Where did all this rope come from?

PSA: Googling the simple two word phrase "holding back" WILL net you a goodly number of Rule 34. I'm just sayin'.

It's the second day of NaNoWriMo, herein to be called NANO, or NaNo, for the obvious reason that it's less clunky and good lord, I'm dealing with enough clunky of my own making right now.

Thirty days, 50,000 words. Average 1667 words a day, you're gold. You win. Winning being completing the first draft, or 50,000 words of your first draft. After my first day of writing 1804 words I'm wondering how people cram a whole book into fifty thousand words. I have just two scenes and they need extensive addition. My inspiration comes to me in dialogue mostly and that's how I'm going to plow through, so lots and lots and lots of scene setting will need to be added later.

Oh my gods, wanting to go back and edit. Getting the dialogue and emotional junk down is the "easy" part. Not going back to add scenery and tweak the dialogue to perfection is kill-ing me. But if I did that I'd have perhaps four scenes by months end. And four scenes ain't a book. Unless you're super skilled and I, as yet, am not.

Pictured: Not me, but it's definitely how I feel, holding myself back from editing.

The above is apparently Killian Jones playing Captain Hook in Once Upon A Time. I never saw Killian (whose name I am stealing for my lists) because I didn't watch past the second season. Not because it wasn't good (Robert Carlyle as Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold is gloryful) but because I just can't seem to get the hang of television anymore, even on DVD.

My fictional writer declines to come out and play first thing in the morning, even with story notes to embellish. The caffeine must permeate the layers of my brain to the core to flip the fiction switch. But I have the need to hear the clickety-clack, so a blog entry does not go amiss. Stream-of-consciousness self-examinational bullshit is easy at six am. Fortunately I'm fortunate in the fact that today is Monday and I have plenty of free time, needing only to stop occasionally to switch over the laundry, My wonderful husband is all-the-way-May supportive of my dream to become a writer, but he does need work clothes to go to his job which pays the bills until I become slightly rich and a teensy bit famous. Really I'd settle for just earning what I earn now, but writing instead of being an licensed massage therapist.

Anyway, there's laundry and I should get some pell practice in at some point and dear god, the cat just laid a stink bomb in her pan and it's wafting over my desk as I type. I have to go clean that (literal) shit up stat.