Every year at this time I’m struck by the urge to write a novel. It would probably be best to squash the urge immediately. A couple of times I’ve written stories and posted them in installments right here for your reading pleasure. Remember the Scary Clown? Well, that was about my best story ever. Often I begin well but lose steam at about, oh, chapter 2. I know how my stories should start. Sometimes I even know how they should end. But hell if I know what should happen in the middle.
So now it’s late October and you know what that means, right? Right. NaNoWriMo. Who could resist the lure of the challenge? The camaraderie? The unedited prose so tortured it is not so much purple as black and blue?
This year my ten-year-old intends to participate in the NaNoWriMo Young Writers’ Program. The youngsters follow the same rules (begin on November 1, finish by November 30, and no editing), but they don’t have to shoot for 50,000 words like the grown-ups do. I think Tigger is going to set her goal at 10,000 words. That’s only 333 words per day. If she wrote as many words as she speaks out loud in a day she’d right up there with Tolstoy in output.
Will I? Should I? I don’t even have a topic or a single character, let alone a plot in mind.
On the upside, if I manage to write a novel I can use my pen name for that, too. (No, I haven’t settled on one. See? I’m hopeless.)
But Tigger and I could sit in the coffee shop together with our cups ‘o joe and our laptops, pushing past our own self-imposed limits. And that’s surely worth the humiliation of writing yet another pathetic story. Isn’t it?