NaNoWriMo Madness

A form of writing suicide is participating in National Novel Writing Month. I tried to tackle this challenge two years ago, a lowly, eager Sophomore in college...and let's just say it lasted two weeks, two weeks of sleep deprivation and tears and being a miserable person to live with, just ask Michelle.

I hung posters for the challenge all over my room like a groupie. I bought a book from the NaNoWriMo website. I promised myself that I would not quit until I had at least reached a decent word count.

NaNoWriMo is the epitome of self-challenge. It begins on November 1st and goes until November 30th... one measely month to write a 50,000 word novel. The idea is to write every day, reaching for a personal word count, and eventually coming up with the backbone of a novel, decent or not, as long as you complete the goal. It's craziness.

I've certainly come a long way in my writing from Sophomore year, but this challenge still lurks. Should I try it again, even though simply thinking about it makes me want to pull my eyelashes out (one by one, with tweezers)? Should it really be this painful for a writer to pop out 50,000 words in one month? Does it make me any less of a writer if I cannot accomplish my own self-chosen goals?

Whether or not I decide to participate, the idea of writing every day is something I need to try instead of pushing it away like a chore. Maybe it's not really about the challenge at all, but about the willingness to set my priorities straight and to plunge into a project with as much ambition as I used to have going into a tennis match.

Going

It's about time for a roadtrip. I've got my bags ready. My legs twitch in my sleep.

This weekend, headed home for Halloween to take the siblings trick-or-treating.
Next weekend, headed to Toledo to rekindle old flames.
Possibly Indiana for Thanksgiving.
For finals week this semester, there is a bus with my name inscripted on foggy windows. I believe it's headed for Chicago.

All that's left to do is get there.

Sing it Taio Cruz.

I have a problem. I think I've had this same problem all my life.. a tragic flaw, perhaps?

I rush into everything. It's been two weeks since I first began dating this guy, and bam, I realize that actually...I don't have feelings for him. What the hell, right? I've done this twice now, this jumping into relationships without actually feeling the butterflies in my stomach when he holds my hand. There is nothing in the kiss but platonic wannabe somethings.

I want to be nervous, giggly and awkward...but in the kind of way that beginning relationships should be...not in that weird, squirmy, stop-touching-the-small-of-my-back way. There's a huge difference.

Oh well. It's good to be single again, anyway. I can flirt in good fun and hope that the next time I rush into a relationship, it will be the right one. Ahhh.

News.

Maybe I'm falling?

Indeed, maybe I'm falling.

And maybe I'm okay with it.

Maybe.

The Date.

I decided a long time ago that I don't like going on dates, or the beginning of relationships. It's all one in the same to me. The awkward what-do-I-do-with-my-hands thing. The darting, nervous eyes. The knowing glances you get from strangers as you sit together, feeling the tension.

There's really nothing about dating that I enjoy. If I could skip all the awkward beginnings and move straight into the stage of 'I'm comfortable calling you my boyfriend', that would be great.

Am I supposed to date my best friend? Am I supposed to give strangers a try? It's all just so confusing. The dating my best friend is too brotherly for me. The stranger thing is too awkward. So, where does that leave me?

And did I mention the speed in which everything seems to move? Goodness, if I give a guy a smile he immediately tries to hold my hand, cuddle up next to me during a movie, make-out. It's all too hasty. And annoying. It seems as if there is no happy medium between who I date and what we do. There are too many expectations and more nervousness than I want to handle in a single situation.

After this angsty rant, I'm going on a date tonight. We're going to dinner. Maybe this one will change my mind. One can hope, yes?

[On a side note]

The worst date I've ever gone on lasted an entire day. And it wasn't just any day. It was Valentine's Day. We drove 2.5 hours to a monster truck rally. The car ride to and from was filled with nothing but gear-head talk that I pretended to understand. Not once did he ask about me. I wondered if I was just there so that he didn't have to look odd talking his head off to no one.

The semi-best date I've ever gone on went completely awry. We ended up at a dinky amusement park and ate icecream that dripped all over our arms and couldn't find the car for at least a half hour because there were apparently two parking lots that looked the same. And then when we came back to my apartment, he tried to make-out with me...which ruined it.

From the mouth of a wise woman:

Ruth Bell, who as a teenager wanted nothing more than to be an old maid missionary in Tibet, listed these following particulars, just in case:

"If I marry: He must be so tall that when he is on his knees, as one has said, he reaches all the way to heaven. His shoulders must be broad enough to bear the burden of a family. His lips must be strong enough to smile, firm enough to say no, and tender enough to kiss. Love must be so deep that it takes its stand in Christ and so wide that it takes the whole lost world in. He must be active enough to save souls. He must be big enough to be gentle and great enough to be thoughtful. His arms must be strong enough to carry a little child."

And then, she met Billy Graham.

OCTOBER!

If I had to choose one month, and only month, to live in for the rest of my life, it would hands-down be October. It's finally perpetually chilly (unless you live in Florida...then I'm sorry) and the leaves are allowed to start changing colors without being given dirty looks.

From my window, the view of Lake Erie is more clear than it's been for a really long time. The wind whistles through trees and the sky smiles down beneath twelve different shields of grey. It's beautiful.

I can finally drink apple cider without feeling like it's too early to indulge myself. Scary movies are always in season, but in October and only in October, it is truly acceptable to pick any night of the week to make a fest of it under the safety of blankets and pillows and hot chocolate.

Halloween beckons. I'd give anything to be at home for Halloween to take my sister and brother trick-or-treating again. Those were the days. Now I have to get dressed up for costume parties that aren't nearly as fun as walking door-to-door asking for candy. Maybe I'm still a kid.

And the corn mazes and pumpkin carving and haunted houses that are both cheesy and exhilarating at the same time! Oh, how I love October.

It never disappoints.