Or alternately, if you’re miserable and you know it – and it’s just no good at all…
CLAP. YOUR. HANDS.
If you’re happy and you know it,
And you really wanna show it,
If you’re happy and you know it… clap your hands!
I feel better already.
Despite – he said, by way of explanation – the depressing fact that I have failed.
I am A Failure; one who has failed. That is What I Am.
It’s the last day of November. And despite my best intentions, I have failed to write a 50,000-word novel.
I gave it a good old Aussie go, though. Really, truly did!
But I didn’t write 50,000 words – and I didn’t finish it. And it’s dead now. It doesn’t want to be worked on any more. It has become a stinky moribund dead project that pains me and makes me annoyed at myself. And it’s bad when you annoy yourself.
Winces, girds loins, drives a stake through its beloved heart.
It’s dead. RIP, first attempt at writing a novel.
The silver lining is, I’m actually well pleased with the 37,566 words I did write. They came out great.
Which was really the problem. They were too good. Consequently, somewhere along the line, I forgot to not take myself seriously. Which is the whole big-thing point of NaNoWriMo. You can write a stupid 50,000 word novel in a month. But unless you are a bona fide literary genius, you can’t write a good one. Forget about it.
I’m tempted to quote Alanis Morrisette at this juncture. But for everyone’s sake, I shall abstain.
The point is: I’m, like, trying to be philosophical and shit. I feel pain now, but I know the venture was far from a dead loss. In the end, I got more out of it than I would have if I hadn’t undertaken it. And in any case, I’ve lost nothing. Just a ride. Etcetera.
In other shittiness news, nobody but a handful of stalwarts – it seems – can come to our party.
Again, I don’t feel too bad about it. It’s getting towards That Time Of Year; everybody has lots of prior engagements. A bunch of people came to the last one – and most if not all appeared to genuinely have a good time. So it’s not like this is a sign that all our friends secretly hate our guts, or think our parties suck.
Kudos to you, my friend. Kudos to you. No, I wouldn’t come to my party either. You have better things to do. Course you do. We’re not really going to kill you. That was totally, like, an empty threat. Course it was.
Love your work.
Oh, man – that’s the shit, right there.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah.
Excuse me, I have to be alone with my hands for a while.