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Sometimes you set an unrealistic goal in order to attain a real one. That was never the plan with your dad. He honestly felt a novel within reach. Not a great one. Not even a good one. But a novel nonetheless. Despite his fireball of enthusiasm, a novel was not the result. It was never going to be -- though it would be polite not to inform your dad of that.

He did, however, write more than he's ever written before. That's saying something. Your dad was the type of student that would be assigned a sixteen-page essay, turn in twelve, and politely inform the professor that that would be sufficient. This philosophy, and those face-to-face conversations with his teachers, ensured he never received anything higher than a B, but nothing lower than that either. Not when writing was involved. Concise, not convoluted. Succinct, not saturated.

Still.

The fantasy-fiction story told of a failing bard named Sayer. He played no instrument, told few stories, wrote disorienting poetry. His wife and child met an early and of course tragic end, while Sayer -- armed with little more than a sober disposition -- set sail as a bookkeeping yeoman onboard The Perilous. They chased down a ship smuggling arcane artifacts. Sayer welled up when he first stepped onboard an airwhale. And a flashback returned Sayer to his childhood, standing in front of a Spartan, dusty, martial arts temple, the lights dim, the students bright, his father's hand on the back of his neck.

Perhaps your dad will continue that story for you. One day. Some day.

For now, your dad is re-embracing the short story. Kyle, his friend and coworker (sadly, not in that order), devised a ludicrous subject as a jumping-off point. "Talking ... toaster," Kyle said, arms folded, smile implacable.

Kyle is one of the finest writers from your dad's graduating class at Southern Oregon University. Your dad jokes, "From what I've read, Kyle was one of the top three writers in our class. While I was one of the top two."

NaNoWriMo

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.