It’s nearly November, and that means it’s time to write a novel, or fail trying. The impetus: National Novel Writing Month, a sort of double-dog-dare that I’ve taken part in every year since 2001. The goal is to produce 50,000 words in the space of November, which is a very foolish goal; but then, the whole enterprise is wonderfully, willfully foolish. Much more background can be had at the Nanowrimo site.
Each year, I have started a novel, and in the last four years I have finished one 50K mess and aborted three others which collected together would be about 50K additional words. I haven’t found a system, nor certainly even a successful formula — my one 50K winner happened in 2003, and I have since returned to failure. There is something humbling about launching enthusiastically, manically, into a creative venture like this only to find myself two weeks in, thousands of words behind, and rapidly losing momentum.
But I’m doing it again anyway. I have a few ideas kicking around, but nothing firm, and I’ve got about a week to psyche myself up, and I’m going for it, and it’ll be happening in something resembling real-time right here.