I went out to get beer last night and realized our house is the only one on the block with Halloween decorations still up. The skeleton on our door is getting real spider webs on it, the jack-o-lanterns are starting to sag, and the striped stockings on the mannequin legs sticking out from under our house are getting soggy and mud-stained. Yesterday was actually the first time I'd stepped outside since Halloween. I've been locked in the house, banging away at my computer. For the first time I'm seriously participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I must admit I got a late start. On Sunday I was so hungover my brain felt like mush, and I was unable to write anything. The night before we'd had a Halloween party at the house for the second year in a row. Last year got a bit too out of hand, but this year was just the right amount of crazy. For instance, this year my roommate, Devo, who has the alcohol tolerance of an eight-year-old girl, puked on our walkway outside and in the fucking shower. That's bad, right? But last year he puked on the carpet in our living room in the precise spot where I normally put my feet while sitting on the couch. Now I have to wear shoes while watching television.

This year I was dressed as a poor man's Bacchus (aka Dionysus) in a toga and a makeshift head wreath made from a marijuana necklace I got from the Seattle Hemp Fest when I was in college. I drank massive quantities of boxed wine from a goblet and occasionally yelled “Bacchus!” Last year, inspired by Ann Romano's “One Day at a Time” column in the Portland Mercury,  I shaved my head and dressed up as Britney Spears, complete with flip-flops, a short denim skirt, and “666” written on my forehead. I embodied the spirit of Britney for the night. I referred to myself in the third person and called everyone “bitch.” At the end of the night when I was kicking out the last douchebag guest who wouldn't take a hint and leave, I grabbed the glass of water out of his hand and dumped it on his head, screaming, “GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY HOUSE! GET OUT!” Then I lifted up my skirt, took my penis out, and shook it at him while his girlfriend watched in horror. To be honest, I think she has a thing for me now.

Anyway, so now I'm a day behind on NaNoWriMo. What is National Novel Writing Month, you ask? Well, it is what it sounds like. If you check out nanowrimo.org, which is so overrun with traffic right now it takes forever to load, you'll discover a community of writers all going ape shit over the thing. The idea is that we all tend to put off writing our great novel indefinitely, because no one ever has the time. The only way you're ever going to get the thing done is by imposing a deadline and forcing yourself to do it no matter how grueling the process is. NaNoWriMo challenges you to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. After registering, which is free, you log onto the site each day and record your word count. You can then look at a chart to see where you're at in comparison to where you should be. That way I can clearly see what an utter failure I am on a daily basis.

I've never written a novel before. Writing this blog and various other short stories and journalistic pieces over the years has made me focus on getting straight to the point and wrapping the fucker up within a page or two. I also haven't written a purely fictional story since... junior high? Basically I'm doomed to fail, but I'm determined to do this thing anyway, and in the end it can only make me a better writer. We can only hope.