It is November 1st. Every November I commit to National Novel Writing Month and every year I fail miserably. I have enrolled and completed several writing courses, returned again and again to my story, researched endlessly and written the beginning a hundred times. I still do not have a completed novel. It is starting to feel like I may never have it. But that is a lie. It has always felt like I would never have a novel. I have never really believed I was capable of such a feat.
Writing is a weird thing. We crave it and yet we fear it. We are compelled to tell stories and yet we are terrified of someone reading them. We sit down to write and nothing comes out. What I find strangest of all is that when I am writing I am convinced it is crap. Every word, every sentence, rubbish. But then, when I go back and read what I have written months or years later, I think "Wow! I am really good at this!" It seems like as close as I can come to being objective about my own writing, but no one can ever really be objective about the art that comes from inside them.
I came to a conclusion years ago, that I love to write and that my main reason for continuing to do it is not so people will read it now, but so that my children and grandchildren can read it when I'm gone. When my grandmother passed away, I found a diary among her possessions. My grandmother was not a writer at heart, her diary was a dry log of the events of each day. "Went for coffee at McDonald's with Esther. Then, picked up bread and milk, arrived home. Played cards with the couple down the hall." I was enthralled by this accounting of her every day activities. If she jotted down a thought once in a while, it was a delightful bonus. I felt closer to her, even though she was gone. I felt like I knew her better, from the activities and the way she relayed them on the page. It made me realize that we need to write to our future family members. We need to tell them what our lives were like, good and bad. They will want to connect with us.
Even writing a novel that no one will read is a way of telling our great grandchildren what kind of people we were, what was important to us, how we saw things in our world. Thus, I trudge on, even when I have convinced myself it will never actually be a novel.
This NaNoWriMo, I have three goals. One, to write in my journal every day. That is where I work out my psychoses, and I probably need to work out more than I am willing to admit. Two, to write a blog post once per week. That is where I let a little of my inner self be seen by others, should they happen across it. Three, to read every day. Reading absolutely makes me a better writer.
I have a secret (not-so-secret, I guess) forth goal. To finish my novel. I usually put it at the top of the list, but that hasn't worked for me in the past. It is a much scarier, more difficult, and less attainable goal. If I put this goal first, I will procrastinate because I don't feel capable of finishing it, and I will not get to the other goals. My hope is that if I can keep up with the other goals, maybe that will boost my confidence to at least make progress on the novel. (I have been working on this book for 11 years. One of my main motivations now is that I am kind of tired of this story, and would like to finish it and move on to something else.)
So, off I go, head first into November with goals and stuff. Started off string with my first blog post. Gonna go dig into the journal next. I'm coming for you, novel. Wish me luck!
