A preface to the post below: the excerpt I posted is completely and totally unedited, absolutely raw, fresh from the depths of my brain. Excuse any typos or other editorial weirdness. I'll get to the semantics later.

I am always tempted to blame someone else for any mishap encountered in my life. Not that it’s always a fair assumption, but it’s often nice to attribute my misery to someone else’s wrongdoing. If this hadn’t happened the way it did, then that definitely would never have happened, and I’d be a totally different person. But isn’t that the guessing game of life? It’s impossible to keep up with the endless collection of “what ifs” that plague all of us. However, I often play that game when considering the other potential outcomes of my life.

For me, it all goes back to my parents. Or, to be more accurate, money.

I spent two and a half years at Ithaca College in upstate New York. I would characterize those years as fun, innocent exploration and a sense of immaturity. I made friends, learned invaluable information both in and outside the classroom, and started to understand what it meant to live independently as an adult in the Real World. I was fairly sheltered before going to college – I had no idea what kids my age did for fun, and I was overjoyed to have a found a group of friends – something I’d never before had – who loved me for me. We ate meals together, took classes together, studied (or, more appropriately, procrastinated) together. We ventured to Taco Bell on the weekends together, walked around campus together, drank and partied together, and experienced the collegiate spectrum as a group of seven merged as one. They saw me at my best and at my very worst, and they loved me through it all.

Of course, looking back with a wizened (and perhaps somewhat jaded and cynical) perspective and three years of defining life experience behind me, I can honestly say that I have preserved the memory of my college years under a rose-colored layer of dust. It’s not that my Ithaca years were miserable – far from it. I do look back on those years fondly, but almost angrily. It wasn’t all fun and games, and the level of drama and unnecessary fighting never ceased to frustrate me. I found myself on the outskirts of my group of friends on more than one occasion, and I blame my uncontrollable mood swings and indecision as the reason. My friends wanted to go go go, and they didn’t want to be caught up in a maelstrom of whiny existential crises. By my junior year, I had begun to feel somewhat alienated by even my best friends, and my group of friends grew ever closer, but I somehow felt that my place in the group was becoming peripheral.

Based on these feelings of inadequacy, my decision to leave Ithaca wasn’t as difficult as I imagined it would be. The summer between sophomore and junior years of college, my parents received notification from the college that we were losing our financial aid package. The Ithaca experience came with a forty thousand dollar a year price tag, and it was just too expensive for the memories I was creating and the unhappiness that was seeping into my day to day life. But instead of mope and mourn for the death of my Ithaca dream, I chose to leave with dignity. I was excited for my new life in Boston. I had made the decision to transfer to Emerson College in Boston, and had come to terms with the idea of living with Mommy and Daddy once again. It wasn’t the same as coming home on breaks – this wasn’t a vacation, it was to be the permanent living situation while I finished college at Emerson. I was psyched when I was accepted into the Writing, Literature, and publishing program at Emerson, and I began to envision a glorious life as a city mouse. I would take the train to and from Boston, relaxing with my coffee and an intellectual book while I watched the scenery zoom by my window. I’d walk along Charles Street, peering into store windows with a smile on my face as city traffic filled the air and other pedestrians went about their day to day errands. Everyone seemed to walk with a purpose in Boston, and I was more than eager to find my place in that world. I toured the campus with my mother, and we were both impressed with the school. By the time January rolled around, I could barely contain my emotions – a tightly wound mix of enthusiasm and fear, the best kind of adrenaline I had felt in a while.

But, like most things I envision, the idealized version was barely recognizable once reality set in. What I had so desperately wanted to escape by leaving Ithaca – that hollow of loneliness, the unfulfilled longing to belong – came back with a vengeance at Emerson. I couldn’t have begun to imagine the isolation that came with commuting. I had imagined it glamorous, but instead found myself dreading the trek to and from classes. The morning train was overcrowded, stuffed with sweaty, impatient adults balancing cups of coffee and the latest Boston Globe. Backpack-clad men in suits and sneakers, small women resembling pack mules as they hauled numerous bags of various sizes down the aisles of the train, nearly bumping people with their luggage as they made their way through the car. I was lucky to find a seat, and I soon developed a severe anxiety that set in as soon as the train approached the platform every morning. It made me sweat, profoundly nervous, the heat of humility prickly on my cheat, the flush of embarrassment burning my cheeks. I hated it.

