Despite my best intentions, my blogposts here and elsewhere have gotten fewer and farther between, and the MS Word files that I set up on my laptop, secretively, in the middle of the night, months ago, in which to start brainstorming about and writing my big novel idea haven’t been touched in I don’t know how long.

And then, this weekend, we were at my parents’ and I was flipping through a copy of Smithsonian Magazine’s special fall edition:  “37 Under 36—America’s Young Innovators in the Arts and Sciences.”  My dad had saved it for me because he thought a few of the profiles, what they’re doing, would interest me.  He’s always doing stuff like that for me.  He’s nice like that.  But what do I do?  I skim through this amazing collection of people my age doing incredible things, inspiring things, and I get jealous.  I get depressed.  37 under 36—not only are these people around my age, but the magazine’s cut-off for greatness is just three years older than what I am now.  Ouch.  Oh, and did I mention that I went to college with not one, but two of them?  (Both of whom, I’m sure not coincidentally, were given MacArthur genius grants a couple years back, in the same year.)  I know, I know, the only person you should compare yourself with is yourself, blah-di-blah-di-blah. 

So then, like the next day, I get my first real rejection letter.  I’m sure, if I’d been doing what I should’ve been doing all along—writing, rewriting, submitting, resubmitting—I’d have a nice collection of rejection letters and it wouldn’t sting so much.  But, at age 33, this was my first real, serious submission to something I thought I might have a real shot at, even if it was an outside one.  The letter was really nice, personal, complimentary—no form letter here.  But still, I was surprised at how down I felt for the rest of the day, moping in front of my computer screen at work.

So three days ago, at lunch, I ran out to Borders and bought a copy of “No Plot? No Problem!” the guidebook, of sorts, to National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.  After reading through it and freaking out a little (okay, more than a little), I’ve decided, at the very last minute on the eve of the November first start date, that I need a proverbial swift kick in the pants, and that this is as good a way to get it as any.

For those of you who have no frakkin’ idea what I’m talking about, I am saying that I am going to kick my own ass into gear by trying to write a 50,000 word rough draft of a novel in the thirty days of the calendar month of November.  Yes, that November, the one that starts in just a few minutes from this writing.

OMFG, I’m really saying I’m doing this, aren’t I?  And it’s not like me and time management are the best of friends, either.  Crap.  Tomorrow, I’ve got to go into my TiVo and make sure all my shows are scheduled for recording (and that I remember to mark them as “do not delete until I say so” or whatever it is).  No more lounging around after The Pumpkin’s gone to sleep watching my Heroes, my Stargate: Atlantis, my Torchwood, my Journeyman—damn, I watch a lot of t.v.!  (Thank god Lost and BSG haven’t started yet.)

My computer clock says that it is now, officially, November, PDT.  I could start writing right now, as, to reach the goal of 50,000 words in 30 days, you’re supposed to clock 1,667 words a day.  Holy freaking crap.  Am I really doing this?  You all have really got to kick my ass, okay?  But anyway, yeah, I’m about to crash.  And tomorrow night (or rather, tonight, November 1!), I start this crazy thing in earnest.  [Did I mention that in the section about scheduling, time and writing at home in the guidebook, there’s a sidebar called “How do I get rid of my children?”  Heh.]  I don’t know if I’ll make it, or what whatever comes out of this will look like, but I do know that I need to do something to snap myself out of this mopey, self-pitying funk.

So wish me luck.  And don’t forget to kick my ass when needed.