Well, NaNoWriMo is officially over, my friends. I didn’t write as hard as I might have over the last month–I didn’t even get started until a few days late–but after a year of hitting crippling snags in morale and plot and then switching stories halfway through the month, it was just the boost I needed to get out of my slump. While I’m sad to say that I once again failed to meet the 50,000 word mark, I am proud of my effort just the same.
“A for Effort” isn’t always reassuring when it comes to the difference between a first place medal and a sportsmanship ribbon, but this time I’m making it work. They’re equally important sides of the same coin, in my experience: I’ve tried the whole Mind-On-Fire-artist bit, with the quest for satisfaction that never ends and the panicked search for identity within one’s own work, and I’ve found I’m a little too fragile for that nonsense. As is my own tentative grasp of what I’m trying to accomplish.
It was only last year that I began to think I could ever write as a living. I grew up being taught that a job was something you did with your hands–lots of heavy lifting, soul-crushing hamster-in-a-wheel customer service, or raising kids while a husband paid the bills and eventually began to wish he was rid of you–but after much shameless trawling for reassurance and even more false confidence, I’m starting to believe the would-be lie of writing as a career.
So, baby steps.
NaNo is always a good start, the kick in the pants for impetus–now I just need to hold onto that sense of a goal and not let the urge to write slip away with the holiday season approaching. I’m currently trying to adjust my sleeping schedule to allow for earlier rising-and-writing, although at the moment I’m writing this after going to sleep at 9PM and waking, fully alert, at 2 AM with the workin’ hour quickly approaching at 8.
The next step is tea. Lots of delicious, creamy-beige tea and perhaps a biscuit.