I DID IT I DID IT I DID IT

50,019 words, with 2.5 hours to spare!

I was a little nervous, because you have to upload your draft to their web site, which has a word-count validator, and they recommend that you write several hundred words beyond 50K, just in case, and I simply didn't have any words left to write or energy to write them, so I only managed 19 words past 50K, and thankfully, that was enough (their word count validator shows me at 50,013 - I've no idea why MS Word says I have six more words than that, but I don't bloody care).

Absolutely everything that could get in my way (and on my nerves) did - travel, work overload, cold-that-turned-into-upper-respiratory-infection, and a ton of other things. I guess sometimes, you've just gotta write, no matter what. Thank you to the fairies, who magically helped me to find the time. I couldn't have done it otherwise. And thanks for keeping me company, Grandpa.

Like I said before, it's a horrible story. More like lots of stories patched together that the main characters dance around. Still, a draft is a draft.

Ok, sleep now bye bye

wow, that deadline is looming large

The good news: Due to the long holiday, I've had more writing time, so my NaNo word count has gone way up (40,902).

The bad news: I've got exactly four days and four and a half hours to get to 50K, and I'm seriously running out of steam (and story).

The analysis: The goal is still do-able - 9098 words in four days, that's a little over 2000 words a day, and 2000 words a day is about what I can manage on a regular writing schedule.

This month has been anything but regular, though. I've had one setback after another - traveling, sickness, work, and a host of other complications, some of which I've partially dealt with. I thought it would be easier this year, since I had done NaNo last year, so I knew what I was in for. Or thought I did. It's just the quirkiness of my life that I can never predict, and I've found it hard to focus on anything for any length of time.

As for the story, it's bad. Really, really, really, really, really bad. But my first drafts usually are, and according to NaNo rules, that's perfectly fine, but last year's story wasn't this bad. Nowhere near it. This one is just...it's so jumbled, and it almost reads like several mini stories linked together, and I keep changing my mind about character's names, so they have different names in different sections. I think my internal editor never quite went on holiday while I was working on this one, and that's why I've struggled so much this time around. Last year, once it realized there was no stopping me from attempting this insane endeavor, it just threw up its hands and stomped off and left me to it. This year, I think it stuck around just to see if I really meant to do it again, and it's been laughing at my efforts all month.

I hope it doesn't get harder the more times I attempt NaNoWriMo. I don't want to hate writing. Really, I don't.

The biggest mistake I made this year was not having more of a story outline like I had last year. Last year's story was much more fully formed in my head before I wrote it. This year's was far less so, and I lacked confidence to fully wing it. I came up with an outline two weeks into it this time, and really had to fight the urge to go back and rewrite whole sections that I had typed out pre-outline. Oh well, next October will be set aside for outlining, so that I've got some sort of story path to follow in November.

I'm now going to make brownies (Bob found dark chocolate chips for me) and get in another hour of bad writing.

river and woods and Bob and Jeff's house

My co-worker, Bob, really has no business being a manager of scientific affairs when he's such a good cook and could well open his own restaurant. He started us off with roasted vegetable soup, and graciously remembered to leave the cheese out of mine. I lost count of the number of casseroles brought to table, but they did include one with corn and wild rice, one with broccoli, and one with sweet potatoes, which was my favorite. The turkey breast was maple-roasted, and the drippings made for tasty and sweet gravy. Yours truly scrubbed and chopped potatoes, which Bob somehow found time to mash. A neighbor made greens, another brought a pumpkin cheesecake, and Jeff made a cheese ball, though it looked more like a cheese mound. And it was all washed down with a warm apple cider spiked with bourbon.

And did I mention dessert? Bob had made an apple pie with a lattice top as well as a pecan pie, though he was far more into the filling than the pecans, and he was making noises while eating it that are best left to the bedroom.

