I keep trying to understand the excitement, the energy and the angst that go into this yearly ritual of trying to finish a 50,000 word (or more - but finish) novel in a month. On an intellectual level, I realize that for some people, this is an immense achievement, that finishing something that might be rambly, with plotholes, logical leaps and errors abound - but FINISHED - is a big deal. On an emotional level, it doesn't quite make sense to me. If you want to write a novel, strike a bargain with yourself. Commit yourself to manageable goals per day or per week. Keep the inner editor in the next room, but keep the door open in case he/she/they shout something major.
Expect to lapse, but get back into it. It's like dieting.
I suppose I came into Nanowrimo with a weird perspective. I had recently discovered that with my "goofing off" journal project, which involved me posting a character's adventures in "real time" (as each entry was written), had averaged about a thousand words a day. I knew, and committed myself, to two thousand words a day as I got back into other projects. In other words, I wasn't looking at Nano as a wild ride, but as a hard-and-fast deadline with company.
I skipped it last year as I just wasn't ready to start something. This year, we'll see: I've fallen off my quotas and it's been long time since I've to meet them. I may be neck-deep into Journal of the Dead by then. Or ...