Your dad will write a novel in thirty days. Inspired by NaNoWriMo (or National Novel Writing Month), which took place, incidentally, across November, your dad is picking up the gauntlet thrown down by that infectiously enthusiastic organization. He's, needless to say, late to the party. So he won't be checking the gadget ticking away on the official website, the days, hours, minutes, and seconds bringing the finish line closer and closer, whether the writer is ready for it or not. His clock will be his own.
The point of the exercise isn't quality. It's quantity. He will press forward, heedless of where the story's been, heedless of where the story goes. For the most part. He will write a book that he's always wanted to read, but hasn't found anywhere. He'll tell you about it in thirty days. That should put him at the bleeding edge of two-thousand ten.
Your dad isn't leaving. But his blog will sit unchanged for the next four-plus weeks. He will then decide whether the marathon session awakened a dormant novelist gene within him, or has most assuredly scared him off.
