I haven't been writing for NaNoWriMo. I started on my story, but about midway through the first page I got distracted and wandered away. I haven't felt like going back since.

It's a scifi/romance/western. And if that description didn't also lead you to the obvious conclusion, satire, it's that too.

Actually, I haven't felt like writing much of anything lately. More on this later.

For now, read this measly scrap from my third-in-a-row unsuccessful NaNoWriMo attempt:

Theodore "Cactus" Rowe was only somewhat perturbed when his dog, Max, started talking. Max was an ancient, brittle border collie who, in his fourteen years of life on Cactus' ranch, had chased into submission all manner of livestock. Max was now far too old to chase anything except in his dreams where he pursued wild flights of dog fancy, or so Cactus imagined when he fed Max the daily plethora of old-dog-medicine.

Max, on the other hand, was far more alarmed. Having never said anything but bark bark arf grr his entire life, Max wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation when he opened his mouth and uttered, "Hey Cactus."

Cactus, who had been paying bills up until that point, put down his pen and checkbook and looked over his glasses at Max. Cactus thought to himself, "Now that's odd. He's never talked before." Max seemed to be searching the room for the source of his newfound verbal ability; he jerked his head back and forth with both ears erect, glaring at anything that wasn't furniture.

When he heard nothing more from the dog, Cactus shrugged and pushed his glasses up on his nose. Looking once more at Max, he said, "You know, pal, you're not supposed to be on the missus' rug. She'll tan your mangy old hide if she notices the fur."

He shook a finger at Max for emphasis. Max guiltily got up and deposited himself just to the side of the heirloom oriental rug that had apparently been passed down to the women in Mrs. Isabel Rowe's family for generations, or so Isabel--and her mother--said.

The instant Max sat down, he spoke again. "Cactus, come outside."

Max was on his feet and growling in less than a second, which is quite a feat for a dog who is bordering on turning to dust. Cactus took his glasses all the way off this time and stood up.

"Okay, dog. You're talking to me, and I'm not so sure how I feel about that, but I figure it's probably God speaking through you, and I've got no business not doing what God says, so I'm going," and Cactus went outside.

The last lick of sun that would be in the sky that night sunk below the horizon at exactly the moment Cactus stepped onto his porch. Stars began to flicker on and Cactus couldn't help but stare in wonder at the billions of little pinpricks that dotted the virgin sky.

"I'll never miss the city," he whispered. Cactus grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, right smack-dab in the middle. There might've been a tenth of the stars visible from above the city's lights, if the night was generous. Cactus hated it in Atlanta, but when he was fifteen, his parents moved him across the country to Wyoming to a ranch outside ________, with more open space than you could shake a stick at. Cactus had been home ever since.

He finally managed to tear his eyes away from the sky. Cactus' gaze fell upon the figure of a tall, slim man. "Must be God," Cactus thought and briefly considered whether or not he should bow. Max had followed Cactus to the front door and was now barking frantically at the slim man from behind the screen. The slim man put up a hand and Max, in the same voice as before, told himself to shut up and sit down, which he promptly did while looking more confused than ever.

"Amen," Cactus said, with a bow, "Um. Come in, Lord, sit in my recliner and feast on Isabel's chicken casserole. Should I be anointing you with oil? We've got baby, mineral, and canola." Cactus wished he'd actually bothered to go to church more than once in the last five years. The slim man stepped closer to the porch where his face was illuminated; he looked puzzled, Cactus noticed, and incredibly not-quite-right. The slim man lacked any sort of center to his eyes, instead they were filled with a beehive network of whitish, pinkish spots; he had a nose and ears, too, but no mouth.. The slim man turned his insectoid gaze on Cactus and, with his hand still pointed at Max, forced the dog to utter, "I am not your God. I am your observer."

"Sounds a lot like God to me," Cactus muttered, "all he ever does is observe anymore."

The slim man shook his head, and Max said, "I am not from your planet. I am from there." The slim man used his other hand to point vaguely at the sky.

Cactus gave a smile and nodded, still utterly convinced he was dealing with God. "I'm glad you've got a sense of humor. Means I still stand a chance of getting into heaven."