The Art of the Novel

It’s almost December. Prague is getting all dressed up for the winter holidays, and putting extra blankets on the bed. That means it’s the end of the line for all of us NaNoWriMo-er’s out there. It’s the home stretch, the last couple of days before this month of feverish writing, sleepless nights and nervous breakdowns ends with a silent turn of the calendar. And I feel confident in saying that I am going to finish this year, although I had more than a few moments where I quit.

But I didn’t quit. And I actually learned something about myself! I learned that I am moody and I have very deep introspective thoughts and feelings of self doubt and feelings that I am a a complete and utter failure. I learned that I am a “real” writer. I am an artist.

I quit three separate times this month and each time I complained that there was no point to all of this, and why bother since no one will ever read the novel anyway. But I always went back. Why? Because I like to write. I have something to say. I actually cared about the stupid characters I had created. And I was NOT going to fail for an eighth time. Sure, my NaNo is probably pretty crappy, but at least I did it. I sat down and wrote 50,000 words of (mostly) coherent fiction in 30 Days. That is pretty bad ass. 



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