Nanowrimo or how I came to hate myself even more as a writer

16 Dec

So another Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) has slipped by me yet again. I keep mulling over stories of workplace generational gaps and time travelling truck drivers, but I never get anywhere or even close to creating a title page, let alone the first line.

There are a couple of issues I have with Nanowrimo. Really? It has to be in November? There could not, for me as a University employee and a partaker of Thanksgiving, be a worse time. Second, I know that the goal is to get something, anything on paper, but it’s called National Novel Writing Month, not National Paragraph Writing Month. Every time I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, I instantly become bored with what I am writing. I ask myself, “Would this be something that I would want to read?” While I think my concepts are strong, I get tied up in the minutia, the typos, the grammar, the tone. The designer/editor/A-type in me takes over and doesn’t let me proceed. And in a sense, I enjoy it more than the actual writing. My troubleshooter can’t be satiated, even at the end.

I know that good work takes time and refinement, but as I have gotten older, I find my time to be limited. And my patience for those saying, “Well, make time” wearing thin, even if it’s just me, yelling at myself.


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