O ye fiendish devils! That I may be blocked for the better part of two weeks from updating my essay this year, and that ye dost compel me to undergo a midterm examination of all manners physic, yea, ‘tis enough—but then ye pull the wool over my five wits, that I lack the impetus to commence a coherent plot! I feel not much effort. Still, I have made my calculations and may finish this competition ahead, but my brainbox is befuddled to the brim with purple prose, meaningless and trite quotations, and utter episodes that come not ’til the later parts of the story. ’Tis not the destination, but the journey, ’tis been said. I say nay! it be not so, but NaNoWriMo dost name quantity, not quality, as its mistress. Here sit I in my dormitory, cobbling together a work of two thousand score and another ten thousand soon, making designs upon a plan with which I may complete the task. ’Tis eight thousand five hundred I’ve set down already, say the minders. The rest is yet to come, mark me well, the rest is yet to come.