I have a confession:
I know I told you I quit. Because, it wasn’t a good idea. And it definitely isn’t a good idea. It’s created all kinds of resentment. And I’m sure it will result in heavy doses of family therapy down the line.
But, once I started it …
It’s all I could think about. It become an equal parts inescapable and delightful fascination. Doing dishes, driving, making food, playing play dough, getting kids dressed, baths …9 times out of 10, I’m thinking about, and wishing I was with my obsession. It’s like I’m having an affair.
And it’s not even like my lover is at all sexy. Not even cute. Very low intellegence factor. Awfully awkward actually. It’s likely these trysts I’ve been entertaining will translate into nothing more than further fodder in the growing body of evidence suggesting I should be heavily medicated.
Truthfully, my lover is so boring, awkward, clunky, wrought with gaping holes and bad grammar, and simple sentences that make the relative linguistic skills of my fellow townspeople seem Harvard-esque. (Sorry Fairbankians, that was mean … but also true).
And my cabin-mates? They don’t like it. They don’t like it one bit! Thing 1 and Thing 2 just plain don’t allow for it. They do their damdest to keep my hands busy making and cleaning up food; braiding hair; changing clothes and diapers; playing play dough; playing dolls; and then before you know it they’re hungry again and it starts all over …
And Alaskafella? He rents movies and pours glasses of wine … but as soon as Thing 1 and Thing 2 are down for the night (ok fine, down until they wake up for the first, second, and third time that night..), all I want to do is run to place I’ve been dreaming and scheming about all day.
So, I run.
I have literally run down the stairs towards my salvation. And I burry my head and I am GONE. Like the wardrobe in “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe,” my monitor has become this instantaneous magical portal to this whole other world of magic and wonder and words.
And this place? Oh! In this place I set the weather. I create friends and relationships at the touch of a few buttons. I decide if, and when, and where people are moving, and who they kiss and don’t kiss all along the way.
The omnipotent feeling pretending to be a writer has given me, it’s intoxicating. The power has gone straight to my finger tips; and they are getting pretty, darn, swollen.
And even though my novel totally sucks, and even though I am WAY behind on word counts due to my quitting sabbatical and inability to call in sick or take long breaks from my other job; I have to keep going. I have to. I’m addicted.
And I don’t know if I’ll make it to 50,000 words by the time the clock strikes midnight on November 3oth, or if I’ll be turned from the idosyncratic; aloof; aspiring writer and NaNoWriMo competitor back into – well, me (just weird, spacey, and delusions of grandeur me).
But I sure hope I make it to 50,000 (I’m at 30,000 now).
Because I’m not really into running and don’t really feel the pull of a marathon; and I’m not really into cooking or crafts and don’t really feel the pull of putting on a big feast or creating a beautiful afghan; I’m never going to climb Everest; I’m bet I’m not going to partake in America’s Cup – but writing a novel? This month?
After taking the challenge on, I finally understand the allure of these, “Can I really do it?” tests of will. (Notice I said will, not skill!) The idea of completing the NaNoWriMo challenge, just the idea of crossing that finish line, it’s exhillerating.
Plus, it’s making No-sun-burr tolerable. It’s making a place I’d often rather not be a place I’m not really in! And, I am having so much fun.
But it’s also a good thing NaNoWriMo month comes just once a year. Because I’m looking forward to toasting my victory with a glass of wine and watching a movie with Alaskafella; and maybe a mentally present playdough period with Thing 1 and Thing 2.
Until then though, I gotta novel to write!