Conversation revolved around the banter between the couple with the lovely southern drawls, pharma drama, and a husband getting his green card. I couldn't really contribute to any of these conversations, but they were fun to listen to. Bob and Jeff had gone all out with decorating - glittery Christmas trees and snowmen abounded, which was in hilarious contrast to Bob and Jeff walking around in shorts and T-shirts, ceiling fans on at full blast, and windows thrown wide open. The rest of us politely shivered in our sweaters and jeans and downed as much warm cider as we could handle.

I will now have to work out twice as long for the rest of the week to work off all the food I ate, and of course, I was sent home with leftovers.

Word count is increasing slowly but surely. I think I will just barely make the 50k finish line on November 30.

in case you miss it on the radio

before there was Adam Sandler's Thanksgiving song, there was this other song...

it's one of those things you've just gotta listen to at 6 in the morning on Thanksgiving Day (you can listen to the whole concert, or just part 2, which is "the song")

and there's a great interview with Arlo Guthrie that aired on NPR last year

and if that isn't enough for you, there's always the movie version

for girls only

"have a happy period"

Yes, that is what the wax paper thing said on the Always pad I was preparing to make use of.

Also written in French on the wax paper thing - "bonne et heureuse semaine," which I think roughly translates to "good and happy week."

I find this hilariously funny.

solvitur ambulando again

So even though I have a cold, and even though I was tired, I went for a walk around the lake anyway. No one seemed to need me in the office, so I didn't feel guilty for slipping out for half an hour. It wasn't as warm in the late afternoon as it had been earlier, but I had dressed in layers today, and I was armed with a pocketful of tissues, so I was comfortable enough.

The water was really raging over the waterfall due to the recent rain. I saw a couple of townhouses for sale, and I wish I could afford one because living in a townhouse on a lake sounds pretty divine to me. There were lots of dogs out today, including two pit bulls straining at the end of their leashes, wanting desperately to say hi to each other, and a few other small yappy dogs. The ducks and geese and swans had all congregated in one area on the water, with a heron observing them from a distance. No male deer with his ladies, like Jane and I saw yesterday. Despite my cold, I could still detect the smell of winter in the air - it has a distinct aroma, a combination of fireplaces, warmth being held in the body, ice in the wind, old scarves and mittens brought out of closets, or new ones bought, the sleep of some things, and the death of others. I never bought into the whole spring starts on this date and fall starts on that date. Mother Earth doesn't work that way - leaves were starting to change color and fall off trees in August.

Most everyone I passed nodded or smiled or said hi, including the old man who is always bundled up in coat and gloves and hat with ear flaps and shuffles along the path picking up trash and stray branches. Toward the end of my walk, the sunlight was full in my face, which I'm sure was good for my brain. In the blazing glare, I could just barely make out a young man coming toward me on what looked like crutches. As I got closer to him, I saw that in fact, he had two white metal canes that he would steady on the path and then swing his body forward. It was a slow process, requiring all of his focus, and it looked tiring, but he wasn't out of breath. He didn't seem to have any use of his legs, which he kept close together and which were slightly twisted at an odd angle. He was by himself, coming from the parking lot. I can't imagine how he had gotten to the lake, and I wondered if he intended to go around the entire lake, which is a good two and a half miles in circumference. He looked up and smiled at me easily, and I smiled back easily, and he went back to steadying the canes and swinging forward, and I suddenly had a whole section of plot figured out for my novel. So thank you, whoever you were (and are).

NaNoWriMo word count: 24399

where goes my energy?

This afternoon, I was lying on the treatment table in my acupuncturist's office with two needles in my right hand, sniffling and coughing and getting ever more scared at how tired I am lately. I wake up tired since I rarely sleep deeply anymore, oweing to panic attacks and the cat throwing up in the middle of the night, sometimes several times, and all the other stuff running through my head. I've tried the sleeping pills, which my body seems to fight (what an odd feeling - tired but fighting to remain awake), and all the other usual things recommended for insomnia. They work temporarily, and then I am back to waking up several times a night.

