Before I settle in for the day and start my real writing, I thought I’d take a moment to lament the passing of Thanksgiving. It’s not that I get all torqued up about said holiday, and it’s not because mine was some horrific dysfunctional family circus. I’m in mourning simply because I didn’t get any damn turkey. Okay, I got a little. But not enough to make me happy.

By the time dinner started and I’d done the rounds at the table and finally got to the platter holding my prize, I found I had little room left on my plate for it. After careful orchestration, I managed to squeeze a small piece of breast between the cranberry sauce and cranberry orange relish (both being must-haves for dipping in my book). After sitting down, I did consider getting more, but then was drawn into a half-hour discussion with my nephew about how throwing his food on the floor really didn’t count as eating it. By the time I got to my waiting plate, I just wasn’t all that interested anymore.

To be fair, my lack of enthusiasm might have stemmed from the three pounds of cheese I’d eaten earlier. Or the half-gallon of bean dip. Or the handfuls of celery dipped in bacon horseradish sauce (It did cross my mind once that I was flirting with a heart attack, but I’m happy to say I’m still alive). But another type of damage had been done. By the time the main course rolled around, I’d eaten more than I usually do in an entire day.

Once the cleanup was finished, the remains were shipped home with my brother’s family, and by eight o’clock, the smell had vacated the house and it was like the turkey had never existed at all. You can almost hear the tears spilling onto the keyboard, can’t you?

I could make my own, of course. But, two people and an undisclosed number of felines don’t quite warrant the purchase and preparation of an enormous bird. I could just buy a breast, but there’s something very disappointing about a wingless, legless football coming out of the oven. It just doesn’t have the same feel to it.

There’s something about that day, that one day when turkey seems the most wonderful, delectable creation on earth. Most other days, it’s relegated to those watching their health — the bastardized child of hamburger meat and pork sausage, marginally ahead of tofu as a second (or third, or fourth) choice menu item. But, on one day a year, it shines. And I missed it. I feel like Linus in the pumpkin patch.

Here I sit with my pre-made cranberry squeeze bottle, my extra-squishy white bread and jar of mayonnaise — my sad little party whose guest of honor never showed. Oh well. I guess there’s always Christmas. And those who bring ham will tremble before me.

Pages edited today — 49. That’s 12,250 words.

I have six chapters to go through in the next few days. Unfortunately, most of the content is trash. But, I think I just might be able to pull it off.

Keep every available digit crossed for me.

Well, I didn’t write anything new today, but I did manage to get myself organized. I have a tendency to overlook those “little” details of chronology and consistency of setting. As a result, I had a lot of chapters where a day suddenly turns to night with a POV switch, or where one chapter happens a day before the one preceding it (minor stuff, right?). Although I’m a crazy planner as far as plot goes, I’m more than a bit lazy when it comes to figuring out a timeline. I don’t know why I don’t do it; it would make my life much easier in the long run. Maybe all the keeping track of numbers reminds me of math and I go into automatic passive resistance mode, or something.

Whatever the reason, I had a huge mess on my hands nearing the end of the book. I had no idea what happened when — and thusly couldn’t figure out the ordering of my chapters (another huge task I accomplished today). I finally sat down and wrote out the most primitive, crude (yet effective) timeline anyone’s ever witnessed and got myself straight.

Then came the chapters. I like to save each chapter as a separate file, mostly for formatting reasons. I had the chapters very well organized at the end of the first go-round. But, then I started revising and began adding chapters and re-arranging them, so I ended up with a folder full of nonsense like, “Chapter 20-A” stuffed between twenty and twenty-one, again because I was too lazy to go all the way through and re-number the chapters right then and there.

But, today saw the end of my last remains of disorganization. I now have properly ordered chapters and an accurate timeline. Tomorrow, I can spring into action and bang out the rest of this story by the end of the week.

These posts have been boring, I know, but I promise more foolishness just as soon as I get this deadline behind me and I can properly think again. Thanks for the patience, and I hope to have good news tomorrow night regarding my spectacular comeback as editing champion of the world.

