Veteran's Day

Okay, so I'm a vet.

I did four years in the military, got out with an honorable discharge, and promptly burned all of my uniforms.

Needless to say, it wasn't for me.

I definitely have a love for my country though, and the deepest respect for the people that serve/have served.

I don't like Veteran's Day though.

For me, it's like Valentine's Day. Why have only one day to honor love or service or whatever? The other 364 days don't matter? Kind of crap.

But, that's not the point of this blog entry. The point is that I had a plan.

6:30 - Get up, grumble, walk around with one eye open.
8:00 - Take my son to school.
8:30 - Come home, eat, watch an episode of one of my shows to give myself time to wake up, start laundry.
10:00 - Write. Pause for 10 minutes breaks every 30, mostly used to swap around laundry.
1:00 - Fold massive pile of laundry on my bed.
1:30 - Write.
3:00 - Pick up my son at school, help with his homework, get ready for work.
4:00 - Work until 9:30.
9:30 - Retype what I wrote at work. I mean...I don't use paid time for writing! What are you talking about?
10:30 - 11:00ish - Go to bed.

Yeah.......So there's no school today. I feel that this will be less productive than I'd planned.

Sigh.

A Nose in Need...

I have a cold.

My movements are exaggerated and childlike, and though the house is empty, I find myself talking to myself. Now this is a normal occurrence, particularly when I'm plotting out a new arch for my book, but this is different.

Instead of just pressing "pause" on the remote, I feel the need to say the word as well. As if the mere utterance of my intention will make the effect more...effective.

And no, I'm not high on cold medicine. It's yucky, and I don't want to take it.

Yes, I am in fact a four year old when I'm sick.

Needless to say, my plan to spend the vast majority of this morning and early afternoon writing just isn't happening. I don't have the mental clarity to do dishes, let alone write my book.

Work is, no doubt, going to be interesting this evening.

November is, in my opinion, the worst time ever to fall ill. Not only is November a rather insane month for retail, but it's also NaNoWriMo. And I am something like 15,000 words behind on my count already. I don't have the time for this.

Dear Cold,
Please come back in a more opportune month. Like...never.
No love,
Kelly

The Paper Bleeds and Deadlines Loom

So my girlfriend, who is a hop, skip, and a jump away from getting herself published (the bitch), wants me to edit her manuscript before she sends it off to her agent.

That's all well and good. I don't mind. Part of me actually gets a contact high from doing it, given that she's so much closer to our shared goal than I am.

But, at the same time, I'm nervous.

As a writer, I know all too well what it's like to have someone take your baby, that you've put your blood, sweat and tears into, and hand it back a few days later, looking like a three year old has attacked it with crayons.

Editing, and being critiqued, makes us better writers. But it's till painful to have your child ripped to shreds by someone that doesn't know it like you do, and could never love it as well as it deserves.

Writers are parents, no matter what anyone says. And as a parent, I feel guilty criticizing Ali's.

It is pretty fun though.

In other news, NaNoWriMo started at midnight last night.

For those that don't know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. In a nutshell, you write 50,000 words in 30 days, or die trying.

Deadlines are good. Deadlines make you accountable to something or someone, so that you stop slacking off. Deadlines make me feel like I'm going to hyperventilate.

Honestly, it's not even the time constraint. I could write that much (probably more) in a month, no sweat. It's the thought of finishing something. Because if I finish something, I have to try and get it published. And that's the scary part.

That's why I envy Ali's bravery. Sending out your baby for the world to reject is terrifying.

I'm determined to do it though. I can't keep living like this. With a giant "What if?" hanging over my head. This is no way to live. No way to know what I'm made of. Because right now, all I'm made of is cowardice.