Well, I've managed to finish week one of National Novel Writing Month, despite being hugely busy with apartment hunting, work, and my ever-exciting sex-life.  Actually just with work and apartment hunting.  I skipped novel writing Friday, because I couldn't get to it in the a.m., and wanted to go out pubbing in the evening.  Writers have to drink, too.

Now is actually where it starts getting interesting, because I'm realizing five chapters in that I may not have a full-size novel on my hands here.  But I was thinking about it late last night as I lay in bed wide awake due to an incredibly ill-advised eight o-clock double espresso, and I've decided that if need be I'll add unicorns, fairies, vampires, whatever it takes to thicken the plot.

I mean, I happen to like short novels, myself.  Take a writer like John Barth — his first two books, The Floating Opera and The End of The Road were trifles compared to his next two: The Sot-Weed Factor and Giles Goat-Boy, and while they're apples and oranges, I have to say I liked the first two better.  Which is not to say shorter books are better than longer ones in general, just where John Barth is concerned.  

I'll soldier on, though. An alien invasion is looking likely in chapter six.