Dani called us all in a panic yesterday because the NaNoWriMo project doesn't allow collaborative novels. "What are you going to do?" he squealed.

We didn't get it at first. "I don't understand," we said.

He tried another tack. "Who in your system is writing the novel?"

"Kate," said Claire, still without understanding what the fuss was.

"Darn it," Dani grumped, "I'm going to go call someone this news matters to."

Finally Claire grokked that he was assuming a multiple system would collaborate to write anything, and two or more people are not, by the rules, supposed to jointly write a novel. I told him to post in the forums about it, but I don't think he did. (Checking... nope. 0 posts by kaleidoscopehouse. Even we have posted... 5 times.)

But we're not collaborating, so the issue does not worry us. Is this strange behavior for such a multiple? Are we wasting the resources of our vast and complex brain? It feels good to be the sole author of this baby novel. (Um... this about-to-be-born novel?) There is a sense of ownership all mine, and it's been a long time since I had this kind of body time. My novel. My baby little novel. I feel a sense of kinship with Julian, who also steals emotions and situations to create his work solo. He dedicates his songs to the person he stole from. Who would I dedicate this work to? It has a grander scope than one song does.

I am out, I am me, I will get time. This body has changed so much, people have come and gone, situations change, but I am still me and words are still mine, and I don't care who else isn't; I'm staying up tonight and starting at midnight.

Unless, of course, I get tired.

I want to write now. I'm afraid this mood won't last. I'm afraid tomorrow will come and my fingers will stare blankly at me, wondering why I had such courage, such confidence in them. The month will be rocky and I can't believe that I'll actually do it. I plan to, though. I might even go to Scotts Valley for a scruzers write-a-thon, some Sunday. I'd have to be able to buy something to write on, first.

It's two hours until November. I was so resolved - I was going to stay up and write. But my eyes are droopy (it's only ten) and I am not a night person. I don't know how beautiful or coherent I can be, and honestly, I don't know why I would want to write at midnight.

So it's to bed with me. Tomorrow morning the madness begins.