I'm not gonna lie. As of this writing, I'm roughly 5,000 words short of my benchmark.

This week was a bear, what with taking care of business around the Orphanage in preparation for my move, putting in extra hours at the college, and partying my balls off all weekend. I did do some major novel-writing Wednesday — Veteran’s Day — morning, but took a break for a booty call around one and never got back to it. But I figure it was a writerly distraction and good for the soul. Or something.

I found a loophole in my moratorium on internet hook-up sites, as you may have surmised.  I mean, booty calls don't just materialize out of thin air these days, do they? The loophole?  You guessed it: craigslist. It’s a lot pervier than Manhunt, if you can imagine. It took me about a month to vet this kid, but it was worth it. 28 year-old Brazilian with an unbelievable body, if not the most sympathetic face (it grows on you, a little, but not much I have to say). He was all muscle, and shaved up front, but left the fur on his bum, and, my word, what a bum it was. One for the ages, boys.

Because I was just talking about this, I figure I should mention it: He claimed to have a big ol' Levi Johnston – “9.7” he wrote (the “.7” has a nice ring of verisimilitude, dunnit?) — I never asked, by the way, because I know the answer bears no relationship to reality anyway. But he volunteered it. And I was thinking, “Gawd I hope he’s not talking inches.” He did not state any unit of measurement, so for all I know he may have been ranking it on a scale of 1-10 (and it was a beauty – I don’t know if it was a 9.7 – I’d probably give it a 9.3, but then I'm very particular). 

If it was inches, all I'll say is: if he’s a 9.7 then I’m a ten. And I’m not going to lie: I’m not. If I was I would be famous – er, more famous.

Why do men do it? I don’t give out my measurements, personally, but if I did I’d probably lie, too. How can anyone tell the truth nowadays? I mean, advertised penis size has become so inflated.  Back in the day, guys didn't put that in personal ads — even in alternative papers.  There was nowhere to talk about it.  Now it's all people talk about.  And, as everybody knows, with rare and wonderful exceptions the more people talk the more they lie. 

This Brazilian had so much going on, he didn't need to lie, but it's really not about necessity so much as nature. Omnis homo mendax. 

Anyway, afterwards I couldn’t possibly do any writing. I had to, first of all, have a huge meal, with an epic nap to follow. Just like in caveman days. And lemme tell ya, it doesn’t get better than that. Civilization is so overrated.

Point being, I am playing some serious catch-up, and I'm going to probably have to spread it out over the whole next week.  And if you think banging out 1,700 words a day is tough, try 3,400.

And because I find myself writing a good deal more dialogue than description, I'm not getting much bang for my buck, I'm afraid. I’m thinking part of my process with NaNoWriMo once I max out on plot, will be to go back and add some more detailed description.

Here's a little of what I banged out last week...

There were three bedrooms upstairs. Stuart knew exactly where to go, tapped on the door, and went in. Madam Csurka was curled up in bed, her back to them.

Stuart sat on the edge of the bed and gently touched her side.

“What’s this?” he said, sounding for the first time genuinely warm. “What’s the matter?”

Madam Csurka mumbled: “I’ve had a bit to dwink... a few too many dwinkie-winkies...”

“But you should come down. Magnus is about to play.”

“No!” She protested.

Stuart jostled her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he demanded. “You’re always drunk, so I know it’s not that!”

“Leave me be, Stuart!” she shook him off.

“Stuart—“ Addy entreated quietly.

“What’s wrong?” Stuart demanded again.

“I’m OLD!” Madam Csurka bellowed. I don’t want to go downstairs because I’m OLD!”

She broke into sobs.

Stuart jostled her again and bellowed back: “Well, you’ve been old a long time to all the sudden decide you’re not going downstairs on account of it!"

Madam Csurka finally turned to face them, and sat up in bed.

“Oh, hello, Addy,” she said, wiping her eyes.

Addy smiled uncomfortably.

“You know I was quite beautiful once.”

“You’re still beautiful,” Stuart murmured, almost embarrassed.

“Do you really think so?” Madam lit up, taking a framed black and white wedding photo off her nightstand. “As beautiful as the girl in this picture?” 

Stuart rolled his eyes. He seemed impatient. Addy sensed they had been through this before.

“You are the girl in that picture.”

Madam Csurka held the photo up and pretended to search it in vain for evidence of the truth of Stuart’s claim.

"No," she said resolutely. 

Addy had moved in closer, curious to get a look at the photo himself.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Madam Csurka said, holding the picture out to him.

Addy looked at it and then back at her. He could still see the young woman there somewhere beneath the haggard mask, but just barely. And the truth was the young Madam Csurka was stunning. And the man at her side had the same raw magnetism and animal intensity as the pictures he had seen the night before of Uncle Ivan when he was young. Young people nowadays didn’t seem to look that way – at least they didn’t look that way into the camera lens. These young men, from the fifties, looked defiant. There was nothing remotely solicitous in their gaze. They fairly glared at the camera. Mademoiselle Csurka beamed from the photo, a happiness so pure it, too, seemed defiant. It seemed to him that they must have been very much in love, like no one else had ever been, and by the looks of it, very proud of the fact.

“What happened to your husband?” Addy ventured.

“Dead,” she moaned. “Of a stroke.  Just two years after this picture was taken."

Addy gasped.

"Yes," Madam Csurka sighed.  "Horrible, horrible."

They all gazed at the picture.

"But what a smashing couple we made on that day," Madam Csurka said lovingly, running her fingers over the glass. "Wasn’t she lovely? Before gravity had begun its cruel march down her face, and her bright eyes! Not like these two peeholes in the snow. I feel as if I’ve got a sack over my head, or should have!  How could anyone love me now?”

Stuart groaned.

"Why, I'm positively grotesque!" she declared.

“Yes, it’s true!” Stuart finally burst out. “She was beautiful! But if she were here today she wouldn’t give me the time of day!  She wouldn't give any of us the time of day!  She wouldn't even give you the time of day!”

Madam Csurka patted his hand consolingly.

“Of course you’re right,” she smiled up at Addy. “Stuart is often right. But so much the worse for her, silly girl that she was, blind as she was, vain as she was.”

“So are you coming down?” Stuart asked flatly.  He could guess the answer 

“No, I don’t think I will, Stuart, darling," Madam Csurka chirruped.  "But you young people enjoy yourselves.”

On their way back downstairs Stuart rolled his eyes again and said: “She was more beautiful and glamorous than anyone I know, and I know that when she looks at me, at us, at all of us, that’s all she can think about – how much more beautiful and glamorous they all were than any of us."

He stopped on the stairs.

"What happened to people?”

Addy shrugged.

I have had a couple of surprises, plotwise, but no major twists yet. They do tend to sneak up on you, and when they do it can be incredibly energizing, as if the Frankenstein’s Monster is finally twitching to life.

I do like the idea of just banging it out.  But it's another one of those things — the wry conceit of NaNoWriMo is that wordcount counts — but as with Brazilian boy parts, in the end it's just a number.  Still, it does motivate you to go through with it.  So even if I fall behind — even if it looks like I won't ultimately "win" NaNoWriMo by reaching the vaunted 50,000 words by midnight on the 30th (and I'm not saying I won't) — I'll keep banging it out until the end of the month.  Then we'll see how big it really is.