Classes weren’t much better. My public speaking class terrified me and filled me with a similar anxiety as the train. My literature class was boring as all hell, and the books we read nearly put me to sleep. My politics class - The First Amendment – was taught by a man large and looming and altogether terrifying, and I spent most of the semester trying to decipher whether he was black or white. (And the course itself was an impossible monster, and to this day it amazes me that I passed the class at all, let alone how I managed a solid A without sleeping with the racially ambiguous professor.) My Jazz History class was the most palatable of all my courses, and the professor was more than a little easy on the eyes. The material was interesting and the course relatively easy.

In the hurry to get to and from school in the shortest amount of time, I found myself preoccupied more with train schedules and less with making any sort of social connection. The closest I came to making friends was seeing the familiar face of the same train conductor every day. I don’t think he even recognized me from one day to the next, but it was his familiarity that felt almost friendly to me. I chose to listen to my ipod or read before the start of each class, and in doing so ignoring any potential interaction with a classmate. It’s no wonder that I soon grew to resent Emerson as much – if not more – than Ithaca. I blamed everyone else for what was so clearly my own fault. I put up a wall to avoid making connections, almost as if I wanted to choose to be isolated.

When I was in elementary school, the fourth grade I think, my teacher had all her students write on a piece of paper which classmate we all wanted to get to know better. Hands down, all the girls said me. It’s on various report cards throughout the grades – “Jacqueline is too quiet.” “Jacqueline never volunteers in class.” “Jacqueline needs to raise her hand more and contribute to class.” I’ve always been shy; that’s an understatement. It’s been a crippling inability to participate actively in the class and what goes on around me. It’s an extreme case of self-induced isolation. I really had no one to blame but myself, but that didn’t stop me from faulting my snobby peers, the pompous air of Bostonians, the lack of support from Emerson to integrate transfer students into the general community. At times, I blamed my parents, too – had they been richer, we would have been able to afford Ithaca, and I never would have had to transfer to Boston in the first place. Ridiculous, I know now, but at the time, I was desperate to find a reason to explain my own unhappiness that didn’t include accepting responsibility for my own actions.

To make up for my obvious lack of human interaction and social life, I chose to throw myself head first into my job at Linens N Things. I loved my job, although looking back, I can’t figure out what was so appealing about that place. I was hired before the store opened, during the summer of 2005. Home from my freshman year at Ithaca and still hurting from being dumped by my first “real” boyfriend, I applied for a job at Linens N Things, which was opening a new store in my hometown of Reading. I worked there all summer, and quickly fell in love with the job, my coworkers, and every aspect of the place. It was a life-changing experience. But it wasn’t supposed to be. After all, I was only making a dime above minimum wage, and working far too hard for such little cash. I was overworked, underpaid, and grossly underappreciated, but I, for some skewed reason, loved every minute of it and ate up the attention. Over the two and a half years I was employed by Linens N Things, I became one of the most beloved employees that store ever saw. My coworkers thought I was hilarious, my bosses loved my enthusiasm and endless supply of cheap labor, and if nothing else, I reveled in the attention. I became a social butterfly in the confines of that store – the store entertainer, and the good little mom who took care of everyone else. I constantly went above and beyond others’ expectations, and return everyone seemed to have a soft spot for me. So, naturally, when I was so desperate for social connections and the desire to fit in somewhere, it was the only natural and logical choice that I return to my familiar, safe Linens N Things. I started working a few nights a week and both weekend days, but my overzealousness quickly morphed into working nearly 40 hours a week in addition to going to classes. I didn’t find myself overwhelmed in the least; after all, my homework always got done at the end of the day, so to me it didn’t matter whether I did it as soon as I got home from the train station in the afternoon, or at eleven o’clock at night after a busy night at work. It made me happy. I didn’t see anything wrong with the path I had set foot on. It was all, in my mind, innocent fun.

