So, it’s now day 8 of my war with NaNoWriMo. It’s not going well. These bastards just keep writing and writing, and it seems nothing will halt them. They scribble words on a sheet of paper, tap their little keys on a keyboard. Tappity tap tap tap. With wide, maniacal grins, they whip through page after page, and it seems as if they’ll stop at nothing.
“No!” I want to scream. ”It’s folly!”
Worse, they’ve gained a valuable ally. A deep, thick beard sprouts from his face, and his booming laughter fills a room. He smells a little of sweat, mingled with the tangy scent of an expensive shampoo, and his Jhoss Whedon t-shirt does nothing to damp it. He’s Patrick Rothfuss–cue melodramatic cult-following mania now.
Worse than even that, he’s the one single writer I admire above all others. I’d bear this man’s man-babies, and my wife knows it. She’s come to accept it, which is good for the relationship.
“Why, Pat!” I yell to the heavens, and their silence mocks my cry. ”Why hath you abandoned me!”
In other news, he’s also selling a fucking kickass calendar. Check it, yo.
Buy it here.
And now, I’m going to leave the keyboard and have myself a nice cry.