One more day. One day more. Twenty-six hours from now, and I will be wide awake, panicking at the first quarter of an hour of November 2013. That quarter of an hour will determine the fate of my novel, my story, my soon-to-be bestseller, my brainchild, my life.
*cue dramatic music*
Yeah, or not.
Most likely, I will just fall asleep.
The story will write itself, one way or another. I am a writer; I write. This doesn’t mean that I’ll actually become the next Jane Austen; it doesn’t mean that anyone will ever read anything I ever write; it doesn’t even mean that I will ever finish a single writing project. All it means is that I put words one by one down on paper or type them out; these words mean to me some thought or emotion or problem or curiosity. These words express, consider, question, describe, imitate, contemplate, criticise, and analyse Life as I know it. I write as a matter of course. I write because I must write, because I am meant to write. I write because …
NANOWRIMO IS COMING.