Let’s pretend I didn’t just have the least productive weekend in NaNoWriMo history. (Oh fine, I exaggerate. It’s more dramatic that way.)
Let’s pretend I’ve come down with the flu, instead of a mild head cold.
Let’s pretend we’re on day seven instead of day eleven.
I’ve just hit 12,500 words, which is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s more than I had at the end of November two years ago, and with a lot less of the mindless filler. Here’s an excerpt of today’s meager output:
“We haven’t even had dinner yet, and you’re talking about growing our own food. I can’t even think about life without indoor plumbing right now. Let me use the bathroom first.” Molly stood up.
Rick laughed and fell back down across the bed. “You do have your priorities, don’t you? I yield to you for running water and chicken pot pie. You’ll see things my way, eventually.”
Let’s pretend I’ve made some notes about where the plot is headed, and that I’ll actually follow them.
I could tell myself that my word count widget is wrong, and just add 5,000 to my running total. After all, it’s only a number. It might be good for morale. (btw, I don’t really have a head cold, either.)