Writing a novel is haaaaaard.

Actually, okay. Writing a novel that focuses on the journey of an angst-ridden teen is hard, especially if you weren't particularly angst-ridden as a teen, and can barely muster a sustained funk as an adult. I'm too friggin' uncomplicated to write about angst, without having it become a parody. Which, in the case of this stupid novel, doesn't work.

So. I hate writing novels about angsty teens. I like the storyline just fine, but I hate the character. And her mama. And her friends. I hate them all. I don't want to spend any more of my life trying to make them sound clever, because they are all a bunch of drama queens, and everything that comes out of their mouths sounds pathetic.

I spit on you, stupid first NaNoWriMo novel!

What I am enjoying is the daily grind of writing outside of blogging. I am enjoying it so much that I'm going to throw caution to the wind and embark on a fresh attempt at a NaNoWriMo novel - probably foolish, a full week into the month, but my first attempt is (insert barfing sound).

And now, for your reading pleasure, I offer an original story, written by my second grade daughter who is, among many other things, a free-speller. Enjoy!

Once upon a time thar was an indian trib called the Palimo. The Palimo chif was called He how maks wind. He how maks wind had a mustang named Gem. Gem was a fast horse. Gem was as shiny as a jule and fast as the wind. He how makes wind was nice. He fout in the war. Gem was 7 feet tall and 5 feet long. He how makes wind is 5 feet tall. The End.