My commute has suddenly blossomed from one hour to one hour and 15-30 minutes. Blossomed, like a beautiful dew-dropletted rose. Or like a Venus flytrap, with ferocious jaws glistening with a paralyzing poison. Take your pick.
Halloween was mostly grand. I dressed as a Valkyrie. Hojotaho! I did not burst into song with my leitmotif, as I am simply not that much of a dork. Sorry to disappoint. Actually, I am exactly that much of a dork, but I also happen to have enough social skills to know better. One does not sing Wagnerian leitmotifs outside of one's own home unless one is being paid to do so. End of story.
This month is National Novel Writing Month, so cunningly dubbed NaNoWriMo by its adherents. And I shall be joining in. I've heard the key to doing this is to downgrade your expectations from "I shall write something good" to "I shall write something that doesn't make people vomit." I'm taking it a step further and downgrading from "I shall write something that doens't make people vomit" to "I shall complete a novel." After my novel is completed I shall stage a reading of selected passages at your local vomitorium. Watch for the book tour, coming soon!
My novel* is going to be about Medea, the princess of Colchis who helped Jason and his Argonauts take the Golden Fleece. Medea has certain unsavory aspects, among them the slaughtering and dismembering of her own brother to stop her father from pursuing her and her fillicidal tendencies. I've yet to decide whether or not my Medea is guilty of these crimes. I'm just going to start writing and figure it out as I go along. Behold, I am the Jack Kerouac of my generation!
*Everytime I write or say "my novel" I really feel as though I should be in a bar somewhere downing my third Scotch. "Now, when I finish my novel, all the girls are going to flock to me! I'll show them then! Har. Har. HAR!" Because in this delusion, I am also about 45 years old and male. Possibly a disillusioned lit. professor at your local community college. To claim I am writing a novel seems way more pretentious than I am really comfortable with. I suppose I shall just use this month to set aside my renowned modesty and revel in the fact that I AM A NOVELIST!**
**Technically, I'm not sure I could be considered a novelist until I've been published. And even so, I definitely cannot be considered such until I've finsihed the damn thing, so more accurately I shall use December to revel in my status as wealhtheow the novelist. "Oh yes, I meant to go shopping for Christmas presents last night, but I was too busy editing my novel." Or alternately, "Oh yes, I used to watch lots of TV before I started working on my novel." Or perhaps best of all, "Oh yes, normally my house is spotless, but you see, I've just written a novel, so excuses must be made!"
All this is really just to say I might be posting here less often than usual. Not that anyone actually reads this anyhow, so I suppose it doesn't matter. But allow me to keep my delusion that there are tens of you reading this blog and awaiting with bated breath for my next witticism or insight.