I have a lot of friends who at least try to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month – this month, the month of November), and I have to tell you, I respect the hell out of anybody that actually makes the effort. My personal experience with the exercise has been a bit like playing Super Smash Brothers, getting knocked over the edge and being just out of range of the platform. Like, there’s just enough hope that I’ll embarrass myself trying to get back to solid ground, but I know the whole time that I’m just going to float gently down, down, down until I lose a life.
The goal of NaNoWriMo is to pen a 50,000 word text in 30 days (the exact number of days that November hath) or, as I call it, are you &$^%@!(# kidding me? I don’t write that fast. This post you’re reading right now? I started it in September. When faced with that kind of deadline, I sit in front of a blank screen for four hours and then open a beer. I repeat this process as needed. And then, a few days in, I realize I’m in a hole I can’t get myself out of in terms of meeting the word count and I go, “Hey, it was a good effort; maybe next year.”
It is not that I lack a creative impulse; it is, rather, that my creative impulse has long been the place where I’ve hidden when I have other shit to do. Which is a habit I know I need to break myself of.
The plan, friends, was to make it happen this year. To go for it. I had resolved that I would finally write my long-planned space werewolf romance. I was committed and vigorous and champing at the bit.
I’m gonna call time of death on the effort right now.
Total output – 248 words. 13 words a day, for the math-savvy. Fewer words than this post.
Hey, it was a good effort; maybe next year.