Morning break: called out to deal with server issues. Returned to a call for help with email; user was off line. Took one more try at break; boss ran in requiring newly formatted print outs, an act which he repeated three times in 15 minutes, as he was unable to communicate his needs even by pointing and grunting. Gave up on break at 11:00

Lunch: Called out for officer of the company who was unable to access email; he was off line. While I was handy (vulnerable) the officer of company asked me to provide him with subcontract (not my job) and to fill out forms for subcontract request (not my job); I provided him with forms and 5 minute instruction in their use. Walking out of parking lot, was called back for server room keys. Keys not returned, which would result in my being locked out of office. Could not leave until 12:25. Approached for Quickbooks issues that needed resolution for 1:00 meeting. Accepted 20 minute lunch and determined to be indolent and useless during the rest of the work day.

I can hardly wait for afternoon break. Grph.

Scapegoat has a roadmap. I envision 16 chapters, I know what happens in them, there are three distinct acts (and an overture), and the goats have all been fed and prepped.

I am planning to write 1,930 words daily (or more) so that I can take a day off each week. Not that I think I should plan to take a day off, but I note (looking back over the last two weeks) that I do take a day off each week, whether I will it or not. May as well plan for my known behaviors, rather than my wished-for behaviors.

*checks clock*

Is it November, yet?

On NaNoWriMo, I am ossian.

That is all.

I hit 30,000 words over the weekend — in spite of losing an entire day to Sim City by sitting down to it before lunch and looking up at 5:00 — and have set it aside so I can scribble out a roadmap for Scapegoat.

Or ScapeGoat. Or The Scapegoat Gambit. Or even Love’s Scapegoat.

Escapegoat. Something.

Scapegoat. Right.

No plot.

I have a lovely opening scene (any story that starts with an exploding goat has something going for it), and I think I know that the book ends with a siege and magical carnage and true love winning out in a very Gilbert and Sullivan sort of way. And I know that, if PG Wodehouse had written The Black Company, this book would bear it a haunting resemblance.

So. I should make certain there are tangled skeins of romantic thread lying about. And everyone should have a reason to be very angry at the protag, and many of the reasons should be, at best, spurious.

*blinks*

Question for the Brain Trust: Is the common Wodehouse subplot –

A and B love one another
A and B cannot be together because of C (and perhaps D, who supports C and has authority over A)
A and B both blame the protag for C’s actions and D’s pig-headishness, and look to him (the protag) for resolving the crisis
D blames the protag when A and B are together, and C threatens the protag with bodily harm –

?

Then, of course, Jeeves finds a way (Jeeves always finds a way) so that A and B can be together, C supports it, and the protag has to step lively and get out of town before the blokes with the sacks of feathers get together with the fellows with the tar pot, and come to discuss what’s fashionable in mob apparel. Frequently with an aunt leading the parade and waving a torch.

Right, then. I gauge that, under the current weather condtions, no less than two romances will be needed. Perhaps 2 and a half.

And goats. Lots of goats. Clearly.

EDIT — I have the broad outlines of plot. The world is a brighter place, and I find that I have faith in my ability to traverse this next month’s pass. I just remembered; I know how to write. I can do this.

Novelling progress, for those who enjoy watching train wrecks as they happen.

I have, over the last 15 months, alone and with help, removed pretty much all of my “I’m not writing because…” statements. Removed them to such a point that, for the past week, it is easier for me to write (even when exhausted or overworked or whatever) than it is to make excuses. I am not even afraid of NaNoWriMo.

Sort of.

I discovered yesterday that I am in the grip of a peculiar horror. I am deeply, deeply afraid of December 1. In December I will have a finished draft of one novel, and half of another novel in my hands with thirty easy days of writing left to do. When I succeed at NNWM (for such is my mindset, these days, that I can say “when” in a matter-of-fact way) I will have dispensed with even pretending that I can stall.

Two. Drafts. And rewriting takes me less time than writing.

The future is upon me. It looms, a shadowed figure in my doorway, holding gifts in its clawed hands that I dare not name nor look upon, for fear that I lose everything that I have known in my life and be swept away by that horror that I can only call “Happiness”.

And, no shit, kiddies, this is frightening.

I know how to be frustrated. I know how to be overburdened and put upon and unfulfilled. I know all there is about sacrificing dreams on alters so diminutive one must annex them to hold the shed blood. I have limited experience in exploring my dreams productively.

What if I have to take joy in my daily work?

What then?

I expressed some of this to Shannon, and told her it was Pre Novel Syndrome. I should be better once I’m in rewrites, once I’m moving forward from this threshhold.

“PNS? You have PNS? Well I wish you’d just bleed it out and get it over with.” She was utterly failing not to laugh at my fears.

I glowered. “But it cramps.”

She kissed my forehead. “We’ll buy you a heating pad.”