New job, happy life, more obligations, more service, a quick surgery and a desperate hunt for a new place that can house a zoo have all left me sadly away from the keyboard for pleasure.

Sure, friends may complain that I’ve written far too many a novel to them via Gmail, but in reality, the writing has fallen short.

Newly inspired, however, by finding the time to remain on the Pfister Narrator committee and now, signing on to be finally a part of NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month, a marathon of words (50,000 of them) that friends have done before, is something I just lept into.

This marathon of writing challenges and supports writers to gather together in forums, in knowledge of having teammates out there and knowing that others are sweating writer’s block with you as you challenge yourself to plunge into the depths of 50,000 words in the month of November.

I have more than 35,000 words already written–I never looked at it as how many words, just the tragedy of how much unresolved plot kept unwinding amid cliche witticisms. Now, do I start there and tie the loose ends and finish The Interventionist or do I start anew? It’s years later, the pain and circumstances that drove the first book aren’t forgotten and it should be finished, but do I just start from scratch?

I can do 35,000 on my own. Edited and reedited, am I still as prolific? In one month can I start a new book–and finish it?

I love half-finished everything. I start decorating in my house and get partway through a concept or wall and leave it.

I clean the inside of the fridge but quit by the time all the shelves are reloaded and it’s time to wipe the outer door. I wash clothes all the time, but then live out of the clean laundry basket because putting them away is far too much burden.

There were many good signs today–I walked into the coffee shop driven and the new Silversun Pickups was blasting. That’s a battle cry.

I think how cathartic a book is. I have been rereading The Interventionist from the beginning and am remembering the incidents it chronicles and realizing putting them on the page left them not forgotten, but certainly cleared space for them not to be top of mind any longer. I’ve outgrown them. That’s good, right?

Well, I’ll be on these pages more too, stretching and training. I couldn’t run 26 miles. Not yet. But it’s clear I can do the mental, calloused finger work of typing all those words.

Not without a little workout, so today was Training Day 1.

Time to hit the showers and think about tomorrow’s regime: a workday, busy, mindful, exhausting. Finding the time to write tomorrow is the secret. “Starting over” on weekends is easy.

Monday is the curse.

Writing