Backstory: Write a book in 30 days? What a novel idea.

I worry I won't recognize author Christee Gabour Atwood in a mall full of soccer moms and sweat-suited octogenarians, but she's hard to miss. She's the woman skipping into a Waldenbooks here with an enormous white hairball slung over her shoulder. The orange beak jostling against her ankle is a giveaway, too – the lady who calls herself "The Rubber Chicken" is on the premises, prepared for battle with a keyboard.

The chicken and I are just two of the 79,813 participants in the sixth annual National Novel Writing Month – NaNoWriMo, for short – a self-directed, kamikaze approach to writing that embraces quantity over quality. The premise, dreamed up by San Francisco writer Chris Baty, is simple. Everyone says they'll write a book one day. What if each person wrote a 50,000-word novel in 30 days, setting aside fears and making a mad dash for the impossible? It's a beautifully insane scheme that appeals to insomniacs, masochists, and – apparently – the would-be writer in thousands of us.

Participants keep track of their own progress online, and in a game where word count is king, the chicken is trouncing most of us. I, in fact, have run into plot snarls and a house so clean – cleaning being my little diversion from writing – that you couldn't find a mote of dust.

Slipping behind the bookshelves, giggling like a child, Mrs. Atwood dons her suit, affectionately dubbed "Uncle Miltie," and settles at her table in the bookstore window, where she writes. She could pen her plotlines at home, wearing comfy sweats like the rest of the literati, but there's a dual purpose. The attention-getting garb plays into a signing spree for her book, "Three Feet Under: Journal of a Midlife Crisis," and, more important, she says, it keeps writing fun and helps her not take herself so seriously.

That wasn't the case a few years ago. Struggling with stress, trapped in the upper echelons of corporate management, Atwood was hospitalized for a time. But she has since rediscovered a passion for writing, and the chicken suit helps keep things in perspective.

"I learned it's OK to take your work seriously but yourself lightly," Atwood says. "Don't people enjoy daydreams? That's what writing is – playing the deity of your own little world."

The founder of NaNoWriMo believes Atwood's approach – both clacking keys and clucking – is a fantastic way to embrace the spirit of the project. "What happens is you stop worrying about the perfection of every single sentence and you just dive in," Mr. Baty says. "The chicken suit is a new twist, but it's the idea of leaving your expectations and shooting for quantity. You can edit 'imperfect.' You can't edit a blank page."

Various Baton Rouge writers occasionally join Atwood at the table in the bookstore, including Waldenbooks manager Eric Beaty, but today she's on her own. Just as well. Stephen King wannabes who sit nearby often grouse about having to pluck chicken feathers from their keyboards. As for Atwood, she carries a lint brush: Uncle Miltie sheds.

Watching her in action, pecking keys, pondering syntax, you have to admire her pluck. Every few minutes, she's interrupted, but she keeps typing, squeezing self-promotion between sentences. With two business books slated for publication in March, Atwood is an anomaly in the NaNoWriMo world. This is her first year participating, and 45,515 words into "Danger, Deceit, and a Demon Named Myron," she's well on her way to completing her 12th book. Though some NaNo'ers have seen their novels published by major houses, only 16 percent cross the 50,000-word threshold in the month time slot.

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