So most of the internet that I seem to know spends November frantically trying to cram writing 50,000 words into November for NaNoWriMo. Which is admirable. I admire that. I’ve never been able to do it, though.
Frankly, I’ve never even been able to start it. I mean, it’s just so much pressure! I get all stressed out with all that time to do things in and it seems fairly difficult to write a novel in a weekend, which is exactly what I’d end up doing.
This is the year I decided not to be entirely left out, though. Standard industry advice for budding authors is to write, write, write. Just write. It doesn’t have to be good, it doesn’t have to be well-read, it just has to be there. You just have to be doing it. That’s all.
Not that, of course, I’m not the author of a fairly popular-ish weekly column or anything. But I want to be more ambitious than that! I want to fly solo and maybe come up with some ideas. I want to write for you, a theoretical adoring public, or just for myself, perhaps, depending on where I go with this. But I want to write. I want to write every single day, rain or shine, tired or wired, something to say or just filling space. I just want to do it to say that I can do it, to get into the habit. I have words, dammit. So many words. Here I am, though, grand sweeping goal and all. But what am I going to write?
Well, I haven’t gotten that far, yet. But every day, pets, every day we’ll meet here.
e-m-j. 