A little less than two months ago, I committed myself to participate in National Novel Writing Month (“NaNoWriMo“). The premise of this event, for the unacquainted, is that a great many people agree to compose 50,000 words of prose fiction in the month of November. This is difficult to the point of suicidal; roughly 3/4 of participants fail to reach the 50K plateau, or give up entirely.
The enthusiasm I felt when I pledged to participate (having just finished reading No Plot? No Problem!, a prep-piece for this event written by its founder) has, predictably, evaporated, and a dingy patina of “what the hell was I thinking!?” has settled over my psyche. I hit the keyboard last night shortly after midnight, knocked out a stilted and unsatisfying 250 words or so, and played some (more) Guitar Hero 3. At this pace, I’ll wrap my novel some time late in April 2008, around the same time that I pass “Cliffs of Dover” on the Expert setting.
Clearly, my output will have to improve.
NaNoWriMo founder Chris Baty assures me that panic, writer’s block, and lumpy chunks of ass-ugly prose are to be expected, and that we’ll make it through this if we just keep writing. I’m sure it’ll get better, and I will soldier on regardless, if only because I boldly posted that damned contract online for all to see. But it’s going to be a dogfight.
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