Let the madness begin!

It's official. I'm NaNo-ing.

Word Count: 1677.
Plot: No idea. Well a glimmering of one. Just seeing where my fingers will lead me.
Genre: Batman. Nolanverse AU. Mystery, adventure and Romance. Violence, profanity and porn will be possibly be involved, for my enjoyment.  Hetfic, I think, because I'd have to be really insane to try slash on my first try. 
Rating: R if not NC-17 
Title: Dude, I don't even have a plot! 

Here it is, if you wanna see. Character voices are non-existent, so I'll probably have to re-write the whole dadgum thing from scratch during edits (if I ever get that far). For now, however, I'm not looking back! Whee! 

I suspect myself of having alien body chemistry

I'm trying not to look at myself. I look like I'm starring in a remake of The Machinist. I didn't know just six days of living on bread and bran crackers can do that to a person. Eep.

Meanwhile, Flagyl has been discontinued, all other symptoms are gone,  but raging diarrhea remains. I don't have any idea what I'm even running on at this point. Pure adrenaline? I've never heard of either stomach flu or food poisoning lasting this long. The virus should be starved out by now. The folks are in discussion whether to just go and hospitalize me today. That is funny, because I actually feel better today than I did for the past six days, even though I still can't eat much and can't get it anything I eat to stay in my stomach. Nevertheless, I am up and about. I would feel rather silly about being hospitalized since I don't feel that weak. Which is baffling, because by all rights I should be keeling over with malnutrition. WTF, body? 

On the plus side, I got myself excused from my mid semesters. *is happy* 

Oh well. At least I have NaNo to take my mind off all this. Wish I could see Boy today though. I miss my baby. *is sad* 

Must eat to plot.

There are three things standing between me and my NaNo:

1) I keep trying to incorporate several plots into one story, or write several stories at once.

2) The lack of food is making my fingers go numb and I keep wanting to barf.

3)A plot! I do not haz it!

Hmmm.  

Phobia of imperfection.

It's ten minutes to midnight and I've been staring at the blank word document on my screen for the past hour. Inspiration does not strike. I can't bear to mar the endless possibilities that blank white page holds by defacing it with a single word. I just know that whatever I write and however I write it, I'll never do justice to the beautiful idea that has formed in my head, fragile as a butterfly newly emerged from its chrysallis.

My fingers freeze over the keyboard and a cold panic grips me. I stare at the page in terror, nearly hyperventilating. The guy who dreamt up this scheme of writing a novel in thrity days flat, no editing and no revising along the way, is a born fool who knows nothing about novelling. Storytelling isn't some sort of sport, for Chrissake! It's an art. A careful craftmanship where ham-handed carelessness can destroy the most precious potential. You can't just charge into it like a bull elephant in a china shop, with no idea where you're going or what you're doing. You could ruin your story. Just ruin it, so the beauty that shines in your mind's eye like a crystal star will lie in heartbreaking shambles before you're a third of the way through. That's what you're risking here. Without the perfect word and the perfect turn of phrase and the perfect timing...why even try if the end result will never be as perfect the picture that exists in your mind? 

The page stares blankly at me. 

I stare back at it, willing the perfect words to spew from my fingertips onto the keys. 

My fingers quiver nervously over the keyboard. The page is still blank. 

My story beats its fists against my skull, pounding an agony at my temples, fighting to be let loose into the world. 

The page is still blank.