Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

I just realized it's December, and that means NaNoWriMo's over. In case you're wondering, that's an annual month devoted to writers - they write 1500 words every day in November, and by the end of it, voila, they've a book. Or enough content for one anyway, even if some of it's arbit.

As it turns out, I wasn't even keeping track this year, but here we are at the end of the month and, coincidentally, I do in fact have a book, all 200+ pages of it. And no, unfortunately or otherwise, you can't read it, it was an entirely for-a-specific-person project. That said, this still means a lot to me because it's the first I've ever finished.

It's not the greatest of reads, but it does, I suppose, have heart. Plus, of course, the grammar and spelling's in place. It's fairly readable. Rather funny. Ok, what the hell, it's better than some things I've read, though that could be 'cos I enjoy reading crap. That said, it's not the best I've ever read. Faaar from it.

All that does, however, is inspire me to write another. I keep thinking of plots in the night, while I'm cooking, or walking home, or just before I sleep. Invariably the good ideas are gone by the time it's morning. Someday I'll have the good sense to carry around a notepad at all times. When that happens, you'll have a novel you do get to read.