I wrote a novel this month… Who cares?
The first year I did NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, for the uninitiated), I was at the early stages of a decomposing, unfaithful marriage. I made it 15,000 words into an urban fantasy about a set of were-weasel twins and some vampire murder, and then I quit. Also there were strippers. It wasn’t an auspicious start to a nine year hobby.
In the eight more times I’ve participated, I’ve won 6 times, “winning” meaning that I managed to barf out 50,000 new words within the 30 days of November.
So what?
At first glance, it seems like I wasted an entire month of the leftover crumbly cake that is my life.
I spent the majority of the beginning of November questioning my entire existence as a writer. How much of this was (gulp) midlife crisis and how much was just the horror show that has been 2020? There’s no telling. But it was an emotional crisis that I would not have been forced to examine if I hadn’t decided to try to write a novel in a month. I could have kept bopping along, telling myself that I was going to be a writer when I grew up, even though I am the decrepit old age of 40.
I work full-time and I have four kids and a husband. That eats up a considerable chunk of time. Trying to mass produce words in a short period of time did a great job of gobbling up the rest of my November that wasn’t spent eating and sleeping.
I was exhausted everyday. If I hadn’t tried to do this, maybe I would have suddenly started practicing yoga in my free evenings. Or maybe tried meditation and become generally less irritable. Sure, I probably would have spent it playing Animal Crossing on my phone while binge-watching Netflix originals, but anything is possible.
And the end product? I’m sure someone somewhere has done a study on publishing/agent queries during the months of December-January. I have to imagine that slush piles are groaning under the weight of an influx of submissions once everyone finished their requisite 50,000 words. It’s also possible that these offerings are… less than polished. How many times are you allowed to type INSERT GOOD WORDS HERE before it’s not really a novel anymore?
So we’re looking at emotional work that I probably could have avoided, a time suck that I can’t afford, and an end result that is, as the Italian say, garbagio (no, they don’t). So yay? I’m a winner?
But, taking a look at my NaNoWriMo profile page, it shouts at me that I have written a total of 406,084 words during the Novembers of these last nine years. I’m glad this number is hugely printed at the top of the page because it was really easy for me to lose focus this year. Those big beautiful numbers cut through all of the “who cares, what’s even the point, this is crap.” I was genuinely amazed by the fact that I’ve produced enough words to fill a midsized Stephen King novel (in quantity and quality, hey-oh! JK don’t @ me).
And 406,084 words? That’s something. That’s dedication to a task that I’ve come back to year after year after year. I didn’t quit the first time I didn’t finish. I didn’t even quit the time I missed the deadline by just 1400 words at the last literal second. Is there anything else I’ve been as committed to besides complaining about things I could easily fix? No.
I have to admit, towards the end of the month (okay, maybe end of the middle of the month), I even managed to get stoked on writing again. By the end-end, I was again just dredging words up from my barrel’s very bottom, but there was a spark there in the middle. I liked some of my characters and I hated others. And the ones I hated? Well, I just stopped writing them. I ghosted them before they could ghost me or jam up my writing works. It was control and power that I definitely have not been rolling in during this year of trash fires.
Need a new President? Done. Want to fantasize about your mail man? Well, that’s kind of objectifying a human, isn’t it? Oh, well: done! You have all the power, man. Go nuts.
Am I going to edit this and try to publish it? Uh, no; it is, again, about were-animals, magic, and possibly strippers. But it did help me realize that I could write something that I did want to edit and publish. That I had the commitment in me, that I had a modicum of creativity, and that, weird, I actually enjoyed it.
In the end, it’s another one of those things where what they tell you is right. And I hate when people are right. Should you do NaNoWriMo? Yes. Why? Because you’re going to be a famous author someday? Because you have the Great American Novel in you? Uh… sure, man, anything is possible.
But that’s not why.
You should do it because it makes you look at yourself, it makes you spend time with yourself, and it exercises your brain in a way you probably don’t already do. And if you do, who doesn’t want a ripped and buff creative brain?
Plus, you get to be the boss of everybody and couldn’t we all use a little more control right now?
