I am checking in because I received an email from my husband requesting I post. He even gave me topics. He must be bored. I, on the other hand, am anything but bored. Guess what I've got? Over 50, 000 words and counting in less than a month. Why can't NaNoWriMo be in August instead of November? It is quite possible 48000 of those words are total crap, but they are mine and I like 'em.
You know that squirmy feeling you get when you've worked really hard on creating something? When you pour all of your passion and heart into it, drowning in your own enthusiasm whenever you (not so casually) mention the project to friends (or complete strangers) who invariably give you the stink eye after ten minutes of your gushing? I've got that squirmy feeling- I think it is happiness*, but as I near the end of the first draft process, and prepare myself for someone to read this, I get another feeling altogether. I want to throw up.
I'm still knitting that second sock, it is mocking me from the dusty little corner I left it in. I fear it will start speaking to me when I walk by like the man eating plant in Little Shop of Horrors. I can hear it now, the merino begging,"knit me, Heather" as the kitchen lights dim and a chorus begins to sing duwop from the pantry. I need to finish that sock before it finishes me.
* I think there should be a happiness test, like a pregnancy test:
two lines- delirious
(They could sell them in two packs for the skeptics and the schizophrenics.)