In the waning days of NaNoWriMo of the two-thousand and eighteenth year of the common era, I had lost my mind. One novel sitting half finished, at best, I began another. I thought with hubris that I could finish the first by the end of the month but the day of turkeys laid me low. My children thought me a mad woman. My husband knew it to be so. After all, we have children and I'm a writer.
I have written nearly two thousand words upon this new venture. I have piles of dishes wanting washing. I have mail and correspondence awaiting sorting. And yet, I still want to write instead of these most important daily tasks. I confess my ignorance of the human soul. It must be pure madness that moves me to write this.
/dramalogue
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