Subtitle: the end of the road.
Yes, I know, it’s tragic, I’m rubbish, I’m just giving up and I ought to be ashamed of myself.
Last Friday, my cat died. I then took a two-and-a-half hour car journey all night to visit my parents, who I never see, and spent Saturday in a muddy field watching my first, and I can only hope my last, game of rugby. On Sunday I watched Skyfall, which I know is all very fun, and then got back into the car for another 150 minute journey, which was clearly not.
I know. Excuses, excuses. I could have let everyone else go to the cinema without me, while I forced out 1667 words. Maybe I shouldn’t have even visited my parents.
On Monday, I came down with a cold. I know, pathetic, isn’t it? A cold. It doesn’t matter that my sinuses were agonising. That I couldn’t sleep at night. That I had three deadlines that week, not to mention that my entire Wednesday would be swallowed up by work training.
People get colds every year. It’s not the ‘flu. It’s not even food poisoning. It doesn’t matter that when I sneeze or cough particularly hard, my ribcage slams down into my abdomen, behind bits of body that it should definitely not be behind. It’s just a cold. You can’t stop writing a novel just because you’ve got a cold.
When I started this, I knew it was ambitious. I knew I was busy. I just didn’t realise how busy.
This morning, I tried coming into university to finish captioning my work. I knew it shouldn’t take more than an hour, but still I left with plenty of time. There was a traffic incident on the way in, which delayed me by 40 mins.
I then had a run-in with a particularly unpleasant little man.
I won’t give you the details, but he was a complete stranger, who was petty, aggressive and belittling. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking me there and then, but as I walked away, I started to panic. Hyperventilating and crying, the reality of how hard I have been working hit me.
There’s a challenge, and then there’s martyrdom. Goodbye, NaNoWriMo. Maybe we’ll meet again someday. But this is not my year.
This doesn’t mean I’ll never write a novel. I will. Try and stop me.