One week.

One week to nanowrimo. Now is when I have to face the fact that I have got to edit as ruthlessly in my own life as I do in my own prose. Where on earth did this self-righteous desire to be good at so god damn much come from? I ran three marathons and 2 half marathons last year. I became a cerfified yoga teacher and perfected my wobbly half-moon pose. I volunteered at the book fair and the fifth grade car wash. I taught a two week poetry unit to my son's fifth grade class. I thought about becoming a bowler because I went bowling twice. I made 47 pairs of earrings during the holidays. I made my own Christmas cards and read a book on container gardening. Last night, while watching Vendetta, I crocheted a hat. Liz, my dear, November is coming and you've got to omit. omit. and omit some more. What makes you think you're so special anyway? You only made it just over 30,000 last year and you were separated. Being separated has got to be an advantage in noveling.
Family matters. Being a good parent matters. If I didn't practice yoga I wouldn't make it through the month with my sanity. And, there's no freakin' way I could give up running. I could give up work, but then I wouldn't have a job, so I guess that has to stay too. The rest goes. Nathan can have Thanksgiving dinner. I'll do the dishes afterward. I'm determined to make it this year WITHOUT giving one of my characters a stutter.