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!