I'm bailing out of NaNoWriMo.
I felt good when I started out at the beginning of the month. I was getting my daily word counts (mostly), and even when I fell behind, I was confident that I would catch up shortly.
Then I got sick.
That was my first sign.
I spent four days down-for-the-count with what I would like to call the plague, except the plague would have been merciful and killed me. After that, I should have realized that I was too far behind to make up my lost time and lost wordage. Instead, I forged onward as best I could.
After getting sick, I managed to pull this little chunk of text together:
"Writing when you’re sick is like trying to run a cross country race barefoot. It’s possible... but it sucks, and you’re going to make a lot of stupid little mistakes that you could have avoided if you just kept yourself in order from the get-go. So, when I stumbled into the office one day with sinuses full of tepid molasses and a throatache that led me to believe I had spent my sleeping hours unconsciously mouth-pleasuring a well-hung porcupine, it could only be a sign of a grand day to come. The first phone call of the day was relatively uneventful. A co-worker, thankfully, because I picked up the phone and promptly coughed in her ear. After clearing my throat, I went on to greet her with my best 1920’s -flapper -with -permanent -smoking -damage voice. It went a little something like this: cough hack splutter “Umm... Hello? I mean... Good morning. This is Sunny.” “Oh wow... you sound like crap.” cough “Thanks. I feel like crap.” “Wow... Well, I was just calling to say... Umm... I’m not feeling so great.” “Okay.” sniff “So I think I’m gonna stay home today.” “Sounds good. I’ll mark you out. Thanks for calling in.” “You should go home, too. I mean, you’re sick, aren’t you?” throat-clearing “Yeah... I don’t feel so hot. But I can’t just leave. I have to do my job.” “Oh, okay. Well, I guess... take care of yourself.” cough “You too. Feel better.” ... The day didn’t get much better from there. I managed to answer the phone every time it rang. I managed to page the office, and not to terrify the locals when I needed to use the intercom system. Throughout the day, I even started to feel a little better. That was my fatal error. That evening, after I went home, I remember being sad that Boyfriend wasn’t there. I vaguely remember sitting on the couch and watching an episode of MacGyver as the room faded from twilight to darkness. As night fell, I remember looking at the clock and realizing I had an appointment to keep. I think I kept it. After that... It’s a haze. I must have called out sick from work on Thursday and Friday, because there are phone calls on my phone after the time that Boyfriend leaves for work in the morning. Either that, or he stayed home and took care of me. I don’t even remember feeling the typical “Am I really sick enough to warrant using a sick day?” guilt that overcomes me shortly after taking a workday to stay at home in bed. Even if I did... I couldn’t tell you. I must have eaten over the course of those two days, because I was never hungry enough to seek food outside of my nest that I created in bed. I must have found nourishment, or had some brought to me. But I couldn’t tell you. I must have done a number of things over those two days which I simply cannot tell you about. I just don’t remember. After falling into an illness which I was sure would claim my life, I don’t remember anything until Saturday morning. It had been two and a half days since I had fallen into my snot-addled haze, and finally I was starting to feel human again. Boyfriend tells me that he knew my fever was peaking and getting ready to break on Friday afternoon, just after dinner. He made me a special meal of rice with gravy so I could glean some healthy nourishment (after two days of not eating? or maybe after two days of living on Cheezy Poofs and orange juice?) and to get something fatty into my system to give my stomach something to chew on. Although I had felt well enough to dine on the couch in front of the television that evening, I tired out quickly after we had finished eating. After a weak attempt at staying awake (and then arguing that I was far too rested to feel... yawn... sleepy...), it was mutually decided that I would go back to bed. And by mutually... I mean he pointed in the general vicinity of the bedroom, and I tootled off willingly. If my nose would have stood for it, I probably would have whistled on the way. It was two hours later that Boyfriend tells me I stumbled back out of the bedroom and was remarkably distraught. He tells me I made it halfway down the stairs before I simply couldn’t wait any longer, and had to know if brownies would taste okay if I baked them in miniature muffin tins. When that conversation proved fruitless, I moved on to bombard him with my worries about the plight of the grocery store lobster. I would love to tell you the witty, exciting details... But they simply aren’t forthcoming. I blame the fever... and the special spice in the gravy."
This, I'm afraid to say, is the highlight of my novel.
So, after spending the last two days blissfully enjoying time with my family (and not writing - not even a little), I am not entirely unhappy to say that I will be stepping away from my novel for at least the time being. Perhaps, if I have time in upcoming weeks, I'll finish it before the end of the year. I'll find out as time passes and I realize whether or not I've got the resources available to do the homemade holiday I'd like to. If I don't finish it before the end of 2011, I'll finish it in 2012 and be damned proud of myself for all I've done. It's how I roll.