NaNoWriMo

Last year I wrote here about NaNoWriMo, which is National Novel Writing Month. Basically, it’s a whole bunch of word wranglers from around the world getting together and committing to put 50,000 words down in one month. 50,000 words is the average length of a novel. I couldn’t commit back then, having never even attempted to write a whole book. Now, I’ve attempted it, and I think I’d like to attempt some more. I am maybe halfway through my middle-grade novel, and although I feel a bit stuck I would like to tackle something new. Maybe flush out the ol’ pipes. I have a few ideas for this new work, and should probably get an outline going. I didn’t outline the first book, and wonder if that’s where I got into trouble. I waded into the tall grass and couldn’t see my way out. I was, with that book, for lack of a better term, a pantser. That’s what writers call those who write by the seat of their pants, sans outline. This works well for me with the blog, but I can see the benefits of being a plotter when it comes to a whole book.

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If I retired

I have decided that it’s in my best interests, and therefore the interests of my family, if I retire from working. You see, I can’t get everything done that I want to get done, and it’s mostly because work gets in the way. If I’m working, I’m not reading, writing, or photographing. If I’m working, I’m, well, working. And that isn’t nearly as much fun as reading, writing, and photographing.

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Finding my way back

I think it’s time to throw in the towel on at least one front. This is a battle I have been waging (not alone, mind you) for over three years now. Three years is a long time to be in an emotional war, especially when there is no end in sight. We’re in this weird sort of limbo, with times of relative peace punctuated by enormously emotional charges that result in a flurry of meetings, phone calls, texts and emails. Link after link after link. Reading sites and articles that piss me off and hearing rumors that make me sad. We never know when the next attack is going to come, so we’re lulled into a sense of complacency. Then they hit again and I’m dragged back in, dragged back down. It is guerrilla warfare, right in my very own parish, and I have to pull my personal troops out.

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Rantings (Mostly because I just feel like writing something. Anything.)

I’m fighting small battles on several fronts, and while none of them are particularly bloody (well, one of them might be) the communion of them is really starting to wear on me. Mostly I just have this underlying feeling of being weary all the time. Weary and wary. Trust no one. Be pissed at all. Adopt “I hate people” as a mantra, a scowl as an amulet against anyone who might venture too close.

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