Well. November is ‘National Novel Writing Month’.
And I do need to get down to it and at least *try* to attempt to write a lot of words that may or may not someday shape themselves into what might be construed as a related mass of thoughts with a beginning, a middle and an end. It’s time to write a book.
I write, and write. I write on topics eclectic and far-ranging. I fulfill projects other people dictate. I write here on this blog. I write contest articles in my spare time.
But a novel… my own. Why can’t I ever seem to start?
Update: Actually, I know the answer to that one.
I sense that the effort will be just that, an effort. The foundation of the story will be too sparse and anticlimactic for all those words; the inner drama and emotion will make a mountain out of a molehill. My words will be lyrical enough that those close to me will admire the turns of phrase and may not know how to tell me what’s wrong with it.
The finished product will be ludicrous and self-indulgent. It will represent wasted time.
And wasting time seems to be okay with me if I’m not *trying* to produce something.
My real question, the one I don’t already know the answer to is this: Do alfalfa sprouts have any nutritional value to speak of? Or are they just sandwich-filler fluff?
They look like lettuce sperms.