96th: It is unbecoming to stoop too much to one's meat. Keep your fingers clean and when foul, wipe them on a corner of your table napkin.
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29 November 2004
Yes, I did it. With a whole 2 days to spare (because tomorrow I am spending the day at a PhotoShop seminar and won't be able to think about this), I have completed the requisite 50,000+ words of this piece of crap that I set out to write.
Gone With the Wind it ain't, and don't anybody go begging and pleading to read it because even if I do ever decide to do anything with it (not likely), it would need a LOT of work before I'd even consider it. But it has a beginning, a middle, and an ending of sorts. It has sections that aren't too shabby and sections that I'd rather go to a firing squad before I'd admit I'd written them.
But good, bad or indifferent--and parts of it are all of these things--it is finished.
Yesterday, I knew I had a little less than 10,000 words to write. I got about 4,000 written yesterday and was determined I was going to sit here and just WRITE all day today.
As I write this journal entry, it is 2 p.m. and I am still in my night clothes, Sheila has not been to the dog park and is sighing a lot, I've barely spoken to Walt (who has--I think I heard him say--gone to his brother's house to spend the afternoon visiting with his mother before she returns to Santa Barbara). I think I've eaten. Of course I've eaten. What in the world would make me forget to eat?
But mostly I've just written and rewritten and added and subtracted and added some more. It seems to hang together.
And...hot damn...I actually DID IT!!
I didn't think I had a snowball's chance in hell of finishing this book when November started and I still didn't have a solid plot idea. The plot isn't entirely fiction, but then all writers start out writing about things they know, right?
Now all I have to do for the rest of the day is...write a review of A Christmas Carol, which we saw last night and then try to get some transcription done.
My brain is on keyboard overload at the moment.
It's too bad I don't have a bottle of champagne here, or I'd consider popping a cork and pouring myself a glass. But it would probably just give me heartburn anyway, so instead I'll have a glass of water and shake it up so it looks like it has bubbles in it.
I am now a kinda/sorta/almost writer.
I too can produce pulp fiction.
I too can produce crap.
I'm ready to look for a job with the National Inquirer. I am sure they need someone with my obvious talents.
Holy shit...I actually did it!
PHOTO OF THE DAY