National Novel Writing Month
November 1st marks the beginning of another National Novel Writing Month [nanowrimo], and I'm already nervous, anxious and struggling if I should commit my half-baked brain, tired back, arthritic fingers and very little free time to such a project. [what's is nanowrimo? how it works?]
In plain English you'll have 30 days, from November 1st to midnight November 30th, to write a 50,000 words [175 pages] novel. Well, NOVEL is a very big word for a 30-day mental diarrhea which is how it'd end up being. The objective is certainly not quality, but quantity. A brute force type of project; and yeah, a lot of brute force typing all that non-sense.
I read about it last year and at that time I thought that you either have to have just too much free time in your hands, or too few brain cells still alive to commit yourself to such a monstrosity. If I combine my almost daily posts in this rotten blog, with all the e-mails that I write to friends and family, plus all the e-mails I write at work, plus all the phone numbers I have to press-dial everyday, and on top of that add the many times that I type my debit card's pin number at the grocery store on daily basis, I couldn't even get anywhere close to scratch 1,666 words a day which is what you need to complete such novel.
Which makes me wonder what is really wrong with me these days to even consider singing up for it.
Knowing my cool self as good as I do, I know that I would start writing like crazy, like if there was no tomorrow, like if there was a pot of gold at the other end of that rainbow of rants that my novel would end up being, only to slow down and procrastinate for the next two weeks thinking that if I can do it tomorrow, then why do it today? Finally one day I'd wake up, hungover, and with just few days left to finish that "novel" I would glue myself to my laptop, an IV of coffee hanging from the ceiling and going straight to my jugular, trying miserable to fill page after page with rants, thoughts, ideas, complaints in some sort of plot, and even words in French and Spanish in order to type word number 50,001 seconds before midnight and claim victory once and for all in my life time. Needless to say IF I manage to finish, of course.
And the other thing is that I've never written fiction in my life, not one single little page. I've only written about me [me me me me me me me], which is anything but exiting. . . Wait a second; I could maybe write what happen to me in December '98 when I was detained by police men in China for getting into a fight with the owner of a Karaoke place; or how about the little week-long trouble I had in January '99 with the Russian authorities who thought that a guy with a South American passport could not be doing anything other than smuggling plutonium into their country [both stories are completely true my friends, I swear]. But then it wouldn't be a novel but a memoir. Hell even better: a non-fucking-fiction book!
Oh shit, I really don't want to think what I'm thinking right now because it sounds so easy and nice and enjoyable and even though I haven't written a single word it somehow seems so easy and attainable. No, seriously, I ain't gona waste all November in that. No. Period. What I really need is a girl to take care of, not a damn book-writing project. I mean, seriously, NO!
In plain English you'll have 30 days, from November 1st to midnight November 30th, to write a 50,000 words [175 pages] novel. Well, NOVEL is a very big word for a 30-day mental diarrhea which is how it'd end up being. The objective is certainly not quality, but quantity. A brute force type of project; and yeah, a lot of brute force typing all that non-sense.
I read about it last year and at that time I thought that you either have to have just too much free time in your hands, or too few brain cells still alive to commit yourself to such a monstrosity. If I combine my almost daily posts in this rotten blog, with all the e-mails that I write to friends and family, plus all the e-mails I write at work, plus all the phone numbers I have to press-dial everyday, and on top of that add the many times that I type my debit card's pin number at the grocery store on daily basis, I couldn't even get anywhere close to scratch 1,666 words a day which is what you need to complete such novel.
Which makes me wonder what is really wrong with me these days to even consider singing up for it.
Knowing my cool self as good as I do, I know that I would start writing like crazy, like if there was no tomorrow, like if there was a pot of gold at the other end of that rainbow of rants that my novel would end up being, only to slow down and procrastinate for the next two weeks thinking that if I can do it tomorrow, then why do it today? Finally one day I'd wake up, hungover, and with just few days left to finish that "novel" I would glue myself to my laptop, an IV of coffee hanging from the ceiling and going straight to my jugular, trying miserable to fill page after page with rants, thoughts, ideas, complaints in some sort of plot, and even words in French and Spanish in order to type word number 50,001 seconds before midnight and claim victory once and for all in my life time. Needless to say IF I manage to finish, of course.
And the other thing is that I've never written fiction in my life, not one single little page. I've only written about me [me me me me me me me], which is anything but exiting. . . Wait a second; I could maybe write what happen to me in December '98 when I was detained by police men in China for getting into a fight with the owner of a Karaoke place; or how about the little week-long trouble I had in January '99 with the Russian authorities who thought that a guy with a South American passport could not be doing anything other than smuggling plutonium into their country [both stories are completely true my friends, I swear]. But then it wouldn't be a novel but a memoir. Hell even better: a non-fucking-fiction book!
Oh shit, I really don't want to think what I'm thinking right now because it sounds so easy and nice and enjoyable and even though I haven't written a single word it somehow seems so easy and attainable. No, seriously, I ain't gona waste all November in that. No. Period. What I really need is a girl to take care of, not a damn book-writing project. I mean, seriously, NO!
Jean-Francois was drunk at 1:47 PM
5 Comments:
tu peux t'occuper de moi ;-)
et tu as gagne le concours... tu peux epserer une carte...
*esperer
Ahhh mon trés joli Mademoiselle E, cela est une merveilleux idée: Toi et moi à Paris, dans automne, les Champs Elysées comme un fond, et nous nous occupant de l'un l'autre...
Gross bisous mon chéri,
J_F
Mr. Tuckabuick: go jerk off elsewhere.
oh dude, it sounds very easy and pretty and let's "conquer the world" and let's write and so on and so forth but really, I mean really, that's a hell of a lot of typing!
I have my hands more than full trying to keep my self from not singing up for that, so please, seriously, PLEASE don't try to encourage me 'cause there'll be a lot of coursing and finger pointing from the Land Down Under towards the US and the other way around when we realized that we actually have to do a hell of a lot of writing!
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