On one hand, I'm a dismal failure at Nanowrimo. I try and console myself with the fact that it's my first time making this effort, and I broke one of the rules from the very beginning. . . . I didn't start from scratch, but rather from a piece of writing that already meant something to me. I was invested. My fantasy of freewheeling wordplay was riddled with fallacy.
On the other hand, I am putting more words down on a daily basis than I have for a long time, and that feels good. This is the hand I try to keep in front of me when I'm frustrated . . . by me.
Writing is a solitary thing—something I both seek out and rebel against.
That's kind of weird, but it's not The Weird Thing. Ready?
I imagine that as I sit here stringing words together in an effort to decorate the pages with the pictures in my head, I'm clacking away at my keyboard at the same time as Stephen King and Dean Koontz and Michael Connelly and Elizabeth George are clacking away at theirs. What amazing company I'm part of!
CR: Field of Blood by Eric Wilson. I just started this book, but look for the review here when I'm finished.
It's all better with friends.