NoBloPoMo?

Last year, I participated in — and won a lovely prize for (last paragraph) — NaBloPoMo. It was when this blog was in its precious infancy, before I became jaded and sleepless, and posting every day for an entire month helped me get into the writing habit again. I long debated whether or not to participate again this year ("To Blo, or not to PoMo?"), and in the end decided that I had too much on my plate to even consider taking part. I've just joined a book group, for Pete's sake. Plus, Netflix just sent us disc two of season one of Weeds, there's all that Bionic Woman waiting for me in the DVR, and the new translation of War and Peace just arrived in the mail...

Dance card full. End of.

So I am officially unsigned up. Still, there's something in me that feels I owe it to November — maybe even to Eden, who started this whole thing — to post every day. And so, unofficially, I'll be posting as often as is sanely possible. Maybe even every day. Much, I'm sure, to the dismay of The Husband, who is now officially a Blog Widower.

I only hope not to degenerate into mindless accounts of my nights (Did I mention that I was standing next to Robyn Hitchcock on the subway last night, and that one of his shirt buttons, one in the middle, had accidentally come undone?), or a disjunction of links (Though how else would you find Ali Smith's reinterpretation of Ovid's myth of Iphis at The Guardian?).

Bear with me, November. I'll try to please you. If nothing else, just to prove there's creativity in the old girl yet.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.