But as the tired cliché goes, it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt. I just didn’t know that I was going to be the one to end up hurt. Well, me, and my mother, father, sister, extended family… but who’s counting?

Part I

I formally met Eric on December 27, 2006. I had seen him around Linens N Things on the numerous times my best friend, Suzanne, and I had visited the store on our breaks home from college. I didn’t think anything of him, nor was I instantly attracted to him. I asked one of my coworkers, “hey, who’s that guy?” and she answered that his name was Eric, and he was the manager of the housewares department.

My initial impression of Eric was anything less than impressed. I took an instant dislike to him for the sole reason that I felt very possessive of my beloved Linens N Things, and I was not fond of newcomers. I had “issues” with new hires, and feelings of such hostility towards new management. When I had been hired, a young guy named Steve was in charge of housewares, which had been my assigned department. He was young and very amiable, and I took to him rather quickly. When he quit suddenly, I felt lost without him. I automatically despised his replacement, a plump, affable woman named Maria. I was (and always have been) reluctant to accept change, but over time, Maria’s warm nature overcame any feelings of detestation and I grew to like her very, very much. So, given my past reluctance, it was no surprise that I was not very accepting of this new housewares manager.

Two days after Christmas, Suzanne and I were working together in housewares, tossing merchandise to one another on ladders, filling the storage space above the shoppable region. As we worked, I noticed that Eric, also working that day, kept looking in our direction. I didn’t think anything of it, and the two of us continued to work. It wasn’t until we were about to go on our break that Eric approached us.

“I want to talk to you,” Eric said.

“Well, I don’t want to,” I responded with a playful, yet somewhat sassy tone – a bold move, considering this was my boss, and a man I hardly knew.

“No, I want to talk to both of you,” Eric said, gesturing towards Suzanne, but with his eyes still on me. “It’s about that topstocking you guys did.” Suzanne and I rolled our eyes. “I just want to show you how it needs to be done, because inventory is coming up. Come on, let’s take a look.”

I turned around and headed in the direction of housewares, and as I did so, I felt two hands, one on either side of my waist. I glanced down and saw Eric’s fingers curled around the arc of my hips. I was stunned to the point where I literally did not know what to do. So I did the only thing I could think of that seemed rational (which, looking back, was probably the worst thing I could have done): I let him stay that way, and we kept walking.

The three of us got to the housewares department, and Eric showed us what he wanted us to do. Before dismissing us to go on our break, Eric placed his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers gently brushing the very top of my shirt. Again, not knowing what to make of the whole situation, I didn’t react.

Suzanne and I spent our fifteen minutes in the break room rehashing the previous ten minutes in a combination of disbelief and confusion. But what I didn’t outwardly express was the other emotion I had begun to feel from the moment Eric’s fingers first connected with my body: intrigue. Curiosity. That’s not to say that he had me at hello, or anything just as sappy and pathetic. But from the moment Eric and I shared our first ever interaction, I knew. This was a man who was going to be in my life for a while to come. What I didn’t know, however, was that Eric wasn’t just going to be in my life, but he was going to change my life in ways I never thought possible. For better, for worse, Eric had me hooked. What I wouldn’t learn until years down the road is that that was exactly what Eric wanted.

I used to think he was charming – it was the first adjective that came to mind whenever someone asked me to describe Eric. “Charming” surfaced before other, perhaps more common affections such as “handsome” and “easygoing” and “funny.” Because Eric wasn’t any of those – he was cute, sure, but in a soft, teddy bear kind of way; a loveable ogre of sorts. Kind of like Shrek. He was far from easygoing – in the beginning of our relationship, of course, Eric led me to believe he was just that, but as the months passed and Eric’s personality came to light, I quickly learned how high maintenance and pig-headed he could be. And alright, maybe he was funny – a sense of humor, I’ll give him that. He made me laugh in a different way than most – his jokes were more often than not suggestive, and at times, my twenty-year-old virgin self was a combination offended and amused. But Eric’s strongest character trait was his charm. It wasn’t until recently, however, that someone corrected me on the proper use of the word “charming.”

