I just signed up on the official NaNoWriMo site. One of the things that they encourage you to do after sign up is put the title and a brief synopsis of the novel that you’ll be attempting over the next thirty days on your NaNoWriMo profile. Ive done that. You can practically see me agonizing over it, which is why I won’t be sharing that info here. Yet.
Everything on the site is all fluffy and snarkily cute, washed in a docile, dreamy robin’s egg blue. An overwhelming air of positivity and support suffuses the entire site.
I’ve tried this once before, during my initial burst of energy after making the decision to write maybe more than just crappy poems in crappy notebooks and half-baked research papers. Back then, I couldn’t meet the challenge. And to be fair, it’s difficult. 50,000 words is a buttload to write in a month’s time. Alongside that, I didn’t know thing the first about scheduling, writing prep, or much about plotting or story crafting or what makes a story good to read beyond the first couple of pages. Hell, I only know minimally more about those things now than I did back then.
But I’ve got a story, and the drive to throw it over a slab and beat it into something at least partially magnificent. I’ve got a story that deserves to be told, and the will to tell it.
It’s funny how things work out. Two and a half weeks ago, I decided to cease working on my first novel at 40+ thousand words That’s a year and a half of work. Hundreds of thousands of letters, spaces, characters, symbols, two different fonts, 8 MB (that’s megabytes) of data that manifests itself as the hopes and dreams and desires of me, all banged out and taken back and reworked and worked over and cradled and coddled, stroked and caressed and whispered to, the subject of dreams and nightmares. All that effort, all that sweat and pain and pride and love and hate, nullified after one dedicated read-through. It sits on my desktop, and if it could feel, I’m sure that it would be disappointed.
I can’t spare it any more love, though. I feel a sort of pressure, the kind of thing that you feel when you know that you should be doing something but you can’t remember exactly what or why or how. Only instead of not knowing, I know exactly what I should be doing, why I should be doing it, and who I should be doing it for. That only leaves the pressure, and after all this time of starting and stopping and losing and winning and close calls, I think that I can handle it.
See y’all on November 30th.