As relationships go, this one’s crap.

It’s nothing more than stolen moments, paper-thin alibis — all take and no give. Yet I can deny her nothing. And I can’t shake her off.

Procrastination is my mistress.

She knows my weaknesses and plays them against me. She promises ease and delivers anxiety.

She walks in with time on her hands but she walks off with all my time, too.

It’s not her fault.

I can dither like nobody’s business. It’s practically my superpower.

***

This morning, we set the clocks back and got one precious hour of bonus time.

I slept through it.

###

The last time I braved the NaNoWriMo challenge, I prepped a little bit. I tucked a few characters, a couple plot ideas, under my belt. I tossed a back-up pound of coffee into my pre-NaNo pantry. These minimal preparations gave me just enough confidence to step out onto the noveling highwire.

Today, anticipating the long nights ahead, I secured my margin of safety on the coffee front: two extra packages of Seattle’s Best Breakfast Blend.

But characters, plot-lines and narrative whatnot? — this time I’m working without a net. I’ve got bupkus here.

And that may not be so bad.

Last time, I had my quirky cast all set to be drawn into a web of deadly international intrigue. I thought of them as little powder kegs, just waiting for the match to set them off on their blockbuster adventures.

Sadly, I made a fundamental, crushing mistake. I set the main action in Paris, a city — alas— I love too well. The City of Light became my novel’s undoing — a disastrous distraction for my characters.

Rather than stray into the path of oncoming calamity, my cast sat around in cozy bistros. They did not scramble to pit themselves against the rising tide of evil, they frowned over menus.

Lengthy meals became the norm. They refused to even consider their next move until after the cheese course. Calories they should have immolated clinging to life in some nail-biting scene, they burned up arguing over the wine list.

Longtime fiction writers know that characters can get away from you: they misbehave, they veer off their intended story arcs.

I got so frustrated with the endless table chatter — and astronomical bar tabs — I scrapped my plot outlines and chose vengeance over literature.

I had snipers fire into crowded restaurants hoping to drop at least one gabby gourmand out of the endless dining loop.

But it was too little, far too late.

While I lost about five pounds during NaNo, my characters reached the finish line gasping for a croque-monsieur to tide them over until the sequel.

I’ve learned my lesson.

No character gets so much as a stick of chewing gum this time. Not until they’ve clocked in some serious time cheating death or cheating on each other or otherwise pulling world-class drama onto the page.

And just to make sure we don’t see a slacker replay of the last outing, I’ve cut up all their credit cards.

###

My ever-practical sister and I have lurched through this dialogue so often I know it by heart. The conversation goes like this:

SHE: “Why would anyone want to do this?”

ME: “It’s a personal challenge.”

SHE: “Okay, but what’s the point?”

ME: “To write 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days.”

SHE: (sighing, rolling her eyes, AND waving dismissively) “I know that! What do you get for doing it?”

ME: “If you do it, you win.”

SHE: “You win what, exactly?”

ME: (giddy as a third grader who knows the answer) “Personal satisfaction!”

SHE: (eyebrows scrunching, does cartoon double-take) “What??”

(At this point, ME excuses myself and leaves the room.)

Admittedly, I do a piss-poor job of explaining all this to her. But you know how it is: she’s my youngest sister. Despite basking in the glow of my brotherly wisdom for years now, there’s no sign at all that she’s seen the light. She still thinks I’m a doof.

So be it. I rise in defense of doof-ish folly.

Every great stride, every boundary-bashing, limit-stomping achievement swept through old barriers when someone shrugged off “sensible” and embraced a carefree, “Why not?”

Gate-crashers make history, wallflowers don’t.

This November, NaNoWriMo (as it’s collegially known amongst us NaNos) celebrates its tenth year of joyfully pitching the hopeful and unwary into “30 days and nights of literary abandon.”

In real life terms, this is like checking yourself into a psych ward of your own making and locking the door behind you; a self-created reality show without the lovely parting gifts and fleeting celebrity spotlight. It’s crazy fun.

NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow. I’ll be blogging about it here and cross-posting at the Charleston City Paper’s arts blog, Unscripted, (thanks, John!)

Let’s get busy.

###