I sit here typing with... a bloody Kleenex hanging from my nose. My breathing is labored. My appearance, haggard. First, NaNoWriMo, that sly devil, wore me down with sleep deprivation and sensory overload, before sucker punching me in the gut. Then, while I was dazed, the brute laid me out with one swift upper cut. Worse still, when the crowds had cleared and no one was looking, NaNoWriMo totally kept kicking me and calling me names while I was on the ground.
The above is only a metaphor of course for the labor intensive authorial month of November that I've undertaken that is NaNoWriMo. I may actually complete the stupid goal. It seems I do indeed have what it takes to finish a novel in a month. I do not, apparently, have what it takes to write 50K words in one month AND blog about the misery of it. And, more importantly, I do not have what it takes to be a person anyone would want to know whilst writing myself into an early grave. I have developed some subtle personal tics and idiosyncrasies. I talk to myself even more than I even did before. The ideas and imaginary conversations never, ever stop now. My brain has been pushed too far and is now stuck in overdrive. And every time since November 1st that I sat down to try and blog about it, the PTSD would kick in, and with my mind racing in 20,000 different directions, I just couldn't seem to arrange the letters in the right order to make them say words. All I could do was weep silently at the keyboard, while the voices continued, my right eye twitching as I jotted down notes in 20 different notebooks on 20 different novels.
As ever with my cruel experiments, I have no one but myself to blame. It always starts so innocently. I get an idea stuck in my head and I just can't rest until I turn it into action. Pursue your dreams, isn't that the sadistic advice so often given? Exacerbating matters is that I always stumble across some clever Thomas Edison or Benjamin Franklin or Teddy Roosevelt quote about persevering, success being disguised as hard work or some such thing that speaks to me in some way. Then I think - all inspired to follow in the footsteps of greatness and everything - If they can do it, then so can I.
But then I remember that those men were legitimate bad-asses, geniuses born ahead of their time, blessed with extraordinary talent and greatness, and that I... am not. The old timey dudes totally incepted me into thinking I could do anything I set out to do, that with just a little hard work, I, too, could realize my dreams. To quote KidPresident, Not cool Thomas Edison. Not cool. I"m just a regular gal, a regular gal with a mountain of responsibilities and loads of other crap to do. But a regular gal who, by overreaching and seriously overextending her sanity, may just accomplish what she set out to do. I may just finish 50K words on one novel and about 25K on another.
But it ain't gonna be pretty.
More to follow on The Girl Who Was Evangeline excerpt...