet.
Three thousand words. That’s nothing really, I’ve written nearly twice that much in a day more than once during the last month, but right now it feels like too much.
Tori is ill and barely slept last night, meaning neither did I. I have caught her delightful cold/cough thing and have spent most of today passed out in bed whilst Caius played SuperMan and managed to juggle poorly Tori, stroppy Arthur and a day at work.
I haven’t written enough. I need to keep going. The kids are in bed, I have time to myself, I can do what I like.
What I would like to do is sit in a hot bath and fall asleep, or watch rubbish TV or even just sit and stare at a wall.
What I am going to do is make myself write. Even if I write 1,000 words of utter rubbish that need throwing away on the 1st December and rewriting, I am going to write.
I’m going to tell my headache where to go and snuffle my way through today’s words. And tomorrow I will do the same.
I want to give up and forget it all.
I am going to cross that finish line. Even if I have to crawl over it dragging a box of tissues and a bottle of Olbas Oil behind me.