This applies very much to my efforts so far for NaNoWriMo since I definitely have a plan but I happen to possess too much time at this point.
I started off quite strong—deciding to do an anthology of zombie short stories and writing enough the first day to put my word count two days ahead of schedule. My NaNo Day 1 word count was something like 5,284. Go me. I was very proud of myself. I bragged a little. I thought, “Psh…TOO EASY, DRILL SERGEANT!”
And then Day 2 hit. As did the writer’s block. And I brain vomited some kind of terrible construction of semi-coherent, clunky words on the page, pleased at my efforts—much like the way Sam looks extra-proud of herself when she’s constipated and finally eeks a tiny turd ball onto the lawn and then looks around like, “Did anybody see that? How awesome I am? Anybody? Did you see the awesome? Because I did that. That awesome on the lawn? That was me.”
(Oh, please. Be glad I didn’t refer to any humans doing this. THEN IT WOULD’VE HIT TOO CLOSE TO HOME. Because who isn’t proud when they turd on the lawn?)
So, anyway. I was proud of myself beccause I had to work EXTRA HARD to get the idea down. And I glanced at my word count. And saw 7,006. And did a double-take. Man! I must’ve been flying! Talk about being in the zone. My creativity knows no bounds. I AM A NANOWRIMO MASTER! Proceed with the happy dance. And then I looked at the number again for renewed joy and realized that my baby brain had made a Freudian slip and that the number was actually 706 words. Which meant I was exactly 961 words behind the daily goal.
It was at this point that I realized that I was maybe not the NaNo Master, as previously thought.
Thankfully, as I lamented my pathetic writer’s block problem to my friend Jess—who, I don’t think I’ve mentioned before, is a pretty stellar writer—she offered me a brilliant idea that could save today’s word count. And possibly make up for yesterday’s failure. Hopefully. But I’m not going to say what her idea was, in case you think it’s stupid. And then later, once I have my bestseller and am sipping champagne out of the pool boy’s bellybutton, I’ll let you know what it was and you’ll think it was awesome because I will have proven it to be a successful, money-generating idea. I will tell the pool-boy that his job is all Jess’s fault (which is kinda like giving her credit).
And, in pet news, Gabe is lame with a bruise on the inside bar of his R. fore, though he’s taking it like a champ with his usual adorable, happy puppy disposition. (Like, even when he was head-bobbing lame during the trot test for the vet, he still felt feisty enough in the cold weather to keep nosing my shoulder hard enough to throw my preggo belly off balance. The vet kept going, “Can you PLEASE jog in a STRAIGHT LINE?” and I was all, “But he keeps touching me!” And finally the vet just sighed, all disgusted, and was like, “Just don’t fall down, ok?” No sympathy from the vet and I’m pretty sure Gabe was laughing at me for getting in trouble. Jerk. But I digress.)
Not sure how long he’ll be out of commission, but I’m figuring just long enough that I can probably cross riding off for the rest of the pregnancy, since the last time I sat him I learned that my belly is big enough that it bounces a little on the pommel of my saddle. And that I no longer have the muscle tone to maintain a perky, two-point position for any non-embarrassing length of time. (See what I did there? How I made Gabe’s injury all about how much I suffer? That’s egotistical talent right there, folks.)
I also learned, while taking out his blankets to the barn, that I will be a failure as a parent (TOTAL FAILURE) because I not only forgot to clean both of his winter blankets (so they still reek of last-year’s winter mud stank) but his lighter blanket also has busted belly band closures (which I TOTALLY meant to get fixed over the summer and then proceeded to forget about because I am a chronic procrastinator and hadn’t reached the winter deadline yet and this winter’s come on too fast for me to correct it). This relates to me as a parent because I can definitely see me forgetting to fix Rynn’s belly bands for HER winter blankets once she’s actually here. Direct correlation, obviously.
And Nell’s taken on a new habit in the morning, which reaffirms that we’re still taking positive steps forward with her happiness-with-people-ization. The past three mornings, when I sit down to put on my socks (well, perform the yoga exercises that, without a basketball belly, would probably allow me to stick my ankles behind my head), she trots over to me of her own volition, completely invades my personal space, and lays her head on my knee so that I can STOP WHAT I’M DOING and scratch between her shoulder blades. She will hold this position as long as I’m willing to scratch, which is impressive on its own because I know her bladder’s about the size of a walnut and is usually ready to burst first thing in the morning. This new habit makes me VERY VERY happy.
Also, somewhat related to pets in that it’s related to pregnancy (read: not at all related to pets but I’m not feeling motivated enough to figure out a decent segue into a new topic): I realized that I’ve grown entirely too used to preggo pants. They’re awesome—no buttons, no snaps, just the adult version of a pull-up diaper (though you still have to wear underwear underneath them…which, in hindsight? Makes them really not like a pull-up diaper at all. I’m not very good at analogies.) Counting down strictly from birth (even though I hear it’s common to have to stay in maternity pants for a while after birth as your body adjusts to being sans-bebe), I will have been wearing preggo pants for about 3-4 months straight. That’s a fairly long time when you’re talking wearing something EVERY DAY. So, the reason this is a problem? I know that even though I’ve spent most of my life wearing jeans-style pants, now that I (will) have spent 4 months in elastic-waisted maternity pants, I know that for the rest of my life I will proceed to forget to zip my zipper. 4 months of preggo pants will have undone (no pun intended) DECADES of conditioning. I know this because I’m very impressionable. Just ask that girl I was best friends with back in elementary school, Shanika, who convinced me to start sucking my thumb around her because “it was cool,” even though I thought it was dumb for a kid to do that past fourth grade because it made your (read: her) teeth stick out at funny, wonky angles. VERY impressionable.