I have eight days left to write. I am at 37,550. I have not had to take up Jocelyn's suggestion that I write "poop" 1,000 times. I waver between really liking how it's going and really hating it. I wonder how I will ever get in all I want to get in before the time is up.
Then I remind myself: there's always December. And that, my friends, is a horrifying thought, particularly on the days I'd like to bin the whole story.