A commemorative poem.... Kind of.

The Last Day of NaNo

A parody poem by Kai Kiriyama

'Twas the last day of NaNo

And all through the house

Was a furious typing

And a neglected spouse.

The stories were wrought

With 'nary a care

Knowing that victory soon would be there.

The writers neglected the comforts of their beds,

While little plot bunnies danced through their heads.

With the goal in sight, and a promised night cap,

We'd write till the end, and then all take a nap.

When from across the room, there arose so much laughter,

I sprang from my laptop to see what was the matter.
Away from my story I ran in a dash,

I questioned the Wrimos, fearing a computer crash.

The faces of writers lit by computer's glow,

All spoke of insomnia, as all Wrimos know,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a new purple bar that had never been here,

With an impressive word count and a colour so slick,

I thought for a moment it must be a trick.

More rapid than word wars, the answers they came,

And the Wrimo explained not asking my name;

"Through word wars, and writer's block, and plot bunnies so!

Through insomnia, and distractions and inner editors we go!

To write in a month fifty thousand words is the goal!

Now write away! write away! write away all!"

As stunned as I was the speech made me want to cry,

The Wrimo had overcome this obstacle, it brought a tear to my eye,

So back to my novel with determination I flew,

Determined to earn myself the purple bar too.

And then, without warning, I heard in my head,

My own Inner Editor, filling me with dread.

So I shook my head, and tried not to drown,

As my Inner Editor spoke, a horrible sound.

He was filled with vile words, from his head to his foot,

And he tried to tarnish mywriting with his soot;

A bundle of doubts he was placing over my writing,

And his words were horrible, scathing and biting.

His eyes -- how they twinkled with malice, it was unnerving!

He sneered at my characters, said my work was undeserving!

His words poured forth from his mouth like bile,

And the temptation to delete my work was too vile;

The whole of my work, he held in his teeth,

And he tore it apart piece by piece;

'Twas a slap in the face and a punch in the belly,

And I felt all my insides turn right to jelly.

He said “no one wants to read about your trite little elf,”

And I almost deleted my work in spite of myself;

Then someone stood tall and broke through my dread,

And silenced the Inner Editor in my head;

He spoke not a word, but looked at my work,

And he checked my word count; then turned with a jerk,

And said “This Wrimo is almost to the end,

So let's cheer them on, let's prove we're all friends”;

He led the chant, as the group cheered and whistled,

And away the doubt flew, like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, as the end came in sight,

“Happy Writing to all, and to all a good night!”