That’s me: rebel, malcontent, nonconformist.
Well, okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. But I am a NaNoWriMo rebel, refusing to follow the rules, cutting my own path, doing it my way, rationalizing why I can’t make my word count.
For those of you who were unaware, November is National Novel Writing Month, and I, along with 305,000 of my fellow writers, have pledged to write 50,000 words during the 30 days that comprise this month. Well, at least that’s what I’d planned to do this month. Life sort of jumped up and bit me in the butt. Again. There have been issues swirling around here of late: prepping the lower lot so we could sell it, actually selling it, helping Shawndra’s sister through surgery and chemotherapy (she’s doing great, by the way, even if the drugs make her loopy), fighting with the title company, etc.
And yes, I’m making excuses, because the novel I had planned to spend my time on, Visiting Hours, isn’t jelling for me. I’m moving it in time and locale and, well, it’s fighting with me. So I lost most of the first week of NaNoWriMo putting out the aforementioned fires and the book is arguing with me. (Really, it is. You should hear the language it’s been using.)
So, instead of working on a novel, I’m writing vignettes, story fragments, and making notes about an imaginary town. It’s called Moningers Fall, and no, that’s not missing an apostrophe: old man Moninger, for whom the town was named, held a deep and abiding sense of distrust for punctuation. The Fall, as the locals call it, is located on Tea Party Cove, by the Singing River estuary on the South Coast of Oregon. It’s a magical place. Truly. Can’t wait to show you around.
I plan on setting several novels (including parts of Visiting Hours and all of Hotel Mystyck) and a bunch of short stories there. The first story, The Unexpected and Altogether Astounding Sojourn of Milo Keene is in final edit. I hope to let you see it sometime after the first of the year. I’m gonna submit it to a story competition first, though.
The upshot of all of this is that I am writing, even if I’m not working on the projects I thought I’d be into. And, well, I can rationalize my own perceived failures because, as Shawndra keeps reminding me, my butt (well chewed on by life, I assure you) is in the chair, every damned morning from 5:30 to 8:30. Because nothing at all gets written if my fingers aren’t on the keyboard. And that is a huge deal.
Even for a rebel like me.