IT'S HAPPENED! IT'S starting! Ahhhhhh!

So, now National Novel Writing Month has officially begun, and we've kicked off with a bang. Or, at least, a passably loud squeak.

There are tons and tons and tons of Uni students participating, which I am thrilled about, including our nine-member support group. (We're always looking for more people, guys! Join! We have cake.) And, so far, no one's dropped out. So, thus far, everything is going well.

Egocentric time. I'm pretty pleased with my progress so far: 8,524 words. Or, in NaNo slang, "I'm a day ahead of schedule, eat your heart out."

In terms of plot, I think I'm doing quite well. I shan't explain it, though, but leave you to draw your own conclusions from my cryptically chosen excerpt below. Leave some suspense for the end of the month.

As one of Uni's NaNo veterans, I feel I should dispense some form of literary wisdom, but in truth, NaNoWriMo founder Chris Baty does it far better than me. From the Web site:

Whenever you delete a sentence in your NaNoWriMo novel, a NaNoWriMo angel loses its wings and plummets, screaming, to the ground.

Where it will likely require medical attention.

And this is very true. Don't delete. Change the font so you can come back to it next month, or wince and pretend you never wrote it, but do not delete. I guarantee you will never be happy with anything you write, ever. Not for one moment, not for a millisecond of caffeine-dazed bliss. It simply doesn't happen.

But someone else is sure to love it. I've been barraged the last few days with a constant stream of "My writing sucks!," "I don't know what's going on!," "Help me!" I've been guilty of it myself, too. But don't give in to that kind of silliness. If you write something you don't like, force a smile and move on.

In terms of more original advice, I'm not sure what else I can add. Everyone writes differently and finds the most inspiration in different things. For myself, I write best alone: on rooftops and in grain silos and at sunset-angst-parking-garages (you know the ones). I write best when I feel alone, alienated and isolated and abstract. I write best when I feel like acoustic guitar (as opposed to love, which is totally punk rock).

But that's just me.

The only thing I've found common for all novelists is music. Though the style and genre are as shifting and fluid as anything else, I'd be hard pressed to name a single writer who hasn't at some point or another turned up the volume on his MacBook and head-banged away while writing an epic scene. Or, you know, tapped her foot quietly along with the mellow pop from her earbuds. Something.

I tend to listen to full albums — if the sound is relatively constant, you won't get distracted. However, I'm something of a music snob, and perhaps regular people don't have to stop and repeat a 10-bar segment over and over to catch the chord progression. (I did say perhaps; I find it hard to believe.)

My personal favorites are the eponymous album by Chappaquiddick Skyline, "Knives Don't Have Your Back" by Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton, and "Blinking Lights and Other Revelations" by the Eels. They're all pretty chill, for the most part, and have that same sunset-angst alienation thing with some intense acoustic/piano parts. If you're into that sort of thing, I highly recommend all of them.

For the budding novelists out there: Turn your music up and stick with it! We will be meeting on Friday to discuss our first week of progress, and eat cake. I think we're going to call ourselves the cake group. It seems to be our one overriding principal. All, of course, are welcome.

excerpt from katy's novel, yet untitled

Beau gazed out the window with empty eyes, his blond hair mussed and unkempt. The hospital sheet lay over his body, perfectly smooth; he hadn't shifted since the nurse had come in, hours earlier. Outside, a skeleton tree shook in the wind like a freezing child.

He remembered once, years ago when he had still been enrolled in college, a post-modern writing class field trip. They had driven the class — small, only ten people, children, really — far north into the city, dropped them off one by one in Portuguese town, with nothing more than a pen and paper. Unable to speak the language, he had wandered for hours, absolutely lost, up and down the narrow streets of the Spanish district, distant and alone. He had watched family fights, couples dining at outdoor restaurants, a parade disappearing down a distant street. He could rationalize their behavior and, with effort, bring himself to understand their actions, but on a deeper level it all seemed foreign and incomprehensible. It was dark before he managed to find a bus to take him back to the small college, where he recovered his car and drove home. The isolation had lasted for days, a nihilistic alienation that didn't fade in the company of ten people or a hundred.

He remembered his attempt to put it into words in class the next day. A single sheet of paper, spidery handwriting trying to convey an infinitely deep message. He had written: "There are a hundred faces in the street and none of them are mine." He had failed the assignment.

Beau gazed at his reflection in the window, but he didn't recognize his face.