
Well, I did it. I shut my inner editor up long enough to produce 50,000 words in 29 days. Are they good words? Some of them. But, as the title of the post indicates, “done” does not necesarily equate with “finished.”
I am “done” with NaNoWriMo for this year. But my novel is far from finished. I still have to write a little more. (The epilogue is currently only one sentence). And then comes the bear of editing the monster. I may wait until March for NaNoEdMo. We shall see.
But now, reading over the story, there are some inane conversations going on. And part of me is like, there is no way those conversations would take place in real life. And then I remember the mix tape conversation from the PATH not too long ago.
Scene: PATH train on a Friday night, about 11:00. I am with my coworker, going back to NJ. Two guys, about my age, and two girls, about 10 years younger, get in the car with us. They are obviously drunk and going back to Hoboken to drink some more. The louder and drunker guy, we’ll call him Joe, starts talking about mix tapes.
Joe (to his assigned drunk 20-year-old): You mean nobody’s ever made you a mix tape?
20-year-old: No.
Joe’s somewhat-less-drunk-friend: Dude, you’re showing your age, talking about tapes. It’s all digital now.
Joe: I’m all about the analog. (Seriously. I would not make this up).
Joe: *looking at a guy halfway down the car* Hey you, you’re over 30. Ever make anyone a mix tape?
Guy: *shakes head*
Joe: *points at woman across from him* Come on, you’re in your 30s. Anyone ever make you a mix tape?
Woman: No.
Joe: *looks down at me and sees me laughing* Oh, someone must have made you a mix tape, you’re laughing. What was his name?
Me: *shakes head*
Joe: Come on? What was your first boyfriend’s name? I know he made you a mix tape.
Me: *shakes head again*
Joe: (to my coworker who is in her 50s) What about you. Anyone ever make you a mix tape?
Coworker: No.
Joe: Do you remember the name of your first crush?
Coworker: *shakes head*
Joe: Come on! Tell me his name!
Coworker: *sighs* Derek
Joe: Was he a white guy? (my coworker is black).
Coworker: What? No.
Joe: I don’t know. Derek is a white guy’s name.
Thankfully, we reached Hoboken at that point and Drunkey Drunkerson and his friend proceeded to go bar hopping with their hootchie friends. So the moral of this story is, inane conversations happen every day, and I shouldn’t be so hard on my story. That, and past 25, getting so trashed that you embarass yourself on the subway is no longer excusable.