NaNoo November

The conversation you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed so that everyone can feel my pain. The time was shortly before the onset of November, or 21,245 words ago. I think I've used some of them twice.


"I think you should do NaNo."

“Nano?”

It’s not that I can’t keep up, but whenever the Captain wants to win an argument, he uses words I don’t understand. I think he gets them from random advertisements in Popular Science magazine. This one sounded vaguely like one of those yoga poses that causes your hamstring to snap.

“Yep, it’s that. . .”

“Oh, I know. That’s what that alien said on that hokey show back in the 70’s. Remember Robin Williams played him.”

“He didn’t say Nano. He said Nanoo. It means hello. I think.”

“No, I think it meant goodbye. Sort of like Over and Out.”

“Maybe it was one of those all purpose words that means something else. Like Aloha.”

“Aloha? Like in Hawaii? If a research trip to Waikiki is involved, count me in.” Finally, an idea I could get behind to try my spray-on tan.

“Waikiki is way too expensive.”

“Maui? I can pronounce them all, but I can only spell the main ones. I’ve been practicing my vocabulary for extravagant vacation destinations.”

“We’re not going there either.”

“It figures. Like when you say we’ll go to a romantic movie only we never do.”

“I took you to see Inception.”

“What was romantic about Inception?”

“People were asleep.”

I pause. It’s true that when you reach 50, a full night’s sleep is about as rare as a trip to an exotic island. But a movie where the girl dies doesn’t strike me as romantic. “I don’t think that counts.”

“Fine. I’ll take you to a romantic movie.”

“I don’t know what’s playing in Hawaii.”

“We’re not going to Hawaii.”

“See. I told you. You hold out the roast pig then you yank it away.”

“Roast pig?”

“Isn’t that what they eat in Hawaii? When they have those luaus and girls in grass skirts do the hula while you eat?”

The Captain pauses a moment to reflect on girls in grass skirts. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to Hawaii.”

“Looks like you’re not going now, either.”

“I was just trying to talk you into participating in NaNo.”

“Is that one of your SciFi alien words?”

“No. It’s short for NaNoWriMo.”

“Oh, well that makes it better. No trip to Hawaii and now you’re speaking in tongues.”

“It’s short for National Novel Writing Month.”

“Oh.”

“You sign up to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November.”

“Is one of those words Hawaii?”

“No.”

“Then you can go sleep by yourself. I’m going to the movies.”

“What’s playing?”

“A romance.”

“Which one?”

“It’s a oldie, playing at the cultural center downtown.”

“But which one?”

“Blue Hawaii. But don't worry. It's a discount show.”

Nonny Nonny NaNo

My husband is participating in NaNoWriMo, an acronym that translates into human speak as National Novel Writing Month. Participants pledge to write a novel of 50,000 words in one month. That’s sort of like condensing the time it takes to have a baby from nine months to four weeks, with a minute or two at the end for hard labor or editing.

He confessed he'd signed up using the tone of voice he ususally reserves for admitting that he ate the last of the Halloween candy while I'll digging under the couch cushions for a Snickers wrapper that still has a smudge of chocolate left.

“I’m doing NaNo”

“Isn’t that something kids say to taunt their friends?”

He's hunched in front of his computer like a cat in a rainstorm. Scattered notebooks and assorted pens and markers cover his desk. My husband has a serious attachment to office supplies, but I can’t really blame him. I have feelings for fountain pens and sticky notes that verge on obsessive. He peers at me around a mound of wadded papers. “Not Nonny Nonny. It’s Nano.”

“That sounds like an old Irish drinking song. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“You’re not listening,” Bill begins to buff his head rapidly with one hand, a gesture that indicates one more well-timed remark will turn him into a spitting mess. Let's watch the fun.

“It’s NaNoWriMo.”

“Is that some sort of mystical religion?”

“No it’s. . .” He’s sputtering.

“Don’t let Madonna know. You’ll be wearing matching bracelets in no time.”

It’s cruel, I know, but the man was so tense, he couldn’t cross his arms without shooting the wax from his ears. There’s a certain amount of nerve involved in agreeing to write the Great American Novel in less time than it takes to pronounce the name of the author of War and Peace.

If you think Halloween is scary, you should try living with someone who's trying to write a novel in a month. Screaming banshees and headless horsemen are nothing compared to a man poised at the line of scrimmage who realizes his plot is still on the bench.

If he spends as much time writing in November as he did jotting down plot points last month, he’ll have a long enough novel to divide into a trilogy, two screenplays, and a set of leatherbound reference books.

According to the rules, bylaws, and official list of stuff to do, he could outline til the consonants come home, but he couldn’t write a word of the novel until the clock ticked us into November. Last night he was so full of metaphors, he couldn’t sneeze without blowing adjectives all over the monitor. I expect before the month is up, we’ll have to call Vanna to buy back some vowels.

In the meantime, I have to find something to occupy my time to head off my obsessive interest in this project. Perhaps I’m just remarkably intuitive, but it strikes me that somewhere around the 372nd time I inquire about his progress, he just might bounce his Webster’s off the part of me that makes the best target.

So for the next month you can find me working jigsaw puzzles and slinking nonchalantly back and forth past his desk trying to steal a peek at the computer screen.

And you can find him buffing his head.