No, not my novel. That's as moribund as ever.
I mean my mini-laptop (i.e. the netbook). I finally got around to fixing it. Whew. They don't even make those anymore, which makes me sad. I don't want a tablet, damn it. A tablet propped up on a desk with a keyboard plugged in (and a mouse!?) is just silly. A regular laptop is too big for my tastes. And the high-end super-light super-thin laptops are too fancy and expensive for me, when all I want is something low-powered (I do NOT want to play games or watch movies on it!) to type on. The whole point is to keep it basic and with few distractions!
Yeah, so how's that working out?
Um. Right. Wasn't there some NaNo marathon going on today? Did I get lots of writing done?
Bwah ha ha ha ha ha!
No no no no no. And all the chocolate in the world isn't going to get me to write it any faster. (Actually, I want a gummibär. I used to be so addicted to them when I was in 6th grade. Recently I was reminiscing about it to my kids, which prompted me to buy a package, which just got me hooked all over again! D'oh!)
I only managed to get to 10000 words by typing in whatever random filler I could think of that was at all relevant to my story. Gah. This is the "found text" portion of my novel.
[from the notes of Marcus Zolti]
It is our perversity that dooms us. No matter how grotesque the infection, there will be those who deliberately seek it out, whether out of desire for personal gain or out of resentment or hatred of their fellows. Our estimates place that number at 0.03 of the population in peacetime. Under stress conditions such as war or natural catastrophe, that proportion may rise to as high as 0.1. (See the study by X and Y in 19xx, and that of Z in 19yy).
Once a critical point has tipped, we have no recourse but the most drastic measure, to cauterize the wound and discard that which is rotten beyond hope of cure. This dreadful fate has swallowed too many of our nations over the centuries, but by its nature means that history is left in ignorance.
In the case of Savaiki, an island of limited population and bounded by a natural barrier (the sea), an attempt was made to isolate all potential /collaborators/ in advance. The failure of this attempt is a sobering lesson for us all. All blood, toil, tears, and sweat were rendered useless when the resistance effort was spearheaded by none other than the primary candidate for /collaboration/ himself.
What the heck? It looks like a zombie apocalypse snuck itself into my novel. Either that or Marcus is talking about the Cybermen. Or some Unpronounceable Nasty from the Outer Darkness.
It's still more coherent than the next section, where I got really really tired of trying to think of things to write and did the whole madman-hiding-in-his-house routine. Ah well. Only 40000 words to go. Not sure if I'll finish this year. Only if I manage decent word counts this week. I may have to start holding things hostage against myself. Bah.