It’s official. I’m a NaNoWriMo Geek.
I’m into it for my second year, and I’m trying to find new and exciting ways to both be at my keyboard, and avoiding it all at the same time. There’s something about banging out a novel that heightens that feeling of being alive. You know, living on the edge of greatness.
The edge is as close as I’ve ever gotten.
Today, on a self-proclaimed writing day, as I drove through the city to run the time-sucking errands that every amateur writer fitfully completes so that they can feel less guilty about sitting down to write, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I have always been afraid of my own success. I mean, after all, I’m good at a lot of things, I just fizzle out half way through. I get bored.
Novel writing can be much the same. Momentum is key.
Finishing a chapter with nothing else to write, or no ideas is like seeing your partner naked for the first time in the harsh, full light of day. Not so great when you’re over 40. With no ideas to spur you on, your novel becomes the anatomical equivalent of a mottled, slightly hairy, saggy scrotum and a flat ass bent over trying to pull up it’s pants.
As Hemingway once said, always leave something unwritten. It’s easier to get up in the morning and start writing if you have left something unsaid.
And so it is with me; less writing until I’m drained, and more writing, leaving something unsaid for the next day.
Wish me luck folks. May this novel be the equivalent of a young lover as seen through the bottom of a glass of champers and the haze of candlelight.