The Edge of Nowhere

So we're starting the second week. My word count sits at 9,882. Again: behind pace, but not too bad I suppose. I'll try not to worry about it. I will worry about the trouble I'm having making regular efforts to sit here on the second floor and watch the sun rise over the mountains as I type my story. I will worry about the lack of effort I'm making to be regular in my writing. It's been so sporadic, binge-y. Three hours one day, none the next. Two hours this morning, nothing yesterday. And I'll try not to worry about the looming calendar of absences.

 

It's not a good process.

 

And we also won't go into my state of mind, which is also not so good for novel writing. I'm just not "into" it this year, like I was the first two years. I don't have the ambition and drive I need to get up every morning at 5 and write for 90 minutes before the days activities begin. I don't have the youthful stamina to stay up to midnight and beyond every night when the rest of the house is asleep. I have this big young dog here who's spent much of this morning chewing things he's not suppose to chew: the TV remote, my daughter's GameBoy game, her pencils covered in feathers, a library book (talk about distraction: try writing a novel with one year cocked to hear the splintering of plastic from down stairs while everyone else is asleep). I have huge doubts about my story, which I need to crush and flush. I have even bigger (yet normal) doubts about my talent and my desire and my need to do this weird novel writing hobby. I must ignore those doubts and just write write write write write.

 

That's the whole point of NanoWrimo for me: just write. Tie up the inner critic and leave him in the basement for a month and write. Write write write. OK. My rant is over. We'll now return to regular programming.