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“What do you mean I can’t do it? You just watch me…”

Instead of making up lost distance in the writing of my novel from scratch in 30 days, maybe I’ll tag two letters on to the end of the word of my writing ambition.

A novella.

Would it be so wrong?

Maybe.

But at this point it’s either novella – or even novelette, both of which are less in the word count than the 40,000-plus for a novel and the 50,000 of the National Novel Writing Month competition – or it is the writing of lots of lines of “All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy.” Or it is an end for me like that of the main characters in Ian McEwan’s The Comfort of Strangers, a killer of a short novel.

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