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And here we are again. November, a.k.a. Nanowrimo, a.k.a. The Month of Angst, Suck, and Fail.
Every year I say "I'm so totally going to do this! I've the BEST PLOT IDEA EVAR, and and and, my characters are made of WIN, and nothing can stop me because I am a writer-type person and THIS IZ MY DESTINY."
And somewhere mid-month, when Life looks at me with a sly smirk and hands me my pride and my ass on a platter, I close out the file, sink into a horrid three day depression, and help other people with their projects. I know some people were meant to be betas in life, to support and build up from the foundations other people have laid down. I frankly love doing that. It brings me untold joy to play in other people's worlds, to help shape and craft tales and breathe life into them.
But I long with all I have to produce that one thing I can point to and say "This here? This is mine, my epic, the child born of long caffine filled nights, nagging dreams, figments of imagination and a childhood watching too much television and reading books I really had no buisness reading at that age. These are my word-babies. Let me show you them."
Dearest f-list, I beg your indulgence for the next month as I struggle with this project. It means more to me than ever before that I actually meet this goal. There is nothing holding me back, no excuses to be made, no stumbling block to hide behind. I have a nine to five, free weekends (mostly), and no school. It's the kind of position I've always said would be ideal for writing. Now I have to prove to myself that I can. Every once in a while I may put chunklets of the Work In Progress up here. You don't have to comment, but a few words of encouragement would be cherished.
Now to strap myself onto this hulking beast and get ready for a wild ride. Oh boy.
Every year I say "I'm so totally going to do this! I've the BEST PLOT IDEA EVAR, and and and, my characters are made of WIN, and nothing can stop me because I am a writer-type person and THIS IZ MY DESTINY."
And somewhere mid-month, when Life looks at me with a sly smirk and hands me my pride and my ass on a platter, I close out the file, sink into a horrid three day depression, and help other people with their projects. I know some people were meant to be betas in life, to support and build up from the foundations other people have laid down. I frankly love doing that. It brings me untold joy to play in other people's worlds, to help shape and craft tales and breathe life into them.
But I long with all I have to produce that one thing I can point to and say "This here? This is mine, my epic, the child born of long caffine filled nights, nagging dreams, figments of imagination and a childhood watching too much television and reading books I really had no buisness reading at that age. These are my word-babies. Let me show you them."
Dearest f-list, I beg your indulgence for the next month as I struggle with this project. It means more to me than ever before that I actually meet this goal. There is nothing holding me back, no excuses to be made, no stumbling block to hide behind. I have a nine to five, free weekends (mostly), and no school. It's the kind of position I've always said would be ideal for writing. Now I have to prove to myself that I can. Every once in a while I may put chunklets of the Work In Progress up here. You don't have to comment, but a few words of encouragement would be cherished.
Now to strap myself onto this hulking beast and get ready for a wild ride. Oh boy.
