I officially bombed my unofficial NaNoWriMo. I had not expected to actually write 50,000 words, but I figured I’d at least get a little momentum. I literally worked on my novel ONE DAY this month. It’s really a good thing that I did not actually participate in National Novel Writing Month. Then my failure would be more than hypothetical.
It doesn’t matter much now, if I think about it… November’s over. However much writing I did not do in the past 30 (let’s just say the month is actually over) days is still left to do in the time coming up. So I’d better get fucking moving. If I don’t keep writing I feel like my head might explode.
I’m extremely unmotivated. Nothing inspires me anymore. I used to have this constant urge to write, but now my stories are like late births, huddled up in their wombs, going “It’s really warm in here. I think I’ll stay in a while longer.” It’s going to be a long labor, I think.
Sorry about that image. For some reason, I just watched What To Expect When You’re Expecting. It wasn’t that bad, actually, although I don’t think you could possibly enjoy it if you’re a man.
I have had a few sparks for flash pieces, my little micros that certain people are always saying are the beginning of a story… they’re the story. If you don’t like it, why are you reading micros? Unfortunately, those sparks are too personal, to fresh, and I don’t have the courage to put them out into the world. Most of the time. (Like, what if someone actually understands what I’m saying, and all hell breaks loose? What am I supposed to do then? Am I supposed to say “Hey, it’s just fiction, calm down“? Yeah, okay. Good luck with that…)
Here’s to a better month in December. I am all out of optimism but somehow I can actually still hope. Yeah, I don’t understand it either.