NaNoWriMo 2012: Do you NaNo?

By the end of November last year, I was certifiable!

"I hereby pledge my intent to write a 50,000-word novel in one month's time. By invoking an absurd, month-long deadline on such an enormous undertaking, I understand that notions of 'craft', 'brilliance' and 'competency' are to be chucked right out the window, where they will remain, ignored, until they are retrieved for the editing process." -- Nano Pledge, thanks to Faith, ML for Brant/Haldimand/Norfolk Counties. Here's their Facebook page.


WHY pledge to write a 50, 000-word novel in thirty days? It's an insane concept: even if your kids don't get sick and you're free to write every day of the month of November, you are committing to putting 1600+ words down every one of those days. Heck, there are some days when I only manage to get down four sentences, three of which I delete in disgust the next day.

So here's why I do NaNo:

1) At the very moment I am soaking my aching wrists in Epsom salts, it is gratifying to know that there are (literally) tens of thousands of other writers suffering just as I am. Writing is a lonely craft, but not during NaNo.

2) Get rid of the editor. The only way to succeed is  by firing the editor. For four whole weeks I turn off Spell and Grammar Check. When an entirely new character trait appears halfway into the novel, that's okay. The editor will be back December 1st.

3) At least I can say I wrote a novel this year. It might take me another year to whittle it into something decent, but how many people can say "I wrote a novel this year"? I mean... other than NaNo participants...

4) It's a marvelous excuse: "Oh, sorry, can't do laundry. I'm in the middle of NaNo."

5) Strength in numbers: it takes a special kind of crazy to NaNo. When you meet a fellow WriMo, there's a gleam in his or her red-rimmed eyes that acknowledges a kindred spirit.

Anyone can participate, and is encouraged to do so. Check out:

National Novel Writing Month for details.

If you want to see what I'm doing this month, you can check out: My NaNo on Wattpad

Toby Goes To The Library

I write long. Long sentences, long novels, long letters. Just plain long.

But sometimes, a story comes up that needs to be told, and long just won't suffice. WORDS just won't suffice, not on their own. This is a problem when I want to tell a story that lends itself to a comic strip, such as this one, which happened Tuesday afternoon. I had taken my youngest to the doctor, and had some time to fill. We went to the library. Many apologies to the librarian, but I had so much fun eavesdropping in the conversation she had with Toby. I wanted to tell the story, and as I have no patience for paper and pencil, I went onto Bitstrips.

Here it is:

Toby Goes To The Library


Enjoy.

Waubaushene

With thanks to Jana, who asked us to write about a favourite childhood place.

When the door first opens in the spring, we are met by the smell of mildew and mouse droppings, and the air is damp and cool. We fling open the windows and turn on the heat. In minutes, warm electric pushes the mildew away. We are tearing musty quilts off the beds and hanging them in the thin May sunshine.

In June, the sand is still cool between our toes; Jim brings the boat from storage and it’s a scramble to remember if the lifejackets spent the winter in the front hall closet or did we take them home and forget to bring them back?

By July the beach chairs have been moved back under the shade of the old oak. It’s lost more branches this year: there are patches of sky showing that were not there last year. We take buckets to the woods, fight off deer flies and dig up saplings, dotting them around the property so that John can run them down with the mower the next time he visits.

In August the water has grown low. The kids collect the clay lying below the water line; they craft birds, tea cups and ashtrays, though they were born long after the last smoker kicked the habit. In the long twilights we light fires on the beach. The old outhouse came down at last and its carcass flares up frighteningly fast. The last thing I see is the toilet paper holder, glowing red and orange as if to remind us September is coming.

And then October.

Dad lights the fire. Mom and I are flinging windows open because it’s so flipping hot in here. Shower after shower rolls over the water towards us and too late we remember the turkey was to go in the oven an hour ago. Then the weather clears. Sunlight bursts across the bay and ignites the trees on the shore opposite. We are dazzled by the colours, chatter excitedly. Mom says, “I wish I could call Poppa and tell him about this.”

The season rolls to its close. We gorge ourselves at lunch to empty the refrigerator: how did we end up with four bottles of mustard? Close the windows. Lock the door. Drive away.