Today marks Day One of National Novel writing month and of course…
My computer has to update… mind you, it’s been on since yesterday because I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t have any interruptions so I can dive into writing…
Yep, this is my life, this is why I usually have eight to twelve backup plans. I’m not a fan of typing from my phone, even though it’s a wonderfully large screen to use, I feel more productive with a full keyboard being used by full sets of hands. Yes, a composition notebook would be a great second. It’s usually my first choice, but not today. I filled up a few notebooks over the past few months and I long to light them ablaze. It’s mostly crap, complete garbage, but I have to remind myself that the prettiest flowers come from the best compost… my garden is going to thrive… eventually… fingers crossed…
But for now, I will type at my desk, with my Starbucks Creme Brûlée latte, my blue screen of current update status with its spinning dots of torment, and try to be inspiring.
I still have to laugh at myself. Laughing because I’ve always wanted to be a writer, to have my words inked on pages, bound in beautiful covers. Books were my favorite thing growing up, next to playing softball. They were my escape to far off lands, worlds of fantasy, new languages, different types of people, the adventures.
I always have a good run of short stories. Now when I say short, I really mean it, usually a few lines and over. I never said I was a good writer, I’m pretty sure I warned you I wasn’t all that great. It could be just my lack of attention, or that sitting down and writing is one of the hardest things to do, especially when you turn the faucet on and gibberish comes out. It’s hard to sit down, remember how words work, put it down before it leaves your head, and hope it sounds just as lovely as before. I’ve heard when you’ve come face to face with writers block, you should keep writing and eventually, you will write yourself out of it… yep, and in my personal hell, I mean experience, I say go kick rocks. It did not help me at all. I tried groups, reading more short stories, reading more novels, writing poetry, drinking coffee, eating cheese, crunching crackers, going for walks, taking naps, going for a drive, cleaning my kitchen with Broadway’s finest lyrics, and still, nine times out of ten, nothing. Not. One. Damn. Thing.
I keep telling myself, everyone goes through this, every single writer has gone through this. Seriously, if a writer has never been stumped then they are a gift from God or have the most amazing team of muses on his side. I want to be a writer. Why? Because I have stories inside me. Crazy stories, true stories, epic adventures, tall tales, history repeating, far off fantasies, bittersweet lessons, life in a nutshell. The labyrinth in my mind has dreams and folklore, memories and recipes, little jokes and sweet smells, all rolling around, trying to find the right way to come out. Even with careful planning the words stumble over themselves just so they can be introduced. So, be a writer. I’ve seen things, many things in my short life, I had seen life’s darkest moments far too early than most, I have seen the dark side and lived amongst the light, only to realize I rather walk in the gray. So be a writer.
A writer? Who’s going to give a damn about what I have to say?
Show people what you’ve seen, share what you know.
I’m not everyone’s cup of tea… or shot of whiskey… most likely I’m a turd in the punch bowl.
Just write, turn on the water, get the pen to ink, and just start writing.
I can construct the perfect plot in the shower, so I use my son’s bath crayons. Usually in the car I think of great character traits, fun names because I have road rage, and flowy scenes as I’m about to fall asleep. My husband even bought me a recorder for the time I can’t find the words to write, so I can try to say them… trust me, it’s as hysterical as it sounds because I forget what even basic words and sentence structure for a first grader. It’s rough.
Just get it out. And share food along the way.
Sorry, just a little stressed. Trying to start a good habit here. You know, after doing the same thing every day for twenty-one days it just becomes routine and I won’t even have to think about it. But if you want me to share food, I’m going to have to figure out time to write and a time to clean and a time to bake…
You’re excuses are terrible. Just set alarms on your phone like you’ve been doing and just write first and cook and clean later.
Do you happen to have a house elf hanging around anywhere? I would love it if you could just drop one of those off. Okay, maybe 3 or 4. If they could put the laundry away, clean the carpets, organize the toys, and clean the dishes that would be wonderful. And I’ll just be in my office trying to figure out what in the world I’m doing. I’m going to be a writer. Yep. Yes, I mean yes, I am.
You know, you’re surprisingly calm. How am I suppose to be a writer when there have been so many others before who set the bar way up high, so high I can’t even see it from where I am standing.
Because they all start from the same place, sitting someplace with access to a writing instrument and some form of paper or tissue. It doesn’t matter how the words find their way down from your mind to your fingers to the pen, just get it down, you can work the details out later.
Okay, you asked for it, you better buckle up. I’m not 100% sure if this will be a smooth ride, or even a consistent one. It could be a crazy jumbled explosion of words. Things can be edited out later, right? I mean, rough drafts are just that, rough. Mine might be more along the lines of a busted bottle leftover from a honkytonk in the bottom of the barrel.
Woman, shut the fuck up and just get it down. A few hours a day, at least one thousand words, just get it down.
Okay, okay, damn, lady.
If you don’t write, you can’t get published.
What do you want first? The scratched notes I have that make zero sense, the running list I keep on my phone of things to write about, the giant post-its I have with character names/traits, what I have planned for Thanksgiving dinner, maybe some music, a little poetry, maybe a little inspirational quotes, memories, pictures, what would you like?
All of it, every day, pick something and run with it.
So… mix it up?
This is going to be interesting, but you’ve been warned. It may not flow, it may not make much sense, I write my own way with my own rules, it could be elaborate, it could be plain, it could be splatter paint, it could possibly be an adventure, could be a memory, could just be a few minutes of simple lyrics that will stay with you all day. Who knows… here goes nothing I guess.
Here’s to November, in all it’s blessed, novel writing, deep frying turkey glory.