It's crazy, I know. But I did it. I've gone and committed the next thirty days to "writing a novel." Hmmm. What constitutes a novel starting from zip to finito in thirty days is any one's guess. According to the organizers of this literary marathon, November is National Novel Writing Month. To join the 150,000 writers and wanna-bes already signed up for this ruckus, all you have to do is post 50,000 words of your choosing onto their site by midnight, November 30th.
Writing 50,000 words in a month amounts to 1667 words a day. Seems doable. Sort of. As long as I don't take the exercise too seriously. No turning back. No editing. No agonizing over just the right word in just the right place.
I look at it this way: it's novel writing -- as opposed to writing a novel. Anything goes. Anything can happen. It's not a contest. It's a personal challenge. There are no prizes for the "best" or the fastest or the "longest" 50,000-words. And I assure you, no one will be reading or judging my words, unless I say so, and care to share them at some point in time. As of this moment, I don't have a story that needs to be told burning in my soul. All I have is this notion, an impulse to just wing it. A wild turtle crossing, indeed.
Video Source: My thanks to pwoehiker on YouTube. Google "turtle crossings" and you get plenty of pix, videos and stories from turtle-lovers on the road to everywhere. The rare creature in the video looks to me like a tortoise with hare legs. Who knew turtles could walk about on all fours like that? And notice: he's (or she's) not only crossing at top turtle-speed, but turning. Up the road, heading off into the sunset. Suicidal? Or a free spirit? Turtles know where they're going.