Like my usual Starbucks order, I don't always make perfect sense. I have a career in software, and a family, and no time. And yet, here I am, attempting to write a novel. That's it. I said it outloud (sort of). I am finally going to start writing down some of these crazy stories that have been swirling around in my head for as long as I can remember.
People who know me will probably be surprised. After all, I was not an English major, and do not discuss writing or media with that self-righteous "intelligence" that many aspiring writers seem to. I don't take myself seriously. I always feel very out of my element when talking to other writers, or literature buffs. Lately, I've finally realized that I do not have to be able to write intelligent commentary on national politics, or be able to quote obscure twentieth century authors in order to be a writer myself. My voice is not theirs. I may admire the voices of many authors--fiction and nonfiction alike--and strive to learn from their writing styles. But my style is my own. My voice is my own. And, even if it's never published, or if no one even reads a word I write, that's OK.
At this point, I have nothing to lose but time. My career is not tied up in my ability to write prose. My livelihood is not tied to my plot. My self esteem is not based upon the believability of my characters. If something good comes of this, then it's a bonus. If not, then this hobby of mine is no worse than my sewing--I have a backlog of uncut fabric, and a portfolio of finished works. Some things turn out well, some go right from machine to trash can.
I signed up for the National Novel Writing Month. I am cheating, as I have about 1-2000 words already started from the last month or so. The goal is to write a 50k word novel by the 30th of November. We'll see how this goes!
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