National Write Something Somewhere Month

For the last two years, I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. The premise is easy: you write down 1,667 words every day for a month (the month of November) and then at the end of the month you have a 50,000-word book. While the premise is easy, the execution is hard. Some days it’s hard to write ten words, much less 1,667. However, I set myself up both years for success by doing a variety of things, not the least of which was going in with a solid idea of what I wanted to write. The first year I wrote about my experiences working at an all-boys school run by Benedictine monks. I will never publish those stories, but I wanted to get them down for myself and NaNoWriMo was a great motivator to actually do it.* I hit the goal easily and “won.” I was pretty pleased that I was able to say, “Yeah, I wrote a book.” Last year I completed the first draft of the middle-school adventure novel I had begun the year before. I knew where I needed to go with it and had a rough idea of chapters, which made it relatively easy in regards to direction. I’ve spent much of the last year editing and, once I get my changes moved from the hard copy to the electronic version I’ll be able to send it ’round to a select group of beta readers. NaNo was a great motivator to finally finish it. And then I was able to say, “Yeah, I have written two books.” I mean, no one has read them and they just hang out on my computer like petulant teenagers wondering if I’m ever going to let them out of their room again, but yeah, I have written two books.

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Sick Day

I’ve come to the conclusion at the ripe old age of 44 that being sick can cause you to have irrational thoughts. The term “head cold” takes on new meaning when you realize that it’s not just a runny nose, sore throat, and popping ears…it’s a whole new adventure through the Land of Questionable Decisions.

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On grocery carts

I arrived at the grocery store the other day ready to run to pick up a few items needed to make dinner for a friend. I knew it would be a quick trip as I had a very set list and was purchasing nothing for us; we were heading out of town and I had been engaged in a desperate attempt to consume everything perishable before leaving. I knew my foray into the market would last twenty minutes, tops, and would be quick and painless. This was reinforced by there being only two or three other cars in the lot; the store would be virtually empty and I’d be able to sail through.

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Finding myself. Again.

It’s been months since I’ve written. Amended: it’s been months since I’ve written anything beyond an obituary, and that particular piece needed the courage that a bottle of wine provides. There have been a variety of reasons: I’m too busy and there’s crap at work and my mother is dying and the house is dirty, blah blah blah. I should have been writing through all of it and instead I’ve written through none of it. I’ve written plenty in my head, sure, but nothing made it to the fingers and onto the page. I have a novel ready for heavy editing. A flash non-fiction piece ready to send out for hopeful publication. A creative non-fiction book in the early stages of interviews and transcribing. A million short stories and essays backlogged in my brain, all fighting for air.

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Watch out. She’s writing again.

I finally, for the first time in well over a month, have time and space to write. It feels amazing. And yet, I sit here and struggle to think of some topic worthy of committing to paper. Or screen, rather.

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