Earlier this month, I made the painfully logical decision to skip NaNoWriMo this year. The last thing the world (and my hard drive) needed was another crappy, unfinished novel draft from me. If anything, I figured I could take the month to re-write last year’s piece, or write more poetry… or something.
But no… as the #NaNoWriMo tag kept popping up in my Twitter feed, I felt that little pang of regret, that sense that I was giving up something important to me and my year. I love the rush of the month, the pounding of the keyboard, the late night Write or Die sessions where I have no earthly clue where I’m going but the going is exhilarating.
Sure, after the month is over, when I finally go back to revisit my little novel I see a terrifying mess, but the thrill of accomplishment makes it all worthwhile. And one of these days, something will stick right?
I’m going to give it a go.
There. I said it. Even if I don’t “win” this year, it would feel wrong not to try.
Right now… I just have a really vague inkling of what to do. Okay, I have little to no idea what I’m doing. I have a scrap from that creative writing class I took that makes for a promising story starter and the notion to try a loosely connected short story anthology.
That’s about it.
Now if you’ll excuse me… I’m going to go scribble in my notebook and see if I can lure some plot bunnies out of hiding.