Chris Baty

Dear Chris:

Yes, it’s November. National Novel Writing Month. I just wanted to thank you again for helping to make my life a living hell.

Five years ago, I met a lovely young lady and wanted to ask her to dinner. Of course, she had to put me off until December, because she was participating in this annual month of literary insanity that you invented. A gallant gentleman bent on winning her heart, I brought her dinner every night for an entire month, and made sure she got out of the apartment for a walk around the block every now and then. She thought I was sweet.

A year later, we were engaged and living together. Again, November descended, and my love disappeared into her novel. She started accepting dares from other NaNo novelists, and worried over how to fulfill them. I remember one particular sleepless night when she kept me up ’til 3am, regaling me with various strategies for working a roving band of vampire space monkeys into her novel set in nineteenth century English polite society. Somehow, she made it work, and she issued her own dare requiring writers to include L. Ron Hubbard reincarnating as a talking marshmallow.

Two years later, we’d been married three months, and — God help me — she convinced me to give NaNoWriMo a try. I failed miserably, probably because I was still being so supportive of Laura, cooking dinner every night, keeping the house at least modestly tidy, and nodding blankly as she thought out loud, working out plot points on how to get Ancient Incan treasure into the hands of some Stalinist nomads roaming the Mongolian plateau.

Long story short, we’re doing this again. We’re ordering out every night, and the newspapers and mail are piling up in the hallway. We’re stocked for coffee, goldfish crackers, and pepto-bismol. My novel is about a sock puppet climbing Mt. Everest, and Laura is working on a story about some oceanographers in the Bering Sea who discover a demonic armadillo in the hold. We each have our own laptops, and we’re issuing dares to each other. Last night, we both drank an entire pot of black coffee, straight up, and then went to work. The first person who made a dash for the toilet or otherwise wigged out had to introduce himself to everyone he met today as a writer in recovery.

Hello, my name is Jerry. I’m a writing addict.

But I’ve got a dare of my own planned for tonight. Whoever reaches a daily count of 2000 words last has to run naked through the local Barnes & Noble, right at closing time. I’m guessing I’d better go do some sit-ups, in case the bookstore streaker ends up being yours truly. Again.

I hope you’re happy.

– Jerry Brenner