I’ve got a thousand words that I never spoke
see I broke down codes at an early age
filled the page, filled my ears with rage
sound in my headphones sound like a cyclone
I’m accustomed to failure. I’m comfortable with it and it actually doesn’t humiliate me or crush me. A lifetime of dashed dreams and unmet expectations have taught me not to sweat defeat, but to revise your goals instead. So this, the second day of NaNoWriMo, has showed me that I am not:
a.psychologically capable or prepared to write a novel at this point
b.certain I ever want to write a novel
c.really concerned about that fact one way or another
I love to write. I always have. Me and 50 million of my closest friends. I like to write here with a heavy slant toward ironic urban speak, pop culture references and YouTube videos. I like to write at the Argus, which still allows my flava, but cleaned up nice for civilized folk. I like to write for Trifecta, for the Band, for Becky‘s frugal living blog, for anyone who will let me.
But I’m not so big on the fiction. I enjoy consuming it, but creating it…not so much. The one exception would be description. I love to find new ways to define something, to illustrate a single word or emotion with other words. Description is a beautiful thing and it lends a lot to the atmosphere of a piece of writing, but it’s only one layer. Novels are like onions. They make everything taste better and have many layers.
So I’ve revised my goal. I plan to write 50,00 words this month. No blog words to be used in this experiment. 50,000 words of fiction, essays, autobiographical material or otherwise toward the goal of finding my true voice. The one I want to focus my writing on. And toward the goal of writing for love every day because I can, because I want to and because the NaNo police are only in my mind.