Pages revised today – 22 (5,500 words).

Caught up? Nope.

Feeling better about myself? Sure, why not.

Yeah. I’ve been absent here a couple of days, and those days saw absolutely zero work done. I’m so far behind on the deadline, I doubt there’ll be catching up at this point. I could say wild dogs broke into my house and carried me off to become one of their own, or that I was kidnapped on election day by an angry republican, or that my excellent writing two days ago somehow broke the barrier between reality and fiction and opened a mystical portal that sucked me into my story and it wasn’t until just this moment that I climbed out, barely alive and with only enough energy left to type this post before succumbing to my death. But, we all know that’s not the truth, and the truth is, well, much less glamorous and I won’t waste your time on petty justifications.

Still, I’m not throwing in the towel on this mega-project. I’m gonna keep moving and we’ll see where I am at the end of this marathon — November 17. I probably won’t meet my goal, but I’ll definitely be farther along than before. So, that’s something.

Today I did a little better, but I don’t think I’m caught up, yet. Most of my luck had to do with the chapters I was re-writing still had a lot of keep-able portions.

So, what did I do today?

Twenty-three pages (5,750 words) of new and recycled content. Not enough to put me back on schedule, but I’m still better off than I was last night.

I’m up to the part where serious re-writing needs to be done. The last few chapters were brand new POV scenes for Quinn and the tweaking of existing chapters. Now, I have to get a game plan together for ending this; there are thirteen virtually unusable chapters to wade through before November seventeenth.

As Scarlett said, “Tomorrow is another day.”

Let’s hope a more productive one.

Only six pages today (1,500 words). That means 12 additional pages I now need to sprinkle through the rest of the days like confetti. Evil, bad confetti.

I’m not even going to update my word count meter tonight. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have a redeeming burst of crazed energy — like Alex Keaton when he took speed before that big test. Except without the drugs… or the sweater vests.

It’s 7:44pm and I’ve just called it quits. I only got fourteen pages (3,500 words) out today. Yep, three short of my goal. Looks like I’ll be working tomorrow, too.

*********************************************************************************
(10:25pm)
Hah! I bounced back after dinner and pounded out four more pages (1,000 words).

I’m a genius.

Thursday, November 2. After seven hours of writing, I have eighteen pages (4500 words). I don’t know how many chapters that equals because I’m not sure how I’ll be breaking up a few of them, yet.

Here’s hoping I can keep up this steam for two more weeks (and that I remember to shower).

Not too long ago, I was having what I thought was an equitable conversation with someone. She asked me what I did, and I told her. Without a blink she replied, “Oh. I don’t read fiction. I guess I’m too well educated.”

At first I didn’t take offense. A day or two later, I started to resent the comment. A day after that, I let it go, chalking it up to common ignorance. But, it ignited in me a sort of awareness of this prejudice I’d never really noticed before — the odd notion one can be too educated for something. The more attention I paid, the more aware I became of the alarming frequency this subject comes up among writers; one genre views itself superior to another, the highbrow views the ‘dregs’ with disdain… I just don’t get it. Even as I sat watching Lost last night, this issue arose. One of the Others was having a book group and her friends were giving her a hard time for picking a Stephen King novel. One said something about not even deigning to read it in the bathroom, as if Mr. King’s words were somehow beneath him.

It all seems vain and trifling. Like writers don’t have enough obstacles in their paths, new ones need to be invented; clubs have to be formed and the mean little kids manning their plywood forts have to wing stone missiles at the approach of any of the uninitiated and unwelcome.

I have no use for any of that. I’m a storyteller out to do just what the title implies. And if I can help just one person let go of whatever is troubling him for a little while, I’ll be more than satisfied with my life’s work, regardless of the opinions of others.

Maybe I am uneducated. Maybe I’ll never be part of the intelligentsia. But, I know who I am, and where I’m going. And I believe in myself enough to let those who have “too much education” slide by me without affecting my outlook on life. I’ve got too many better things to do than worry about other people’s hang-ups.