The first couple days of NaNoWriMo made me worry. I wasn’t worried that I had nothing to write about. My worry was so totally the opposite: that I would write so much, so damn much!
To explain: I had more than one perfectly valid idea. I think I listed four before, and I could have worked on a fifth, even. I chose one that I really wanted to get down on paper before the characters totally faded from my brain. I didn’t choose one because I wasn’t sure I knew quite where it was going and I didn’t have enough yet in my head prepared. I didn’t want to pick character names and things on the fly. I wasn’t sure where that plot was going to end up.
So I wrote a long blog trying to decide what to pick, and I picked Blythe’s story, which I had been working in my head for a couple of years at least. I picked it logically, and for reasons.
What does reason have to do with anything? Nothing, apparently. Within the first couple days, I was thrilled, wanted to blog (read: brag) about my smooth progress, my new direction in Blythe’s story, my three-day weekend during which I felt like a writer. So I wanted to write, then write about my writing, and worse, I wanted to work on another novel.
Yes, folks, that is what my gift to myself was. We WriMo’s like to reward ourselves for finishing our daily goals. Last year, I tried daily chocolate, but that didn’t encourage me to write. This year, I told myself I could WORK ON ANOTHER BOOK.
I’m already taking on a goal of writing much more regularly than I ever manage to do on my own, with a six page a day requirement to keep up, and when I’m done with that, I can play with my zombie book, the one I chose not to write for NaNoWriMo because it wasn’t quite ready to go yet.
I’ve taken notes of lots of thoughts, made a Scrivener project out of scene ideas, and had hysterics because I have no idea how it is going to end because I’ve created a situation where no one is really going to get out alive, and I’m thrilled about it.
If’ I didn’t have to get up at five thirty for work tomorrow, I’d probably be working on it right now. I did write down a couple of lines earlier, though. Honestly. There’s about 1300 words in the Scrivener project, about eight or nine scenes and a few characters with names and backgrounds, and a few others with “guy who leaves” or “bitten dude they locked up” instead of names.
I suppose it’s hilarious that I want to write and blog and write some more. Something infectious and magical runs through me in November.
(And now that I’ve forgotten how to write a coherent post, goodnight.)