I wonder if anyone of the legions of NaNoWriMo writers is writing a novel about . . . NaNoWriMo?

Wow. If only I’d thought of that . . . 17 days ago!

If I had . . .

Day 17.

It’s turned colder, and as I sit at my computer I notice that the last leaves have fallen from the river birch in the front yard.

I can see the neighbor’s house across the street.

With the leaves down, I can see it clearly now for the first time in months.

Nobody appears to be home.

Are they at work? Or perhaps simply hiding somewhere in the house, hiding from the chill damp of this gray November day?

I find myself unable to write. Unable to find inspiration. And I know why. There is nothing prime about Day 17: it’s a day lost in the middle, two days removed from the relief of the midway point but not far enough along to feel like the end — the final relief — is within grasp.

Yes, I still do my best to turn my pretty phrases. I must. I have no choice. If any of this is to be salvageable, I have no choice!

A slight breeze tosses  the leaves in the street.

I’ve moved to a place that is beyond prayer. Almost beyond thought.

Will anyone ever read these words?

Will anyone every read these words?

I sigh and get up to make another cup of coffee.