“It’s not something you are,” Karen told me. “It’s something you do. Charming isn’t an adjective. It’s a verb. You ‘charm’ someone when you have an agenda.” I found these words revelatory. I just wish I had heard those words two years earlier, when I still had the option to change my mind, when I could still get out of the relationship and spare myself the ensuing months of agony and misery. But then again, had I heard those words right after Christmas in December of 2006, I can promise you… I would never have listened.

*

In the weeks following Eric’s and my first (physical) encounter, we got to know each other fairly well. But I still didn’t know what to make of Eric. Every conversation we had, every exchange we shared – I think, no, I know, but for so long I avoided admitting it – I knew from the get go that the whole thing was wrong. I think that’s part of the reason why I was so drawn to Eric. It was like falling for the bad boy. I was not automatically attracted to him per se, but I was drawn to him nevertheless. The fact that he was my boss… well, that was something I was willing to overlook.

It was his eyes that first made me think about Eric in an “anything but my manager” kind of way. They were soft and sky blue and full of – longing, perhaps. Full of something I couldn’t quite figure out, but something I was determined to discover. When he smiled, the slightest of wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes. But instead of making him look old, they made him endearing. Disillusioned as I was, I should have just stopped at “old.”

I had been talking to Eric for a few weeks when I finally found out how old he was. As he remarked how well we seemed to get along together, Eric mentioned how the age difference between us was barely noticeable. Funny, it was something I blatantly ignored, because I didn’t want to know what the answer was.

“How old are you, anyways?” I looked Eric right in the eye – a bold move for me, someone normally so shy when it came to any sort of interaction with the male gender, especially not one in whom I was developing an interest.

“Old,” Eric replied jokingly, but I knew there was a truth in his words.

“Come on, you can tell me,” I implored, resting my hand ever so slightly on his forearm, before I was cognizant of what I was doing. Eric merely smiled, looking down at my fingers against his skin, but he remained silent.

“Thirty?” I ventured. Better to underestimate, I supposed. Eric shook his head.

“Older?” Silence.

“Thirty one? Thirty two?” Again, silence. I made my way up to thirty five, and when Eric cringed, I knew I had guessed correctly.

“And I’m… twenty,” I announced, more for comparison than shock value. Did it seem to bother me that here was a man, nearly twice my age, desperately hitting on me? Not nearly as much as it should.

After digesting the somewhat shocking information, Eric and I went back to work on the project in front of us. We were stocking a clearance display together one snowy afternoon in January. Working on either side of the table, Eric and I would occasionally catch the other stealing a glance in the other’s direction.

“Oooh, I want to buy this,” I said, gesturing to the Friends trivia game on the table between us.

“You watch Friends?” Eric asked, smiling.

“It’s only, like, my favorite show ever,” I replied, sounding a lot more Valley Girl than I had intended.

“Mine too,” Eric said in agreement. “I already bought the game.”

“Is it fun?” My interest had been piqued. And luckily for Eric, I had created the perfect opportunity for him.

“I haven’t played it yet. But I’m sure I’ll be really good. I’ve seen every episode.”

“I would be too. I’ve watched every episode a dozen times.”

“Well, some of those questions are really hard,” Eric said, the tiniest hint of a challenge developing in his voice.

“Ha. I bet they wouldn’t be hard for me.”

“Oh, they are.”

“Well, I’d still beat you any day.” I locked eyes with Eric, a coy smile on my face.

“You really think so?” The challenge was on. The flirting was upped.

“You want to bet on it? I’m telling you, I know my Friends.”

“Well then,” Eric said, leaning in close. “We’ll have to play sometime and see who’s really better.”

