The more I think about it, the more it seems like work.  No plot, no characters, and most importantly, no inciting incident?  What type of novel could come from these parameters?  I must be crazy.  What was I thinking yesterday?  This is not going to be fun at all.  As if I don’t have enough to worry about, with a full-time day job, pets and an un-trained husband.

She paused her tirade of paranoia.  It was November 1, the first day of NaNoWriMo, and she was already knee-deep in a full-blown panic attack.  What was she so worked up about?  This could not be the first time she had attempted a major project with absolutely no plan.  Or was it?  In any case, there was a first time for everything.  She didn’t get any sleep the first night.  She stayed up all night with a bottle of wine and SpongeBob Squarepants.

She woke up on the ground in front of a huge pineapple.  Her surroundings seemed vaguely familiar, but she was sure she had never been there before.  What was she breathing?  It was thicker than air.  Suddenly, she gasped as she realized that she was breathing water.  Breathing water, how was this possible?  She wasn’t breathing, she was drowning!  She must have fallen out of a boat!  She frantically flailed her arms as she held her breath.  There was nothing for her to grab on to.  Nothing to pull herself out of the ocean, out of the sea.  Apparently, she was destined to die here, under water, in front of a large pineapple…

There was something vaguely familiar about her surroundings.  Wait a minute, she was still alive.  For some reason, she hadn’t drowned yet.  She put her hand on her chest… yes, she was still breathing water.  How was this possible?  It didn’t make sense.  ‘Oh well,’ she decided.  She didn’t have time to figure it out – she had to get on with the story.

She walked up to the front door of the pineapple.  Nothing happened.  She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching her.  There was no one there.  She turned back to the door.  It was shorter than her, with a round top.  Even if someone did answer the door, she wouldn’t be able to fit through it.  She’d have to crawl.  She wasn’t entirely sure she’d want to enter this pineapple anyway.  Why does this pineapple have a door?  Why was she knocking on it?  The whole situation did not make sense.

She waited.  She leaned toward the house and cautiously pressed her ear against the door.  She knocked again.  And listened.  There was silence.  Nobody was home.  She stepped away from the door and chuckled to herself.  What type of… person?  Did she expect to answer the door anyway?  Maybe it was a good thing that nobody was home.

She sat up in her bed.  Raezana was in her bedroom, alone, again.  ‘That’s the third SpongeBob dream I’ve had this week,’ she thought, squinting in confusion.  How screwed up is my life that I’m dreaming about visiting a sponge that lives in a pineapple under the sea and he’s not even at home to great me?

She didn’t answer the question.  The flat screen TV that dominated her bedroom was on.  The DVD menu of SpongeBob Squarepants Season 3 was playing on an obnoxious loop cycle.  Again.  Raezana picked up the DVD player remote and turned the TV off.  ‘Did you ever have the feeling you were being watched?’ she asked herself.  She laughed, even though it was not funny.

An hour later, Raezana was awoken by a rooster crowing incessantly.  Cock-a-doodle-do!  Cock-a-doodle-do!  Cock-a-doodle-do!  The rooster didn’t pause, it didn’t take any breaks, it just kept crowing.  Because it was an alarm clock, not a rooster.  An extremely obnoxious one, at that.

Raezana pulled the ringing alarm clock off of her bedside table.  It fell to the floor, still ringing.  A few moments later, she yanked the alarm clock out of the wall and threw it out of the open window.  She heard it continue to crow until it was abruptly silenced by the pavement.  Then she realized that she did not know what time it was.

‘Crap, I forgot to check the time before I threw it out of the window!’ she scolded herself.  She couldn’t afford to go through alarm clocks at this rate.  This was the 4th alarm clock she had lost this month.  Yes, they were only $5 apiece, but the money was adding up.  She’d spent about $175 on cheap alarm clocks this year.  She felt as though $170 of that money had been thrown out of the window.  Wasted.

Raezana decided to get out of bed despite not knowing what time it was.  She figured that anything she did would be more exciting than continuing an internal dialogue based on alarm clocks.  Lord have mercy, what a boring novel this was going to be!  Raezana hoped that the author would not throw the manuscript out of the window in frustration.  Then she wondered who and what she was talking about.  She was discussing herself in third person again.  Maybe she needed to stop drinking cheap wine.

She wasn’t poor, but she didn’t have enough disposable income to fund her drinking preferences.  If it were up to her, she would have a couple glasses of champagne or merlot every evening as she wrote and performed.  But she could only afford a box of cheap sangria twice a week.  She made do with what she had, but she worried that it was killing brain cells.  Raezana had never tried drugs, but she thought it would be nice to try them one day.  At least then, she’d have a story to go along with her lost brain cells.