A chill in the air

Fall: no better time in the world, especially in New York. The leaves are all manner of gorgeous, culture kicks into high gear, and everything is liberally spiked with pumpkin essence -- lattes, bread, ice cream. Big bouquets of dried flowers (see above) are only fifteen dollars at the Union Square Greenmarket; snuggling up with a mug of hot cocoa and a book is an acceptable way to spend one's Friday night; and the whole season culminates in Thanksgiving, a gastronome's delight, where your biggest worry is whether the bird, six colorful sides, two pies, and a case of wine will carry you through the night.

Or at least that's how it should be. This year has been a strange one, and November has proved no exception. Everything seems extremely urgent and yet as fleeting as a fog that rolls in before dawn and dissipates by 10 a.m. I may be in the home stretch of National Novel Writing Month (just 10,000 words to go), but there are a lot of other balls still in the air. I'll let this photo of my cat's mournful cry express my agita:

Nano-ing my wrimo

No, that doesn't make sense. At all. Anyhow! I am valiantly attempting National Novel Writing Month again. I've made several abortive efforts to excrete 50,000 words in the span of November, and I've never actually made it to the finish line. Maybe this year will be different? Right now, it's 300 words about a girl staring at a blank page as she tries to think of something interesting to write for Nanowrimo. Ummm ... yes, this will not end well.