Maybe next year

I swore up and down that this year would really be it: this year, I'd do NaNoWriMo.

Yeah, about that.

Crying shame, really, especially since part of the reason I'd resolved to blog for the last 12 months was because I was going to hone my little craft to be good enough to pen an entire novel. And the thing is, I could write a novel. I really could. But I don't know what it'd be about.

"That's okay!" you NaNoWriMo enthusiasts might say. "You don't have to have a plot. Just write!"

"Sorry. I threw around plot ideas like popcorn kernels over the past year and I've yet to come up with anything fruitful or novel-worthy."

"But but but but--"

"No buts. Not doing it. You can't make me."

"...But merch. You could have a sticker."

Tempting, really. Because stickers. But I just couldn't. I don't have the discipline to write a novel in 30 days when I don't know what to do with it. That didn't work for me last year, and it won't work for me this year. Maybe I'll write some short stories, since the fact of the matter is that I do miss writing something fierce. That writing bug has gotten under my skin for ages, and it's yet to be satiated. Help?

In other, Halloween-y news, we've had the ca-yootest band of goblins invade our front porch: pirates, ladybugs, miniature witches, a tiny Spidey, Princess Jasmine, a pop star, a ninja that had a persistent sniffle. A regular onslaught, I'll tell ya.