I’m only eleven days in and already, I’m so sick and tired and frustrated over this book that if I were to spit on the ground, it wouldn’t even freeze.
This is a very powerful statement; I should probably have mentioned that it’s actually pretty cold here in Boston. I spotted my first frozen spit of the season just yesterday, on Newbury Street. So really, you should be awfully impressed that my frustration with my NaTeUnNoWriMo is so intense that it can have an actual metabolic effect.
Though actually, now that I think about it, my frustrations with my NaTeUnNoWriMo are so extreme that I’ve been hitting the Stoli pretty heroically over the past 26 hours. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my tongue and all of the other tissues in my mouth have sopped up so much alcohol since yesterday that my spit has has picked up some of the properties of antifreeze.
So it might actually have more to do with nascent alcoholism than enduring frustration. I don’t know which explanation to endorse.
Okay, well, which one do you think makes me seem more like one of those ancient, tortured souls capable of creating works of cruel, intense power and enduring genius? I know that drinking a hell of a lot used to be the most direct path towards literary gravitas. Suicide is also a winner, but frankly, I don’t care about this book anywhere near enough to blow my brains out over it.
Actually, I have a can of Diet Decaffeinated Coke downstairs, left over from when one of my aunts came over to visit a month ago. I suppose I’m just emotionally-involved enough in the quality of this novel to drink a commercial soft drink that I don’t personally enjoy.
Most of the can. Not all of it, surely.
Screw it. I’ll pour the Diet Coke down the drain and just say that I drank it. When the film crew from “American Masters” is piecing together my life story twenty years from now, they’ll never know the difference.
I have it on good authority that Ernest Hemingway didn’t actually stick a shotgun in his mouth, either. He just licked the terminals of a 9-volt battery. When he discovered that the news of his “death” had sent sales through the roof and cemented his reputation as a tormented genius, he wisely decided to just shave off his beard and spend the rest of his life fishing.
Damn, the man was good.
Day 11. Words written: 1,512.