that time of the...

It's that time of the year again where sanity takes a nose dive out the window and carpal tunnel comes knocking at the window, like an optimistic vampire at a sorority house. It's less than a week to the kickoff of Nanowrimo, National Novel Writing Month. For those who are newly arrived (and therefore less familiar with the topography of my yearly cycles) this event demands 50,000 words of novel-writing in the month of November. It seems a foregone conclusion that I will, perforce, be somewhat less than productive on the journal front.

This is the fourth year that I have participated in this mad dash towards greatness. I have no logical explanation for why I choose to inflict this barbarism on myself on a yearly basis. My suspicion is that it serves as some alleviation of the chronological ascension vs. aspiration uncertainty, that slightly skewed horror that people my age get when viewing the achievements of younger, more nubile heroes. It is true that in my day I was the one who astonished and appalled my elders, shaming them with my accomplishments and precociousness at an age when steadier heads were learning how to spell "APPLE" -- but that was then, and this is now, and what have I done lately? It is a different matter altogether standing on this side of mortality's fence, watching pre-teens perform on stage at Carnegie Hall, winning awards and writing novels.

The knowledge that said pre-teens suck and that I could've done so much better at their age is, I must say, small comfort. I'm 31 years old and what do I have to show for my life? A car, a job, an apartment, and a husband -- pshaw. Where's my Nobel Prize?

My NaNoWriMo trend over the last four years is a progression of improvement, just enough to be encouraging if not enough to trick me into hubris or self-confidence. It is a small matter to string together 50,000 words, but the quibbler in me insists that they be 50,000 different words, which -- while not being a requirement for the event -- does squash any levity I might inadvertently feel regarding the occasion. There have been occasions when I have chosen a four-letter word and filled entire pages with them, tallying them towards the final word count. Unfortunately, my inner judge inevitably clucks its tongue and chases me back to the delete button, erasing all the gains that I have made.

(I admit I imagine my inner judge to be similar in many physical respects to my mother, armed with a black robe and a gavel. My inner monologue looks remarkably like my imaginary cat Heisenberg, whereas my husband and my sister play no distinctive proxy role in any aspect of my ongoing identity crises. The latter heartens me, as it seems to indicate that, while I am cursed with a strong streak of masochism, I am at least possessed of a fairly healthy sense of self-preservation.)

Those who have cataloged my past attempts at NaNoWriMo know that last year was the first time in which I finally reached 50,000 words. It matters very little that the last 9 words in my novel consisted of: "This is it, this is my 50,000th word! Hurrah!" --which, if taken in context with the rest of my novel, was unquestionably the most exciting passage in it. While there was nothing wrong with the words in my novel, there was plenty wrong with their arrangement. I am hopeful that I will not duplicate that error this time; while I cannot claim to be a ready listener or an attentive student, I can at least learn from my mistakes if given a year to absorb their import.

It is now 4 days until Nanowrimo, and I do not have a plot. This did not occur to me until yesterday.

I am not entirely sure yet if this will be a problem.

My sister is returned from the wilds of Yosemite at long last, having been driven forth by plans to go climbing elsewhere in California. This necessitated her departure from Yosemite to San Francisco, where she hoped to find employment of a type that would result in quick money.

Sako: yud, i was thinking of selling my blood.
Yuhri: Why?
Sako: do you think i'd get much for it?
Yuhri: no.
Sako: well, how much do you think i'd get?
Yuhri: I have no idea.
Sako: hold on
Sako: okay, no go.
Sako: no place wants to buy my blood.
Yuhri: *patpat*
Yuhri: I love you anyway.

Speaking to my sister is a discombobulating experience, in part because it is like rolling back the hands of time in my personal development. It required several years of living apart from my family to learn the basic art of linear thought; a household in which people buried nuts to give squirrels the fun of finding them, is not one that teaches the building blocks of Aristotlean logic.

As I say, my sister is out of Yosemite at last. A few days previously, she called to inform me that her new boyfriend was in the news, a statement which -- I admit it freely -- did not instantly strike me as propitious. My sister's taste in men is almost invariably sound and yet, she seems so classically appropriate to play the role of Bad Girl, one is consistently surprised to find that her men are charming, intelligent, and almost always without criminal records.

The boyfriend, it transpired, was in the team doing body recovery and search & rescue in Yosemite. "Do you still want to be a nurse?" I asked her.

"Sure," she said. "Or maybe a massage therapist."

"Those aren't the same thing."

Sako: i think my boss is dead. literally.
Yuhri: Er...why?
Sako: crack.

Her current fast track to money in San Francisco is cleaning windows for high rises. It is a perfect job for her, in that it involves high places, nigh suicidal risks, and ready cash. I find it a peculiar job, in that she never seems to receive any paychecks, and that her employer apparently has no qualms about one of his cleaners disappearing for weeks at a time into the wilds of Yosemite, only to reappear again without warning to demand work.

Yuhri: Um. What?
Yuhri: Why? Is he not returning your phone calls?
Sako: crack. you know, crack cocaine?
Sako: he's a crack addict.
Sako: a lifer
Yuhri: Your boss washes windows on high rises and he's a crack addict?
Yuhri: These do not seem like compatible hobbies.
Sako: yup

Well, you know. They're really not.

Yuhri: I'm tempted to write about your boss on my journal.
Sako: i don't care. i'm sure he wouldn't either since he's probably DEAD!

I can't figure out what to write for NaNoWriMo. I'm sure it'll come to me eventually. Nonetheless, I'm a trifle concerned.

Last night we went up to Millbrae to meet up with Diva, who had moved to San Francisco. Millbrae was a convenient midway point, and we had dinner at the Hong Kong Flower Lounge before heading to the nearby Starbucks for coffee and dessert.

In the car, the Guy abruptly wailed. "Oh no! My wedding ring's gone!"

He was quite upset.

Sako: i'm bored.
Sako: and hungry.
Sako: bored and hungry
Sako: hungry and bored.
Sako: did you know that racecar was a pallendrome?
Sako: did i use the right word?
Yuhri: Palindrome.

I've always had a problem with plots. Linear thinking, you know? It's just so complicated.