Okay, so, listen; here’s the thing…
I had something come up.
It’s not you, it’s me.
I want to write more stuff–I do–and you’ve been just terrific… but…
Obviously, I’m joking. I don’t intend to just give up on this whole NaNoWriMo thing. But I did have a job come up that kind of demands my attention, and so I might be a little behind in the race to write 50,000 words by the end of the month. Which is lamezilla. But what are you gonna do?
Couple that with the fact that my cat, Quickly, cost me a good 15-20% of my early work thanks to some fancy footwork all over the laptop, and I’d have to say that I’m just fighting an uphill battle.
However, the upshot is that in less than two weeks, I have learned that forcing myself to sit down and plug away can actually produce results.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: duh. That’s what everyone says, from day one, page one, paragraph one: just write. That’s a no brainer.
And I do; I do. But I spend so much time, as an adult, penning the obvious and the prominent; somehow, I am training myself to ignore the marginal. And I think the marginal is the guts of all beautiful work.
As a young girl, I recorded everything. If I discovered something new, you could expect a five page dissertation. If I was disappointed, you could pace yourself through my obsessive compulsive soliloquy about why it was or wasn’t a great and earth-shattering sadness over the course of a bottle of wine, give or take a glass. And if I was excited, I write it down for hours. I didn’t want to ever forget anything.
I wrote notes to anyone who would read them in junior high school–even the janitor probably got creatively folded origami text from me. I still have so very many of these page-long, hand-written notes that I received in return, folded neatly and tucked away in boxes, carefully preserved. Because I’m kind of a little hoarder, I can remember things with an amazing clarity thanks to my combination of hard evidence and constant journaling.
One of my deepest regrets is that a journal I kept long ago, one that I passed back and forth between a friend while we were apart, was destroyed. How it really met its end I can’t be sure, but, in those lined pages of run-of-the-mill, spiral-bound notebook paper, I remember being the most alive that I have ever been. Some things, they say, are best left forgotten. I think that the folks who believe that simply don’t write enough.
NaNoWriMo has reminded me of those by-gone days.
Once I complete my work, I will definitely be coming back to this. But I think that my real goal, in all honesty, will be to make this month stretch on, into a daily routine.
I’ve been neglecting myself, I learned this November. And that’s a damn shame.