A confession

Okay, so I'm coming clean with something today, but only because I think it will serve as better motivation (i.e. guilt and shame if I don't finish) to make sure I do finish by the end of November. So here it goes:

I'm trying to write a book.

Okay, go ahead, laugh, get it out of your system.

Feel better now? Great. Let's try again.

I'm trying to write a book.

For real, this time. No, this isn't a joke; though, if you still want to laugh, I understand. I think it sounds ridiculous too. And yet, here I am. Word count 21,931 of about 50k. I'm trying to reach my goal by the end of the month.

That's crazy, right? Maybe, but I guess I figure if I'm going to do something crazy, I'm running out of time. A year from now I will be looking for a real job and entering the real world. This is sort-of my last chance.

Now, word to the wise: this will only be the first of about a MILLION drafts, so I do not anticipate showing it to anyone for months, or years, or possibly, if it's a complete, utterly un-salvageable disaster, never.

But the idea in putting this out there, is, that by having people actually know what nonsense I'm up to, I will probably have to answer their questions about how it is going, and, so if nothing else, guilt and shame will motivate me to meet my goal, just so I don't look totally pathetic.

Or, that's what I'm hoping, anyway. I am honestly terrified at the idea of people reading what I'm writing, or, more importantly, of people I know reading what I'm writing, because they are going to be able to notice things about it, and consequently, about me, that are disconcerting.

At any rate, there. I confessed. I'm trying to write a novel.