It’s official: whether I finish or not, I’ve re-enrolled in NaNoWriMo. Which makes me a very insane person indeed.
What is NaNoWriMo, you ask?
I shall tell thee: The National Novel Writing Month, also known in some non-insane circles as “the month of November” is simply a personal challenge: write 50,000 words in thirty days, because you believe in self-torture and because at one point in your life you dreamed (and maybe still dream, in restless sleep) of being a published author of something. Honestly, the medical prospectus for ass cream is starting to sound like a fine credit to have under one’s belt these days, because poetry certainly ain’t cutting the mustard (or passing muster– I will leave your choice of idiom open-ended here), lemme tell you.
Maybe one day I will die and people will find my oeuvre and I will be famous posthumously like Emily Dickinson….. but seriously? What is the fun and the élan and the panache and the (insert clever gallicism here)?
I want to be recognized for my awesomeness, dammit.
I still cannot believe that Jewel’s “poetry”– that horrible compilation of whiny-12-year-old-sounding musings– actually got published and read and….. sold. You have no idea how discouraging it is to read really really bad poetry and see people rave about it as if it were Yeats reincarnated into a snaggletoothed, big-breasted Alaskan girl.
It’s about as discouraging as knowing that I will be writing 50,000 words that possibly will only be read by my closest of kin, and that at gunpoint with one of them.
Anyhoo…… I guess I am entitled a little whining before I jump off the deep end and pretend I can write.
I will keep you posted on the progression of my insanity, combined with the pregnancy. I’m looking forward to being thoroughly puzzled, mildly amused, and above all, riotously into it.