I stayed up to 4 AM writing last night. I wrote 9,098 words. And I would've kept writing if Mark didn't have to get up to go to work, and if we weren't leaving for Leesville tonight. My fingers are numb. I'm dehydrated. I have no creative prose left in me. How cool would it have been to write 10,000 words in a sitting? I'm thinkin' maybe I should've kept pushing just so I could say I did it. But there's always another day left in the month. For the rest of the month-- Day/Word Goal Wednesday: 500 Thursday: 0 Friday: 5,000 Saturday: 7,500 Sunday: 5,000 Monday: 5,000 Tuesday: 5,000 This should bring me up to 100,000 words on my NaNo novel this year--double the goal. It really makes me wonder. Granted, the writing is a buncha crap. I spent maybe 1,000 words describing what a person does when they see a cockroach crawling on the ceiling...cockroach cootie dance...hoping it doesn't crawl away in the time it takes you to go grab a shoe or something to kill it...hoping you kill it the first time you hit it...how they totally disappear under a dresser or into a crack when you do miss it...how you don't get any sleep for the rest of the night because you don't want that thing crawling over your face while you're sleeping. See? Piece o' cake. I don't even think about what I'm writing, really. I just write. Last night, my main characters got paid for being skanks in a Skid Row music video, they pawned all their electronics, donated plasma, and robbed a bank with French Toast pantyhose on their heads. They ate biscuits and gravy and a skillet at Denny's. They burned a hole in their quilt, and one of them drooled on herself and spilled coffee in her lap when the other one jerked the wheel of the car a little too hard. They spent the night in a Best Western, had breakfast at Denny's again, and now they're killing time in WalMart in the toy section. It sure isn't a Pulitzer, but it'll be a fun read ten years from now.