I somehow got into my mind that while my husband was in the States fixing up our rental house, I would be here writing like mad. 7 days without our two-hour lunch breaks or our long evenings together = 7 days of 2 x the average writing time, right?

I’ve never been great at math.

The reality was that 7 days without him here to transport the girls to and from school, pick up groceries, straighten up the house, make me laugh, orchestrate the girls’ bedtime routine, make cocktails, or help me unwind = 0 usable hours to work on my book. In the short segment of time he was away, one thing after another went wrong including bronchitis popping in for a visit, and I collapsed in bed far too late every night without ever quite finishing everything that needed to be done. I haven’t worked on the novel since Day 23 when I wondered if I would even make it to 30,000 words. I didn’t.

I’m still weary and battling a throbbing prickle in my airways, and I know this isn’t the best time to evaluate how my first NaNoWriMo attempt went, but I still feel like I should give it some closure. Maybe I should acknowledge how amazing it is that I ended November with 27,435 more words than I started with, or maybe I should admit how disappointed I am in myself that I let the entire last week slip away. I could always wax poetic about that first day of writing when words flowed effortlessly and the whole endeavor felt like being at an all-night party. Alternately, I could express my relief that I can finally prioritize everything else I’ve been missing—catching up with you all, finishing the last chapter of our Highland Fling saga, sorting through this fall’s photos, channeling Mrs. Claus, playing piano, doing crafts with the girls, etc, etc, etc.

On the other hand, I might not need to bother with closure at all. The book and I are going to take a nice break from each other this month, but I fully intend to dive back into it come January. I’m unofficially extending my National Novel Writing Month for as long as it takes me to  complete a full 80,00ish-page manuscript. A book. The idea has always seemed unattainable, but now I have a month—actually, let’s just count the first three weeks, shall we?—of proof that I can unwrap a story word by word and watch the pages accumulate. Even from my sluggish outlook right now, the possibility is thrilling.

No, I didn’t “win” NaNoWriMo.
Yes, I’m a little disappointed.
No, I don’t know if I’ll attempt it again in future years.
Yes, the experience was valuable regardless.
No, my book-writing adventure is not yet over.
Yes, I am excited to see how far I can take it.
No, that probably won’t be to the bestseller list.
Yes, that “probably” feels awfully presumptuous.
No, I’m not going to delete it.
Yes, I have a lot of hard work ahead… but now I know I have what it takes to write a book.

Just not in a month.

I’ve heard of writers who immerse themselves in the act of creating and find themselves springing to life. The mindfulness, the focus, and the giddy joy of prioritizing art infuse their lives with a kind of magic, and they luxuriate in it. I’m finding out that I am not one of those writers.

My usual motivation for writing—the sheer love of it—faded within the first few days of NaNoWriMo, and I’ve been slogging through it since with varying degrees of satisfaction and frustration. I’m still forging ahead because this book dearly wants to be written; it’s been telling me so for years. I’m using my faint competitive streak to my advantage here, using a word count goal to keep me writing when I would otherwise quit after 300 words a day, and the thrill when (if?) I finish is going to be incredible. However, the process is just … not fun.

I’m not sharing this to be a downer or to complain about this opportunity in which I am voluntarily (and gratefully) participating. Rather, I just wanted to preserve an honest glimpse of my month as a novelist while I’m here in the muck of it. And now that I’ve done so… ::cue cracking whip:: …back to work!

Today, writing a book felt exhilarating, overwhelming, possible, and im. Watching the word count inch upward felt empowering, frustrating, satisfying, and un. Reviewing thirty pages of completed text felt gratifying, depressing, heartening, and dis. And posting about my progress now feels rewarding, presumptuous, so very normal, and so very ab.

Good grief, writing a book is hard. I’m still on track, but I’m not going to tell you how many hours I’ve put into these first 10,000 words. Really, it’s embarrassing. I’m less than a week in, and life is already starting to feel frayed at the seams. The dishes are still getting done (thank you, Dan!), but this project has a gravitational pull big enough to leave formerly important areas of everyday life dusty and desolate. I’m not used to one thing taking so much priority. Plus, my brain is getting sore.

However, I’ve learned a few valuable things so far from this process:

• Just because life feels over doesn’t make it so.
• Pre-dawn morning is my best writing time. (Curses.)
• One should never eat olives while researching insects.

You’re welcome for that last one. Now I’m off to take a hard-earned coma…