A schediastic hootenanny

Boy, that NaNoWriMo site is just a hornet's nest of slow load times, browser incompatibility, busted links and non-working Flash and Java, ain't it?

Anyway, I got about 2100 words done last night. There's a sample up here. How y'all doin'?

Also, not that I have pretentiously placed mine in the 'literary fiction' genre, because I am a lame defensive shit who doesn't really cotton to his precious work being called a 'thriller' or a 'mystery' even though it's about people who kill other people for money. In addition, even though I have given my story the most awful title imaginable (plucked from an Eggs song, to give it an extra frisson of sad-little-clownistry), I spent like ten minutes this morning flipping through other peoples' profiles so I could laugh at the terrible titles they give their books. I am a bad person.

Hey, it looks like I got a job. Maybe. In publishing. That pays pretty well. Congratulations to me on putting myself in a total catch-22!

Which makes it even more timely that one of my media peeps has sent me copies of Justice League Heroes and Bully. So much for ever getting anything done again, ever. WHO AM I TO COMPLAIN?

Maybe I'll develop a speed habit again. Sleep is for weak-ass people who don't have jobs, freelance work, novels, video games, and hours of drunken weeping to deal with.

Boy, doesn't this seem like the sort of thing that, like, Two-Face or someone would be behind?