It's still November, it's still National Novel Writing Month. I should be worried about my word count, and I should be working on the novel right now. But I just don't care anymore. The craptastic opus I created has sucked every ounce of my will to write fiction and I can't do it anymore.
I've hit the "what's the point" wall. Why bother busting my butt over this novel thing when I'm going to ultimately get nothing out of it? It's just going to be a file saved on my computer for the rest of time that I'm never going to touch again because it's not worth editing. I went most of the month, and that's gotta count for something.
Follow-through? Yeah, that's not something I've ever been good at. I tried. I really wanted to finish this year to prove that I could actually finish something that I start, but I don't have the drive anymore. I did my walking goal - I walked the 5k on Thanksgiving morning. That was a success. So at least there's something in my life that I can be proud of.
I'm not a writer. Not a writer of fiction, anyway. This kind of writing, here, that I'm doing right now, this is the stuff I can crank out until the cows come home. I just don't think I'm the right kind of creative for fiction. Maybe for NaNo next year I'll try writing a memoir or something. That might come a lot easier than some piece of fabricated fluff that once floated around in my mind.
I'm going to enjoy my Saturday now. I have a coffee table to put together, a baby shower to attend, a video game to play, and a lot of episodes of The Office to watch on DVD. It's going to be a good weekend.