“It’s on,” I said to Eric, not knowing what I was getting myself into. What I did know is that we weren’t just talking about Friends trivia anymore.

*

Over the next few weeks, Eric’s advances came in the form of one forward compliment after another. We got to know each other better with each passing conversation, and that gut feeling was replaced with the tiniest beginnings of a crush. The moments were small – Eric complimented me on the way I wore my hair, the casual touch that lingered a bit too long, his shameless attempts (and subsequent failures) to take a picture of me with his cell phone. He told me I looked good, smelled good, was dressed adorably. At staff meetings (we called them “showtimes”), I’d catch Eric looking in my direction, and then he’d wink at me, which never failed to make me smile. Every inside joke we shared, glance we stole, smile reciprocated… I knew I was falling for Eric, and it felt so good. But I knew it was something I should keep to myself. I didn’t think anyone else would approve. So, for the time being, I allowed Eric to pursue me, and did nothing to stop it. I liked the attention. He made me feel beautiful, and I loved knowing that I had captivated someone. And I was still naïve enough to believe that Eric wasn’t solely concerned with getting into my pants. How naïve, indeed. (I was a virgin for a reason. I didn’t know how men and women interacted, nor did I realize how preoccupied with sex adults really were.)

*

I can’t say for sure what it was that made me decide to report Eric for sexual harassment, but it’s safe to say that my general feeling of discomfort in my gut led me to do it.

By this point, it was the end of January, and Eric’s and my “relationship” was definitely dancing on the brink of inappropriateness. One night, when Eric and I were closing the store together, he handed me a crumpled piece of paper with his AOL screen name on it: Borka24. He told me to IM “whenever,” and I told him I would, although I didn’t actually intend to do so. I held onto the paper anyways – just in case. Perhaps deep down, I knew one day I’d cave.

A few nights later, it happened. I was tucked under the covers with my laptop on the bed, staring at his screen name at the top of my buddy list. I wanted to IM him, but I was too timid. I didn’t know what to say, how to flirt – could you even call it that? – but most importantly, I knew I shouldn’t. However, in my state of mind, that was all the more reason to do it.

“What are you up to?” I asked him, once a casual tone had been established and my courage mustered.

“Actually… do you really want to know?” he replied.

“Yeah,” I said, all the more curious.

“It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“It’s ok… I promise not to laugh,” I told him, taking the bait. I’m sure that on the other end of the conversation, Eric was smiling at the computer screen.

“I was waiting online, hoping you’d finally IM me.”

My heart skipped a beat, and it angered me to swoon so easily.

“Can I ask you a question?” Eric posited later in the conversation.

“Sure,” I replied, feeling nervous and giddy all at once.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

I wanted to tell him that yes, some of the things he did were somewhat concerning. The way e always found an excuse to slide his hands around my waist, to cup the small of my back. The way he would reach for my hair and wrap it between his fingers, or tell me outright just how cute he thought I was. I wanted to tell him how alarmed I was when Eric came up behind me, as I was in the middle of moving a fixture with Karl, another of the managers, and Eric tickled me until I collapsed on the floor, a combination embarrassed and shocked. I wanted to tell him that there was something so indecent about a 35-year-old man putting the moves on a very innocent, inexperienced 20-year-old girl. Especially when Eric had a six-month-old son with the (ex)-girlfriend he still lived with.

But instead of answering him truthfully, as I so desperately wanted t, I deflected the question altogether. What can I say, confrontation was never my forte.

“No… do I make you uncomfortable?” I joked.

Before we said goodbye for the night, Eric made sure I knew just how much he was interested in me.

“You have a friggin’ kickass body,” he told me. “I love your ass.” Did I think this was so very wrong, on many levels? Absolutely. Was I flattered nonetheless? Absolutely.

“You have beautiful eyes,” Eric said. And no matter what I may have thought about my sub-par body, I knew he was telling the truth about my eyes. They were pretty.