My brain is very active when I'm trying to get to sleep. All the things that have been shoved aside during the day for one reason or another come forward then, as that seems to be the only time they'll get attention.

Running through the list in my head, these things have a lot to do with what others need or want from me. I have given so much of my energy to others this year, both personally and professionally, and in many cases have gotten little back, and yet it is demanded that I give even more, and sadly, I don't think I have anything left and nowhere to go to get more energy reserves. Are you supposed to give of yourself to the point (and well past it) where you no longer exist as a person of worth to anyone and are simply seen as a vessel to be taken from with no thought as to your well being or the damage such treatment may cause? Are you to be used in such a way and then when you are empty or others no longer want or like what you give, they simply drop you and move on? Is that really how it works? Is it a female Polacek thing, Emily?

In a professional setting, I don't take it all that personally because of the professional distance. The client wants another vendor after we've bent over backwards for them? Fine. Next project, please. Co-workers are bitching in a meeting about the same things they always bitch about? Fine. I'll be in my office with the door shut. Come see me when you're ready to be rational and productive. It's harder to cope with it when it's personal.

I have learned, particularly recently, that people's perceptions of giving differ greatly (this is an offshoot of my efforts to try and consider other people's perspectives and not just my own - and I freely admit that I am only okay and not great at this - and stupidly hoping that mine might be considered in return). What I think are gestures of offering, others often dismiss without thought and barely a thank you, which stings, and in addition, they are offended if I fail to do things they consider important acts of giving, which must sting for them. I guess I am so wrapped up and busy with the things I'm giving, I've no time to give all the other things people want. Huge lesson: I can't do it all. I fail miserably at it, and yet it is expected of me nonetheless, and therefore, I'm failing more and more. I'm just not sure why it is expected of me. Do I have some sign on me that says "take all you want and then let her know how disappointed you are in what you get because you want other stuff too and don't forget to be unsatisfied with that as well"? Ironically, those same things others harp on me to do, they fail to do in return - ie, the things they want me to do for them, they won't do for me, though they make vague promises that they will. It's the whole words-and-actions thing not matching up. Double standards and lip service - I hate them both.

The problem seems to be a not-quite-good-enough syndrome that has followed me around since about third grade. Strangely, it was never me thinking I wasn't good enough, it was others constantly and freely pointing it out to me in various ways. And it's still going on, and I somehow learned to think it was arrogant if I so much as dared stand up for myself and contradict them. What is scary is that the more people I meet and encounter in life, the ever-smaller my circle of true supporters and friends and allies who do think I'm good enough (abso-tively lovely people, all of you) seems to be, and that makes me more and more wary and reluctant to open my arms and my heart and my life to anyone. How much bruising is a girl supposed to take anyway?

But how's this for a revelation: I don't think it's that I'm not good enough in general. I think it's that I'm not good enough for certain people (an ever-expanding list, apparently). A co-worker of mine has a theory: the reasons people cite for deciding that someone is good enough or not can run the gamut from the bloody obvious to the bizarrely picky, and there's not a damn thing you as the one being decided upon can do about it. It is entirely based on the decider's background, experiences, character, personality, likes, dislikes, and what they ate on Tuesday. I am learning to be okay with this, as I can't waste precious energy worrying over it.

Yes, I truly wish I had an endless reserve of offering so that I could give without thinking about it, and if someone was disappointed in what I gave, I could give even more and not think about that either. Sadly, I am not blessed with that ability. My reserve is filled by the gratitude and giving of others, and my reserve is empty not because others are not grateful and giving enough, but because there are too few who do so. And of those who do, I dare not demand more because they have been grateful and giving far beyond what I deserve. I know my gratitude and giving to them are in good hands and hearts. That is why they are so abso-tively lovely.

