Well, I've fallen behind again. Not in the grand scheme of things -- at Day 5's final wordcount of 13,813, I'm still several days ahead of schedule for NaNo -- but my relative modest 1,500 words today put me well behind the ever-productive Sharon T. Rose. As Sharon's latest tweet attests, she's written some 5,000 words today, putting her total at 17,126 words.

Why is my wordcount so low today compared to my recent results? All I can say is that life happens. A dozen minor distractions and interjections left me finding it difficult to concentrate on my manuscript and Thursdays are my longest (and sometimes busiest, as students scramble to finish projects before the weekend) shift at work every week.

If there's something to take from this, I think it's that writing has its ebbs and flows. When I sat down to write this morning, I wasn't really sure where my story was going and I only managed a few hundred words before I gave up on it. When I came back to the manuscript after work, I fired off 1,500 words of pure magic in a handful of scenes that I think is some of my best writing yet.

The race isn't over. Sharon has the lead, but I've got a whole weekend ahead of me with nothing better to do than type word after glorious word until I knock her out of the running. Let's do this.

Edit: I'm feeling epic. In light of this development, might I present the following, with apologies to Mr. Shakespeare.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close up the wall with our Weblit dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a writer
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of NaNo blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the best-seller;
Stiffen the fingers, summon up the coffee,
Disguise fair tweets with hard-favour'd trashtalk;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled Gabriel
O'erhang and jutty his confounded fan base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful Interwebs.
Now set the keys and stretch the fingers wide,
Hold hard the breath and type up every spirit
To his full height. On, you noblest Weblitarians.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of NaNo-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Lord Likelys,
Have in these parts from morn till even written
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to (wo)men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to write. And you, good yeo(wo)man,
Whose limbs were made in Weblit, show us here
The mettle of your literature; let us swear
That you are worth your overpriced English degree; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base (except Sharon),
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes (except Sharon).
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge,
Cry "God for NaNo, WriMo, and Weblit!"