In an attempt to get myself back into a rigid, impermeable, impervious, impenetrable writing schedule I singed up for NaNoWriMo. I started out strong, got sidetracked, then re-sidetracked, and now I’m about seventeen thousand words behind. I think it’s safe to say I’m not going to “win” this year–at least not win by the organizers’ definition.
In my opinion, I’m already winning; I’m planting my butt in the chair every day and writing. My prose is not the most brilliant (in fact I think it’s safe to say I could let my cats tap dance across the keys for two hours with similar effect), but it is a consistent flow of semi-intelligible words formatted into sentences and paragraphs, and, hey, that’s the reason I signed up for this gig in the first place.
Honestly, I’m rather enjoying this guerilla style of writing. As I have routinely stated, I am an obsessive mess. It’s not that I shoot myself in the foot; I never stop aiming the freakin’ gun. I organize, chart, plot, think, write, re-write, re-write, re-write, re-write. I get a paragraph down and then dissect it for four hours. I am, in many ways, my own worst enemy. This little experiment is teaching me to stop looking back (even if I have to shrink my screen to the size of my current paragraph to do it). It’s teaching me that a first round of mainly crap is okay as long as I fix it later, and waiting to fix it later is even more okay. And you know what all this is making me realize?
Writing is fun again.