It is the last day of November and thus of NaNoWriMo. I have 8,000 words to go, and if I buckled down right now and did not stop until five minutes before midnight, I probably could meet the quota.
I used to feel guilty about everything, particularly quitting (no–actually, particularly everything), and so, because I felt surprisingly not guilty about quitting now, with the end so closely in view, I started to feel guilty about not feeling guilty, and so I took a very unscientific poll over on Facebook to see if I could gauge if what I was, well, not feeling was legitimate or something. The responses were pretty evenly divided right down the middle, but, not that I’m rating my friends or anything, I suddenly felt much stronger kinship with the ones who said, “Don’t sweat it–there are more important things.”
I had to pick my Paul up from the doctor’s earlier this afternoon (yeah, he’s fine), and told him about all this. First he said, “You’re so close. Just do it.”
Then he said, “What do you get if you do it?”
“A little badge to put on my blog?” I said.
“Oh,” said Paul. “So . . . it’s kind like FarmVille.”
After I stopped laughing, I decided that instead of writing another 8,000 words, I am:
1. dialoguing with my latest seminary about classes and loans and coming to the delighted realisation that unless something crazy happens like my getting diagnosed with cancer again, I should be able to pay off my classes each year.
2. laughing at my husband’s inappropriate medical humour.
3. working up a new pitch for Favored One.
4. getting reacquainted with this blog.
5. going out to eat with my Paul and some delightfully curmudgeony Now-Church folks. (We like curmudgeons. It’s what we aspire to.)