So, I'm in.

Even though I have spent the last few days thinking about how much I couldn't really afford to officially enter the 3-Day Novel Contest, I realized this morning that I had to.

Sure, the possibility of not officially entering but still writing all weekend does exist, but not in my world. If I hadn't entered, something would have invariably come up, and one more weekend would have passed without me getting any closer to the goal of completing a novel. The fifty-dollar entry fee was a commitment. Sending it away declared, "You are going to do this."

All along, I have said that it was lack of discipline that was getting in the way of adding "novelist" to the category of "short story writer" when it comes to my "label". But when I was thinking about it this morning, I recognized that deep dark feeling for what it really was: fear.

I used to get that way about essays at school. I couldn't write them. I'd want to do such a good job that I'd get myself all wound up, almost to the point of hyperventilating, and then nothing comprehensible would hit the page. Not until my teacher said to me, "You know, I really do need that TOMORROW" would I be able to get it done. And so now, like then, because my fear of "not doing" is greater than my fear of failure, I sent my money order this morning.

After the post office, I did a few more errands, and then tried to decide what to do next. Having sent the money order meant I was really going to do this contest, but that didn't mean I had any real idea of what I was going to write.

In a moment of sheer impulse, I pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant. I was hungry, and I'm going back on my diet soon, but most of all, I remembered that I used to get my best ideas while sitting in a public place. Taking myself to lunch would not only get me away from the computer, which can sometimes trap my brain into going in circles, but is a massive sinkhole of time. (I can mindlessly surf like nobody's business.)

I ordered what I wanted, and enjoyed the music they were playing. It was all 80s stuff, some of it quite rare (Timbuk 3, anyone?), so although that means Generation X is now the "target demographic" (read: old), I was having a grand time. I pulled out my notebook and started to think. I'd had an idea while driving in the car, so I started to play with it. Would it work? Would the story be too big for 28,000 words? Would the conflict be strong enough? Could I remember the settings well enough?

I scribbled. I doodled. I crossed out. And by the time I paid my bill (free refills of Diet Pepsi -- YAY!), I had an idea where I was going.

Thank heavens.