Day One - oh, wait - Nine

Yeah, yeah. Have a laugh. Let it out. I'll wait.

Good? Okay, let's delve into my first real NaNoWriMo blog of 2011!

It's now midnight and I have written a whopping 333 words today! Woo! I'm feeling a strange combination of jubilant and pathetic. 333 words is typically a 20 minute word race if I stay focused. Yet I've spent hours and hours writing those suckers. Isn't this how it always is, though? I care too much at the beginning and not enough at the end.

And I'm pretty sure Creative Writing classes are ruining me. I simply can't write a bad sentence (in my actual works; blogs are taken less seriously (aren't you lucky!)). I write and then read and then re-read and then re-write and then read the re-write and then re-write the re-write and then read the re-re-write and then re-read the re-re-write (can you tell I'm having fun with this?). This is an utter waste of time during NaNo.

SNAP OUT OF IT, GINA!

Time for snippets from day one! There's not much to pick from, so... here you go!

1. I never thought I’d be the one to write my own biography. The first and most pressing reason being that I imagined myself stone cold before my life became interesting enough to chronicle. Post-mortem fame is the simplest to achieve; all you have to do is stop breathing. And when you’re a) hopelessly single, b) scared of your own shadow, and c) a freelance biographer, fame runs from you faster than your good-at-everything older brother, mocking you the whole way to three school records and a shelf full of trophies in your father’s "off limits" office.

The very first paragraph! I hadn't planned it at all. I don't know how to feel. But hey, it's written!

2. Most biographies, whether auto- or otherwise, are written when the subject is either a) dead, b) dying, or c) full of themselves. I’m none of the above. I’m a twenty-six-year-old freelance biographer with college degrees in History and Religion, a middle-child complex, and a reputation similar to that of the cowardly lion—cute, likeable… pitied. I own a condo that smells eternally like birthday cake, which includes a thirteen-year-old Husky that howls every time I flush the toilet and a living room wall-papered with teetering book piles. Literally.

Unnamed narrator likes to make lists. I'm sensing OCD tendencies. Yeah, we'll run with that.

And that's that. I'm sleepy, so I'm going to bed. To the 49,667 words I have yet to write... Tomorrow, I'm coming for you.