Self punishment comes in many different forms, and this month I've decided to do it on a whole new format- by participating in National Novel Writing Month.

50, 000 words by midnight on the 31st.

Brace yourselves, I'm going to be a bitch for the next month.


EDIT: It's now twenty to one in the morning, and I have changed my mind about my novel. I had characters, backgrounds, motivation and context for them, not to mention sort of a plot floating about in my head, but I've decided to cast that all to one side in favour of...
precisely no storyline, no background for my characters, no context or motivation for them- not that that matters since I have no plot, absolutely fuck all for them to be doing. I have, however, drunk exactly seven mugs of coffee. I have eaten three Ferrero Roches, and I've reached the stage where I no longer care that the chances of me spelling that wrong are high. I have had one heated debate with Stuart about whether they're posh or not- a debate that collapsed around my ears when I realised we were both batting for the same team. As it were.
Oh please, they're not posh.

In terms of the novel that I now have twenty-seven days left to write, I have one A4 page. That I intend to post. Maybe. I'm also seeing an overwhelming lack of a social life looming due to my masochistic insistence that I will do this, and do it well, god dammit, a probable diet consisting of coffee and chocolate, and an excessive amount of blog posts.