home again

I think I've set a record - I listened to about 130 presentations over four days. That's definitely immersion in oncology. How much of it will I retain, though? Probably only highlights and tidbits, such as how to incorporate agents into post-remission therapy, which could lengthen remission and survival. I heard about vaccine therapy for non-Hodgkins lymphoma, one of the more deadly cancers. We normally think of vaccines as a means to prevent contraction of disease, yet in oncology, it's now being used to slow, stop, and/or reverse disease. Pretty cool. Indolent follicular lymphoma is the second most common NHL, and is usually advanced at presentation. Patients are often asymptomatic, and it's non-curable with traditional chemo. The key messages here were to try to get patients into trials so this lymphoma can be studied in more detail, to understand how to observe asymptomatic patients, and to use local radiation for stage 1.

Combo therapy was a big topic. There were a lot of comparisons of therapy plus chemo, therapy instead of chemo, therapy before or after chemo; with chemo tends to win out in terms of progression of cancer, remission, relapse, and survival rates after treatment.

I was particularly intrigued by the HPV vaccine presentation. Have you seen the commerials that use the scare tactic "cancer from a virus?" Here's the thing, while 80% of women will be infected with HPV, only about 7% will develop cervical cancer from it, but they don't tell you that in the commercials, which make it out to be the next epidemic. Apparently, there is talk of routine vaccination in girls as young as 9 years old (one question was even asked about the possibility of mandatory vaccination). The vaccine is more effective in females who have not had exposure to any sexual activity and in younger women (high school age) vs older (college-age). I've come across several articles (the most well-written one by Christiane Northrup) arguing against mass vaccination, primarily due to the low rate of HPV progressing to cervical cancer and lack of data on the long-term effect of vaccine, especially in girls still developing hormonally (ie, does it have the potential to affect menstruation, pregnancy, menopause, etc). I think the better thing to do would be to figure out which 7% will develop the cancer and focus on treating them. Just a thought.

Toxicity and side effects are obvious concerns. Many of these treatments are essentially controlled poisoning. Yes, they fight the cancer, but they do a hell of a lot of other damage in the process. And the problem with toxicity is that you may have to stop treatment, reduce dose, or change treatment, either temporarily or permanently, which risks progression of disease. Again, methinks there should be more focus on making these treatments less toxic, so that the immune system can be helped by them, rather than hindered. It's never a good idea to mess with the body's ability to take care of itself, yet that seems to be what Western medicine is primarily about.

Bob and I did manage to get some time out in the city. We went to Max Brenner's for a dark chocolate fondue lunch - I've never seen chocolate so incredibly smooth like this was. The whole place is all about chocolate - margaritas, martinis, crepes, and all kinds of concoctions and goodies. The company logo is a clever one-continuous-line drawing of Max's head.

We also had dinner at Asia de Cuba - that's right, cuban and asian food fusion. The waiters wear those Chairman Mao jackets, and though the tables and floor and walls (covered floor to ceiling with white curtains) are all white, it's very dim in there. The food was great - Bob and I just got a bunch of appetizers, one of which was skewered chicken with what tasted like cinnamon bun glaze.

Poor Bob. He ended up spending most of his time in his hotel room working out emergencies for our next meeting in NY in a couple of weeks. Funny that, the company paid for him to go to NY to catch up on the latest and greatest in oncology, and instead was paying for him to do work that he would have done back in the office. And the Marriott Marquis is not a cheap place to stay. Oh well, it's their dime.

I got back home late last night and slept until about noon today, woke up with a sinus headache from all this rain and the lovely NY air, too probably.

I've completely fallen off with my daily word quota, so I need to get back on track with that. Same thing happened last year due to another business trip, but I still managed to get to 50K, so I'm not worried. Yet.

a description

I am sitting in my faintly cigarette-smoke-smelling room on the 36th floor of the Marriott Marquis on Broadway. Futurama is on Cartoon Network. Looking out and up from my window, I can see fog/smog drifting lazily around the skyscrapers, the sky has gone murky milky brown, and super-bright glittery lights from the theaters on Broadway are strangely hypnotic. Communication has been turned on its head this week, and the housekeeping people think that giving me a bar of chocolate is supposed to make up for the smoke smell in my room (ironically, this is supposed to be a non-smoking hotel; I tried to get a different room, but it's booked solid for the conference). I'd get something munchy and comforting from the mini-bar, if there was one. Fortunately, I bought protein bars and water at the train station. People who know about my bad travel karma will not be surprised at the above-named irritants.

