9 days into NaNoWriMo

and I've yet to set pen to paper, or finger to keyboard.

This would be the third year in a row that I've known about this project and yet, despite my write-y inclinations, done nothing about it. Conclusion: there is something wrong with my brain.

I spent four hours on a train yesterday and took my notebook with me, thinking that my travel-numb brain would welcome the chance to churn out literary gems by the dozen. Sadly, I found in the end that I preferred re-reading The Road (not On The Road, you understand, which is the polar opposite of The Road) for the umpteenth time since I bought it two weeks ago. When I got bored of that I got into re-arranging my scarf. I really need a new scarf because mine is more of a lightweight desert affair which doesn't hang properly, but I can't find any that suit my personality as much as the current woven green one I bought in Cambodia. But that's beside the point.

What I am supposed to do? Now I'm 15,000 words behind schedule and yes, at uni that would only have been the work of one-and-a-half allnighters. But at uni I had a support network of people who were doing exactly the same thing and no I have no support network.

At least I haven't told everyone at work about doing it this year. At least my failure doesn't let anyone else's inflated expectations down.