Day1 - Midnight Denny's WriteIn or Maybe I'll Commit
Day1. November 1st. I’m an imposter. At least it feels like it. Hiding out in my Slytherin robe among the real writers at NanonWriMo. There are over a dozen people camped out across tables in Denny’s down by the river. Its Halloween night and I’ve got my wand to my right. There’s a panda, devil, a couple furry hats and two other figures hiding beneath hoods. Its feel like home. The woman across from me, Tetyana, is from Ukraine right across the border of Poland. I wish Nic were here with me but he’s home with our baby. I told the woman across the table I was afraid to fully commit to this endeavor but now that I’m here I’m not so sure. 50,000 words. Sounds like something that would easily kill me but I’ve been terrifyingly close to death before from much greater monsters. The ones in my head are at least my friends nowadays.
Let me back up. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. Every year thousands of people across the country commit to finishing a novel in a single month; 1667 words a day equally 50,000 at the end. I thought it was 2500 a day because you know...math so a thousand less actually doesn't seem like that much. Perspective right? Throughout the year are events leading up to it but in November, when this whole deal annually goes down, there are daily things happening. Locally, there are write ins similar to the one I’m attending right now though in big cities the venues and circumstances are much cooler than a 24hr diner. Big name authors host webinars and you can win various prizes such as free editing and several people finish out with publishing contracts as a result.
As of now, I am not officially committing to the ‘official rules’ of NaNoWriMo. I’m afraid of myself. I know myself too well. I consistently overload my plate and over commit myself to big insane goals and when I don’t follow through above and beyond I beat myself up. Somehow trying and getting close just doesn’t feel good enough for me. I have to get everything I set my impossibly high expectations towards or any little bit missed is massive failure. Writing it out sounds super lame. Maybe I can commit. Maybe I will.
Definitely I will meditate on it first.
Blogging is my first priority right now but who says that cant’s somehow morph itself into a semblance of a novel. Writing a book, books, is ultiatmely a nonnegoticalbe for me. Maybe today is the time. Maybe this is when I can work on the written out pieces for our Netflix series. Block and map out the whole idea, how we want it to be portrayed and complete it so that we can move forward on our goals. That we can getas soon as we put our energy into it. Maybe I just need to focus on writing blog posts like I originally committed to. I can use my writing as blog posts though. But they require formatting and editing and pictures and promoting and much more work than just NaNoWriMo would take. Ugh.
I just caught myself holding my breathe. And slouching. So I sit up tall, level my feet on the ground and push my stomach against the table edge with my breathe. I am here. What I am doing right now is more than enough. Nothing before now or after this moment matters. Just now and in this space I am perfect.
No one else here seems to know what they’re writing either so maybe non of this is as crazy as I think. The owl eared woman to my left said she’s started over 50 books and never finished a one. Maybe we’re all imposters and I’m not alone. I’m smiling now looking around. The devil horns at the table across the way seems to just be playing with tablet and slowly stroking her headphones. All her moves are extra slow and I wonder what she’s thinking. If anxiety is taking over and she feels trapped and or if the inside of her head is a happy home and she’s reveling in this space. Being in a room surrounded by creative energy. Bouncing about between us. The same vibe that is created in a room full of committed yogis auming. Magic. One man is eating pancakes and eggs over his laptop. I am oddly intimated by him. Not wearing any sort of costume and I haven’t seem him making eye contact with another yet. The fearlessness in which he balances the syrup soaked buttermilk flush over his keys is unsettling. My hand hurts wanting the people who are writing my hand. Who am I kidding. My hands hurt writing like I am now. God damn EDS.
What could I write about? That’s obvious…I’ve got one hell of a story.