My co-worker and I have already decided on the revolving hotel restaurant and a thai place as two of our dinner options this week. Other suggestions?

Now to bed. I'm facing four days of non-stop oncology presentations, eight hours a day, a new presentation every 10 minutes. Anyone have questions about cancer, I'm your girl.

ghost writing part 2

Sometimes it sucks being so in tune with the Universe. Sometimes I try to ignore it, instead of paying attention to it. I attribute it to acupuncture and my Iroquois ancestors - a dangerous combination. When meridians are clear, and chi is humming merrily along, it is super easy for the Spirits to dial into the right frequency.

So in part 1, I wrote about the weird feeling I was getting around this year's November writing frenzy that was reminiscent of last year's Need to Write and the whole story (no pun intended...well, maybe) that caused it all, and how I didn't like it and couldn't understand it because I wasn't in the same situation as last year. However, almost as soon as I wrote that, I WAS in the same situation. The ghosts from last year were simply reappearing to let me know it was about to happen again.

Oddly, last year's ex sent me messages that essentially bookended my most recent... whatever-it-was (I'm not sure now what it was; can I even call it a "relationship?"). He sent me an e-mail just as I was getting into this most recent...thing (maybe I was a fling?), and he sent another one the very day I figured out I was being shut out. And no, I'm not getting back together with last year's ex, in case anyone was worried.

And then my grandfather showed up. My grandfather (who's been dead for 26 years) is usually the ringleader. At least, he's the one I sense most strongly. He's always looking out for us grandkids - he even got little Joe to sleep in his own room and not be afraid of the dark. He sat next to me when I had my first panic attacks, and I could have sworn he was sitting next to me a few nights ago while I was writing. He always sits on my left.

I had attributed all my worries and weird feelings to my usual habit of being too much in my head, coping with this time of year's lack of sunlight. I should really learn to trust my own guidance and warning systems more. They are almost always spot on. My apologies, Ancestors. I should have listened. It would have lessened the sting.

Irony of the story: fall is supposed to be my dominant and best season, according to my acupuncturist; but so far, this one really really sucks. Only the colors have been good.

NaNo word count: 9822 (nearly a fifth done!)

after you've created

If you do anything creative, whether it's big or small, and no matter how much or how little of it you've created, I strongly encourage you to read this, as it's all about what will become of your creative pieces once you're no longer around. You don't want just anybody getting your stuff, do you?

silent treatment

Being blown off by someone is an interesting phenomenon. It makes you wonder what you did wrong, and if you're a horrible person. And you start analyzing yourself and every conversation you had, and every look, and interaction, and gesture, and what did you miss, and why did you miss it, and were your doubts legitimate or just you being silly, and how could you be so stupid, and is it some karmic punishment for something you did at some other time? It's ironic too, because you'll never know since they won't talk to you, and yet prior to the wall of silence, you had gotten your hopes up because you thought you had finally gotten it right and had made a good choice, which makes it all the more depressing and disappointing to think you may have been wrong after all, so how can you trust your own judgement in the future? And it wounds you, especially when you feel like you made an effort and did things for them and did better this time around than last time and tried not to repeat the same mistakes as last time, and yet it made no difference in the end, and you wonder why you bother trying if people will just treat you that way, and you just want to crawl into a hole and hope everyone forgets about you because you feel like some horrific repulsive flaw or other must be written on your face that all can see. And finally, you wonder how you'll get through it, and if you ever will. And you wish the headache would go away so you could sleep.