When all of the momentary, flights-of-fancy whims that interest me (film editing, robotics, videogames, lutherie, etc) temporarily fade away, I’m left with my first love: literature. I had always been a voracious reader and can turn a fancy phrase on occasion (bons matts, as they’re known to the Ms.), so I’ve often felt the obvious drive to be a writer as well. After some bad stories and middling screenplays, I’ve had a long-running concept for a novel that could be, you know, awesome. If only I’d, you know, write it. Perhaps drive isn’t exactly the best word choice there.
I’m more of a plotter, an editor, and have never had the discipline for systematically GettingThingsDone. Instead, I daydream of neat plot twists and characters, but never take the time to write.
This year, I’ve been stumbling forward, notebook in hand, outlining the story and adding definition to my hazy dreams.
So, what’s the point, right? I was cleaning out ye olde hard drive today, both seeking to avoid actual productivity and browsing materials, notes, and false starts regarding said novel when I came across a key document in which I’d punched out some notes and decided (monumentily, I thought at the time) to change my main character from a young boy who runs away and joins the circus to a young girl who runs away and joins the circus. It led to a dozen other changes that all seem to make the story better and were inspirational in themselves.
When was this decision? October…2002.
Eight fucking years ago.
So, here we are now. November is around the corner and as a result, so is NaNoWriMo, aka National Novel Writing Month.
I signed up and entered my info. I know it’s a stretch to ‘complete’ an actual novel in that time, but more so I’m hoping to break the cycle of ineptitude and sloth that has plagued me.
Here’s to the hope that come December, I’ll be 50,000 words closer to sharing with you the dazzling tale of carnivals, pirate treasure, musical magicians, toothbrushes, and the young girl given a chance to choose her time.