It’s time for another blogging break. This will be my last post until December and you know what that means: I won’t be blogging again until December.
The wild call of fiction-writing known as NaNoWriMo is yapping in my ears—not unlike those adorable little dudes up top. Why do they have to turn out to be such assholes? The hyenas, I mean. Not my writing. Although it can be kind of offensive sometimes (see below).
This is my second year doing NaNo. Here’s some info about it in case, like me last year, you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. I “won” last year and ended up with about 63k words, although I still have a bit in the middle that needs “beefed up” (by which I mean “needs words” because none presently exist).
As banal as novel-writing may seem, there’s a lot of derision around NaNo. Most serious literary folk think it’s a joke, a pox inflicted on the 99.97% of the earth’s population not writing a novel, and are quick to offer many other suggestions for thirty days’ worth of activities other than writing “crap.”
And then there’s this tell-it-like-it-is description from Chuck Wendig. Had I read his piece last year, it would have meant nothing to me, but this year I’m in a constant state of head nodding reading it.
I’m not too concerned about others’ opinions about NaNo. It’s mostly mine that matters to me since I’m the one committing to writing thirty days’ worth of “crap.” The way I look at it, anything that propels me to write on average 1,666 words per day or for four hours straight on a Sunday (after working my full-time day job Monday through Friday) is a good thing.
I have never written that much at one time in my life as I did in last year’s NaNo, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder of myself. I’m still dumbfounded. Especially considering I decided to participate in the middle of October, without ever having written a word of fiction before November 1st. Not even a short story. Not even flash fiction or a fictional tweet. I’d been monogamous to creative nonfiction up to that point.
And you know what that means.
My “novel” sucked.
That’s the kindest word I can use to describe it.
It was so horrid I haven’t let anyone read it, not even my husband and he reads everything I write.
But I wrote it. Me. I did that. I made that steaming heap of dung. And I can only hope this year’s NaNo is as excremental as last’s.
Anyway, take a peek at YA WIP #2 for a bit about what I hope to poop out by the end of November.