As I have mentioned, I am an aspiring writer, which basically means that I like to write, but don't have the wherewithal to actually finish anything so it can be published. I'm also incredibly critical, and can't manage to get through a few pages of prose without going back and hyper-editing everything.
The buck stops here, darn it.
For the month of November, despite the fact that I have never completed an internet challenge ever, I am participating in National Novel Writer's Month. The challenge, basically, is to write a 50,000 page novel in a one-month time-span. They make a point of informing you that what you produce will probably be beautiful, lovable crap, because instead of editing and trashing, you are supposed to just throw criticism to the wind and write with nary a thought to commas splices and plot holes.
I'm nervous, because you actually have to submit your novel, which means that people are going to read it, which is something I have never allowed. Ever. My husband, who I love with all my hart, has never read a word that I have written. Except when he was cleaning our bedroom and found my old journal from eleventh and twelfth grade. He read that. And laughed at me. Out of love, I'm sure.
The point is, I'm writing a novel. I'm doing it, and you can't stop me.
The buck stops here, darn it.
For the month of November, despite the fact that I have never completed an internet challenge ever, I am participating in National Novel Writer's Month. The challenge, basically, is to write a 50,000 page novel in a one-month time-span. They make a point of informing you that what you produce will probably be beautiful, lovable crap, because instead of editing and trashing, you are supposed to just throw criticism to the wind and write with nary a thought to commas splices and plot holes.
I'm nervous, because you actually have to submit your novel, which means that people are going to read it, which is something I have never allowed. Ever. My husband, who I love with all my hart, has never read a word that I have written. Except when he was cleaning our bedroom and found my old journal from eleventh and twelfth grade. He read that. And laughed at me. Out of love, I'm sure.
The point is, I'm writing a novel. I'm doing it, and you can't stop me.
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