For a girl who has always thought of herself as a writer, but never completed anything outside of a composition class, I’m really enjoying the artificial “deadline” imposed by the NaNoWriMo contest.
It’s silly, I realize. I’ve imposed the deadline by deciding to participate.
Yet in the two-ish weeks since I’ve decided to write something substantial, I’ve filled up two notebooks full of ideas. The main concept that is beginning to take shape is starting to come alive, in a way that writers on radio interviews often brag (I used to think, begrudgingly) about. My characters are starting to speak to me in a way that I didn’t believe was possible without the help of serious narcotics. Even if they are only telling me things that are glaring, things I should have noticed before. At least the dialogue is beginning, and a story is starting to take shape… just a bit.
I’ve nearly killed the whole idea a time or two, but because of the artificial deadline, I keep plugging away. I keep wrestling with the So What? question that has to continuously have an answer exciting enough that someone might at some point want to read the final product. On purpose.
I keep surprising myself by coming up with answers that are inspiring enough to keep me plotting.
Yea for deadlines!