I’ve got to be quick. Today was day 1 of National Novel Writing Month, better known as nanowrimo, a worldwide campaign/project/incentive to write a total of 50,000 words by the last day of November. That’s 1,667 words EVERY DAY. Bearing in mind I spend eight hours of the day writing for a living and I’m not counting work words, or blog words (what am I even doing here?!).
Last year I managed an average of 1,000 words a day. None of which are included in the current draft of my novel.
This is how it’s gone for me…
Today I finished work at 5 pm, felt a sudden compulsion to drive to a particular supermarket that is not even the closest supermarket to me, spent ages there looking at giant farfalle pasta, stationery and pickle, none of which I bought, grabbed some wine, drove home, stared at my guinea pigs for a while, poured a glass of wine and admitted there was really nothing left for it but to start typing.
I deleted 400 words.
Which brings me up to right now, this moment, in which I am writing a blog post that does not count towards my nanowrimo word count because the whole point of this stupid thing is to FINISH MY FUCKING NOVEL.
I can NOT under any circumstances die until this book is finished. I just can’t. My entire life will be rendered pointless.
I love my story. It’s my second life. It’s been brewing under the surface of my actual life for the last 10 years. It’s part of me now. I know every character inside-out. I know what’s going to happen. It’s just, when I sit down to write I don’t write. I edit, I rewrite, and it’s become a neurosis. It’s not normal any more.
Nanowrimo is supposed to snap me out of that mad cycle of rewriting. And yet here I am.
Now it’s dinner time.