unapologetically consistent

I decided I was feeling bloggy today so I went to my url to see when I had last posted and it was October 22--the time before that, September 22. Weird, isn't it?

My last blog was about how I was doing nanowrimo. It seems somewhat fitting that this one should inform that I am not going to win nano. I'm glad I did it because I wrote 25,000 words that I wouldn't have otherwise but I decided that it would not suit me to write the other 25,000 words in the last 10 days. I'm not interested in the stress and, to be honest, it isn't fun anymore.

I like winning but it isn't worth it. Not that I'm going to stop writing; I'm not. I'm just not writing 2,500 words a day, that's all.

On another note, my head is swirling with a lot of half-formed thoughts. Someone's recently moon-walked into my life who is, in some indirect and not so indirect ways, shaking things up.

Gilmore Girls is calling. I will continue to be unapologetic for my amateur, yet consistent, blogging.

nanowrimo

I've hesitated to say that I won't be doing NaNoWriMo this year, at least not in the traditional sense. I don't know why, but blogging the words has a sense of finality and though I'm not unsure about it, I guess I haven' wanted to carve it into the interwebs just yet. It wasn't a hard decision, though the more I think about it, the more love I feel for Nano. New stories are great. There's a rush of excitement and bursts of energy and I enjoy it. But, as author Susan Juby said today in a workshop at the Surrey Writers Conference, if you have too many affairs with other stories, it becomes a habit you can't break.

I want to finish my current story. Every time I hear advice on how plots are supposed to work I think of my novel and smile at how it all vaguely fits into the right places at the right times. Sure, I need more conflict and tension and my protagonist needs more goals and it's not quite there yet but it's a draft and I'm just happy that I feel it has potential. It's so nice to feel this story could really go somewhere--if I put the effort in.

So while I love that rush of falling in love with a new story and creating new characters and scenes and starting fresh on November 1st, it's not going to work for me this year. I need to stick with what I've got and hopefully I'll figure out how to use the motivational push of NaNo to my advantage in some other way. I'm still figuring out the logistics.

To all those attempting the challenge, I wish you luck. For writers who are not embarking on this sacred journey, is there any particular reason why not?

and so I write

Hanging out at the Surrey International Writers' Conference this past weekend gave me a lot to think about. I was a volunteer most of the time and an attendee for one day so I got to see a lot and meet a ton of different people. I loved it. Spending time with a hotel of writers is something every writer should do if they get the chance.

There's a weird connection there, like a unity where you feel with everyone else. You belong. You all have something in common. It's comforting.

For a second it felt like everyone in the world was a writer. Like everyone looks at the world and how absurd it is and notes the unique things about people. Like everyone feels a desperate need to scrawl themselves down on napkins and notebooks, just to get across that vital message we all need to share.

But when you're at a writers' conference, you have a skewed perspective.

I spent a lot of time on the bus, going back and forth from home to hotel and back. That's a lot of time for staring out the window and thinking. Thinking about writers and why there aren't more people who look critically at the world and choose to dutifully (and hopefully honestly) pen it down. Thinking about why I write.
Big question. Why do I [need to] write?

It's not that I'm an overly creative person. I don't have ultra unique ideas that pop into my head out of nowhere. I'm sure most of my stories come from pieces of everywhere I look--books, movies, friends, family. But I still need to tell them. Why?

I don't know how this will sound to you exactly but my life isn't that exciting. I mean, it is but it isn't. And I love it. I love my life, how a spend my time, the contentedness I have. I have things to look forward to. There's always something exciting to blog about. But it's not Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, dancing like there's no one else in the room. It's not Joe and Lennie, drinking wine on the porch and making the whole world explode. It's not Katsa finding an almost equal fighting partner in Po. It's just this. And this is great and I'm so grateful to have this but it's not that, you know?

And so I write. I write because I'm a hopeless romantic and I daydream, okay? I imagine boys who talk about more than who is the "fucking hottest girl in [their] grade." I imagine teenagers not being afraid to talk to each other, not stuck in their timid shells. I imagine romance and witty things to say and so much more than probably exists in reality.

Because reality isn't always enough.