I hated myself for not hating Eric. Chalk it up to loneliness and my dangerously low self-esteem. But it had been almost a year since a guy – any guy – had displayed even the remotest of interest in me whatsoever. I wanted to have someone want me. I wanted to feel pretty and special and desired. I wanted to feel those butterflies, anxious and excited all at once.

One cold weeknight in January, Eric and I were working together when someone was caught shoplifting hundreds of dollars of merchandise. When we tried to stop him, he fled, and we ended up calling the police, who arrested him in the parking lot. As the manager on duty for the night, Eric had to report the incident to our loss prevention supervisor. As I began to recover the sales floor, Eric paged me to the office.

“Do you want to help me write the email to Bill?” Eric asked, his face softening and beaming as soon as I walked through the door (which he promptly shut behind me.

“Uhh, sure,” I said, a bit confused. “But why do you want my help?”

“You know, because you’re a writing major and everything,” he explained. I took that as logical enough and nodded my head in agreement.

He patted the chair next to him, and I slid into the seat as he began to type. I watched in amusement as he poked and prodded the keyboard with the same two fingers, and I corrected his numerous typos and grammatical faux-pas.

“We make such a good team,” Eric announced, playfully bumping his shoulder into mine.

After we finished the email, I looked at the clock and realized it was time for me to go home. When I got up to leave, Eric looked genuinely dejected.

“No, please don’t go!” Eric said in mock horror. I smiled coyly at him and headed toward the door.

“I know you’d love for me to stay, but I have to go home,” I replied. I reached for the door handle as Eric got up from his desk. I was trying to keep the mood playful and, well, innocent.

As I turned the door handle, Eric came right up behind me, put an arm around my neck, and pulled my body against his. The curves of my body met his own, and it was so hot and scary all at once that I didn’t know whether I should feel violated or turned on. I was the latter. But at the same time, my gut still told me not to let this go any further. I wrote in my diary entry a week later:
“Lately, it’s been on my mind more and more. The way he’s touching me and the things he’s saying – it’s getting out of hand. I just feel like someone else should know what’s been going on so I don’t have to feel like I have this huge burden of a secret that I have to keep to myself. I feel like I have to do something about the situation, or I’m going to find myself sleeping with my boss. And soon.”

Shortly after that, my rational mind made the decision to report Eric for sexual harassment. I spoke to Karl and Christine, the two store managers, on a Monday afternoon in February. I told them exactly what had been going on between Eric and me, and they listened intently. Karl asked for copies of our online conversations so he could have evidence to back up his report to HR. Christine promised to schedule Eric opposite me. I tried to play the victim as much as possible, and downplay the part about how Eric’s advances weren’t always totally unwelcome.

I left their office feeling strangely upset, instead of relieved, and as soon as I got into my car, I burst into tears. Heavy sobs filled my car, and I was angry with myself for caring so much. Wasn’t I supposed to feel better after this? Hadn’t I done what I was supposed to do? Then why did I feel nothing but agonizing remorse?

I gave Eric the silent treatment for a week. It was a surprisingly hard thing to do. I read, but didn’t respond to, the daily emails he sent me. They were sweet, apologetic, and funny. He quoted “Friends” and overused emoticons. It was cute in a “pathetic for a grown man to act” kind of way: endearing, but pitifully adorable – kind of like looking at a three-legged blind puppy who stumbles into walls.

I tried to focus on my schoolwork, TV, my life outside of Linens N Things (the definition of which was starting to erode). But I somehow found reminders of Eric wherever I looked. I found it more than a little preposterous that I felt so much for a man I hardly knew. There was something spellbinding about Eric Bjork, and like it or not, he had me hooked. It would take another two years before I realized that it wasn’t Eric’s captivating personality that did me in; on the contrary, it was his manipulative tactics that drew me in. He knew how to get me exactly where he wanted, and because I really didn’t know any better, I fell prey to the game he was playing. Unfortunately, I only thought I was falling for him.

