It’s that time! By that time, I mean NaNoWriMo time, of course. After all, I announced my intention to take part when I started my blog last November.
I should be writing by now, as it’s 20 minutes past midnight here. I was supposed to have my dishes done, eaten something, and taken a shower by now. I was also supposed to be dressed in my writing costume, candle lit, and tea by my side (I recently developed a writing ritual to cue my mind into the fact that it’s time to write). Instead I am writing a blog post for the first time in months. Procrastination is a wonderful thing isn’t it?
The good news is I signed up a few days ago and I have some steadfast, wonderful writing buddies. There’s Mr. Wonderful, who has been outlining his novel for well over a year, but who hasn’t written a word, so I’ve roped him in with me so he can get a start. I might be procrastinating because a part of me doesn’t want to start until he gets home from work. There are some wonderful people I’ve been introduced to by the threads, and a couple of my lovely fellow bloggers. If any of the rest of you are playing and want another writing buddy, feel free to find me by looking me up by the same name I use here.
Now, a completely meaningful tangent (I promise):
Pre-kindergarten, I used to envy my siblings. You see, my siblings got to go to school, and one of the best things about school, besides the fact that theirs’ made them a birthday cookie every year, was that it was the mystical far away place that taught children to read and write. I had somehow, even at this young age, and probably due to my mother’s influence, picked up on the idea that words were some of the most important, beautiful things ever, and that knowing them would lead to big, special things. Many children draw, but I used an incredible amount of scrap paper scribbling straight lines of cursive e’s and pretending that I was writing stories.
When I was six, my teacher told us all to write an essay on what we were going to be when we grew up. I sat, petrified by the concept of the monumental task of deciding what I was going to be when I grew up. Something about how the task was presented led me to believe that whatever I decided now, I would be stuck with forever. What if I chose the wrong thing? I watched all of my other classmates blissfully announcing that they were going to be firemen, or police officers, or ballerinas, and got more and more anxious. Finally my teacher stopped in front of me and asked what I wanted to be, and suddenly it hit me, “I’m going to be a writer!” I blurted out.
A few short hours later, in the grocery store, my mother asked me how the day went, and I told her that I’d decided what I wanted to be when I was big. I repeated my earlier declaration.
“…but you can’t be a writer,” my sister interjected, “I’m going to be a writer, and I decided first.”
“You can both be writers,” my mother told us when I became visibly crestfallen, probably thinking that one of us would probably change our minds at some point and it would be a non-issue anyway.
I think she underestimated our tenacity and passion, but she was right about one thing: this year my sister and I are Nanowrimo buddies. I wish her the best of luck and wonderful discoveries and fortitude. Most of all, I wish her joy in her story, because being lucky enough to read some of her earlier works, I know she has what it takes.
Best of luck to the rest of you, too!