I am close enough to the end of NaNoWriMo to think, optimistically, that I will finish it. However, if I am able to cross the 50,000-word finish line, it will take some novel revising strategies to improve my "novel." (The quotation marks are used because at this point, it can only be loosely called a novel. There are lots of places I have a straight line across the page, signifying I have to put some "connecting" stuff in that spot. And not just a little something, either. No, I'll need to put big piles of something in many places.)
In other words, it's a hot mess right now.
But as I took a break this morning, I read Lisa Ricard Claro's post. It went up today (Wednesday, the 23rd) and is entitled "Good Gravy!" but if you go and check out her blog on another day, you won't be disappointed to find another post.)
Yes, she lures us into her post with a photo of a gravy boat full of a fat-filled, delicious cargo. Don't be angry when you don't get to ladle some onto your potatoes. Lisa cannot help it. When you see photos of her, you realize that the only "gravy" she enjoys is the non-greasy type, the "my-kids-are-wonderful" kind of gravy...the "my-writing-friends-are-incredible, even-if-one-of-them-has-a-head-on-a-stick" kind of gravy...the "my-weiner-dog-is-the-best-dog-in-the-world" kind of gravy. In other words, the gravy of life...
Lisa's story about her son brought to mind a story about my daughter when she was a kid--probably 3 or so. I used to have a long drive to work when she was young, and her daycare center was close to my work, so we spent a lot of time in the car. She learned to talk early because while I drove, I would chat to her about the weather, the plans I had for work, what we would get from the grocery store on the way home, and so on.
I have always been fond of the horn. It is put on the car for a purpose. When a driver would do something stupid, I would give a quick toot and say, "Dammit!" I realized I was teaching my daughter the wrong thing when I tooted the horn once to let a driver know they could go through an intersection ahead of me and my little girl said, "Dammit!" with the perfect inflection.
This was decades before road rage became all the rage, so I no longer use my horn like I used to, and I've also learned to control my mouth--most of the time.
Read Lisa's post. She has marvelous advice for writers, along with the heart-warming story about her son.