Forty-Seven Thousand, Nine Hundred Eighty-Eight To Go.

Today, I commenced upon the quest for a 50,000 word novel in thirty-one days.

So far, it’s leaning toward the autobiographic. But don’t worry, you won’t be represented in this one. Don’t know if I can swear to that for the next one. If there is a next one.

This is my promise: Barring some debilitating catastrophe, if I can’t meet the 50,000 word deadline by 11:59 P.M., December 31, I’ll hang up my writing cap for good — no, I’ll burn it. If I don’t make it, I’m going back to school to learn something practical. Like plumbing. Like tractor-truck driving (growing up, “BJ And The Bear” was one of my favorite TV shows). Or, like hotel-motel management. Or, I hear Halliburton’s still hiring. That’ll be good money and something to write home about. If I survive.


So, if I’m not here for a while, it means I’m too busy banging out the day’s word quota.

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