Update:
As of 2:35 a.m. on 11/10 I have 8,608 words.

Morale:
Excellent. This was a very good day, partly due to the fact that the subject matter I worked on is much more fun, but mostly due to a glorious conjunction of quantity with what feels like quality.

Ever since I left my job I've been sticking with one cup of coffee in the morning, and maybe a cup of tea in early evening. I thought I would keep that up through NaNoWriMo, even though the last two years have been characterized by fiendish caffeine consumption. I figured that since I wouldn't be combatting sleep deprivation this time around, I wouldn't need the extra caffeine.

But hey, maybe it's just a coincidence that I nearly doubled my typical daily output and my caffeine intake on the same day.

Excerpt:

She goes to her room and takes the emergency flashlight out from under the bed, and stares at it intensely, the way she imagines a psychic might. Nothing happens. She remembers Jake's smile, and the damn butterflies that flap around in her stomach every time she sees him. She thinks about her horrible embarrassment in French class, compounded by those flickering lights. She stares at the flashlight, waiting for it glow, preparing herself for the drowning sensation of having her worst fear confirmed.

Nothing happens. Minutes go by. All her focus is on the flashlight as she runs through every tumultuous teenage emotion at her disposal. And still nothing happens.

She drops the flashlight to the floor and falls back on the floral bedspread, grinning at the ceiling.

Thank God, she thinks.

[And then there's a scene of teenage trauma - not a Carrie-at-the-prom level of trauma, and certainly funnier (how hard can that be?). I'm not including it here because I think it will be too long to excerpt, and also I haven't written it yet.]

She arrives at home, breathless, and goes straight to her bedroom for the flashlight. She turns it on, and off, and on again. Nothing happens. She twists open the casing and pours out two C batteries covered in crystalline decay. So much for emergencies.

She runs into the kitchen, rummaging through the junk drawer, gathering up all the batteries she can find, but none of them are the right size. After throwing around old fuses and rolls of twine and take-out menus for restaurants that aren't even in business anymore, she realizes that she should just use the batteries in her portable stereo.

She walks back to her room and heads toward the stereo, but before she can get there, music surges out of it - Boy George is offering to tumble for her. She fights with the switches, trying and failing to turn it off, the music getting louder as her frustration grows. She finally bows to the inevitable and takes the batteries out. The silence doesn't make her feel much better.

She sits down on her bed, staring at the batteries in her hand, and thinks, Shit.