This whole 50k in one month thing is freaking hard! I am so overwhelmed and feel like I'm spread a thousand different directions. Work, the baby, laundry, chores, grocery shopping, errands, packing lunches, showers... I honestly don't know where the time to write comes in. And of course it doesn't help that I am largely hand-writing, and then typing when I get a chance to use the computer (which, if I'm lucky enough to stay awake past 9m, happens once Isabella has finally gone to bed for the night). Not to mention that Miss Bella is in her clingy stage, and her bad sleeping stage, and I'm in my caffeine isn'thelping stage... we're a bit of a hot mess, but I'm somehow plugging along. I wanted to get a comfortable buffer between my word count and the daily minimum quota, seeing as I might be going to NYC this weekend and then with Thanksgiving, my sister and Suzanne coming home, and my five year reunion... damn November, you're such a busy month.

But, finally, I've hit the halfway point. With wordage, that is. With the story... well, it has a long way to go.

I wrote almost 5000 words today! I have to do it all again tomorrow to catch up. And I am determined to do it.

Count: 11025

I haven't written since Wednesday, at which point I reached 6887. I was so proud of myself because I was still right where I should have been, plus a little. Then, something happened Thursday (nothing drastic or dramatic) and I didn't write anything. Yesterday, I came up with more excuses, and today, I'm just about to come up with excuses. And being 3 days back is NOT where I want to be...I just don't feel like writing lately. So, I won't. I think maybe a break is just what I need to re-spark some of my creativity. Or, I'm telling myself that and hoping it proves true. We shall see...

I do know I don't want to be a quitter, so that's not an option. 

Count: still 6887

So last night I didn't get a chance to update my word count -- somewhere in the mid 8000 I think -- before falling asleep on the couch with my little peanut at 9:30pm. And I've done a lot of writing today, but I will not be updating my word count until probably the weekend. I've been writing it all by hand, so when I get a good chunk of downtime (hence the weekend) I will probably type it all up and update the final count sometime Saturday or Sunday.

I definitely think that writing nonfiction is so much easier than fiction. At least for me, I already know the plot, I just have to fill in the blanks with lots and lots of words. Coming up with fiction -- if you ask me, that requires a lot more thinking. Meg, I applaud your efforts, and I very much am looking forward to reading about Jenny's latest adventures.

Nevertheless, I am really pleased with what I've written so far, which surprises me. It's hard, but easy, and weird all at once, and I am very eager to see what the finished product (masterpiece?) looks like.

Right on track. Still stuck in the same funeral, but luckily, it's almost over.

Count: 5003.

Secret noveling got me close to 3,000 words, but I'm still a bit shy of where I should be. No worries, though - there are still 28 days to make that up. It's a little harder than I thought it would be picking up where I left off (maybe that's why it's not allowed), but I think once I get past this "first" chapter things will get going more easily.

I've thought of a fun way to keep my month of writing interesting. I've decided once a week, during my lunch hour, I'll bring my laptop in and write at one of the local restaurants downtown here. Likely the cafe, but the new "Cravings" restaurant with all sorts of bad-for-you food is sure to see me at least once. And, should Chrissy not have to work or go to school, she'll be joining me. Not for noveling, but for moral support. Very nice!

On to day 3. Goal: make up my slight deficit.

Count: 2852

A very successful day one. I really did intend to start at midnight, but I fell asleep on the couch in the middle of a movie last night, so my month of memoir-ing didn't get off to the most exciting of starts. But, up at the crack of dawn, I managed to crank out the daily quota with minimal stress. I definitely think that writing about myself is a hell of a lot easier than trying to come up with fiction worth writing. Hey, it's my life, and the plot has already been outlined for me. All I have to do is fill it with word padding.

Here's to a wonderful, loquacious November.

My computer is going to die in any second, but I just wanted to say that I made it for day one! I didn't think I would, but I did.

It's the first year I didn't start at midnight, and I felt instantly behind. It's so weird to get into a groove, too, without all the excitement and with all my hesitation. Hopefully, a successful day one will lead to many more successful days.

Count: 1695