NaNo Confession No. 1: I have not been writing every day. I feel bad about this -- and like I've made more work for myself in the process, but I am still on track to make 50k in a month.

NaNo Confession No. 2: I covet princessstarr's word count.

NaNo Confession No. 3: This is the first time that I've done this, and I'm ridiculously proud of myself for how much I've done this week, and I'm totally amped to do more. I'm also really terrified of letting myself down, and I get really mad when I hear this asshole in the back of my brain tell me, "It's no big deal if you don't finish your novel in a month. That's kind of a crazy-ass timeline."

Yes. It is. But this is also the first time I've actually broken the five-chapter barrier, know where I'm headed and am still confident in my characters and plot.

That said, I thought I was going to have time to post the chapters as I write them because I'm a total n00b. I don't know where I'm breaking the chapters off yet, so that first little taste I posted a few days ago will have to do you for awhile. Basically, my goal for right now is to just get 'er done wrote. I'll figure out the sharing and beta-ing later.

NaNo Confession No. 4: Ok, honestly, I was totally burned out when I came home from work today. I didn't want to write. I couldn't focus. I didn't know how to begin this chapter, and I didn't want to force out crap writing just for the sake of a word count. I was cranky. I was worried about the deadline, and whether or not I'd be able to write later if the roommates came home.

So, I did what my magazine writing professor always said to do when you have writer's block. I got a cookie. I had a cigarette. I went to the bathroom, and as I was plucking my eyebrows I suddenly screamed, "BUTTERFLIES!," sprinted to my computer, and wrote 677 words. Thank you for the excellent advice, Pam. Oh, and what the hell, right brain? Seriously, where did the butterflies even come from? Why did there need to be butterflies? I am confused by you and your butterfly key.

NaNo Confession No. 5: I suspect that, while in the throes of bursting through the cold ice of writer's block like a glorious phoenix, I also scared the everliving crap out of our bulldog, because she won't come near me now even though I have a bed.

Don't let the subject of this entry throw you. It's totally true. They fart all the time, and it reeks. I'm talking borderline toxic gas. It's noxious, at the very least.

Anyway, the move of doom is almost entirely over, and we has the tubes! Alas, the Humboldt Abode is officially a thing of the past. The end of that truly epic era came on October 1st, and there was almost no rejoicing. In fact, my little ducky boat sank and there will probably be a lot of cussing coming when Faith and I have to confront Sela on the ridiculous "damage" demands they have made.

Anyway, life in the new spot -- which I have christened "The Manic Attic" -- with Mick has been going swimmingly, with one major exception. Jorge has pretty much kicked it. So, if you're thinking to yourself, "Geez, Shelby. If you've got the tubes in your hizzy, why the shit aren't you filling my friends list with snark?" The answer is this: Mah shit dun broke.

Overall, this is not surprising. That laptop is 1) a Gateway, 2) a P.O.S. with a penchant for eating motherboards, 3) from 2002. Frankly, we've had a good run. So, now that he has decided he will only suffer being on and active for an hour at a time, I need to conserve whatever is left of his miserable existence until I can get a new computer and transfer all my files before they are lost forever in a melted pile of debris.

So, I will be limping along and borrowing Mick's computer until I can get a new lappy. He keeps saying he's going to buy me one for Christmas because he wants his computer to remain his and not have a zillion things downloaded on it -- which I can totally respect. Also, I hate desktops. They remind me too much of work and I pine for the days of endless comment-discussions during TV shows. I know which laptop I want, and it's cheap as far as laptops go, but I am broke as a joke. Journalism ain't no pro-ball career.

How are yoooooooooou?