The novel-writing experience I embarked upon so naively was both exciting and very inspiring, but took over and sometimes became a bit of a daily ordeal rather than pure creative pleasure. At the risk of spouting yet another cliché, it was quite a cathartic process, but nonetheless, relentlessly exhausting.
The ”Quantity more important than Quality” rule is rather frustrating to say the least and there’s no time for editing - we’re not really actually allowed to edit as such! So I regurgitated a lot of very poor quality, dreary drivel indeed, under constant pressure to hit the 50,000 word count in 30 days. Apparently a perfectly normal sensation for NaNoWriMo writers.
So. This book-with-no-plot, characters, synopsis or plan of any kind, turned out to be a massive jumble of fumbling styles, from Kafka to Mills and Boon, William Burroughs to Norton Juster.
It was basically a long, very disorganised list of words.
It leapt about, got sidetracked, lost in the woods, drunk at parties, missed opportunities, got corny, messy, contrived. A derivative little story, padded out uncomfortably in an itchy drag costume, pushed out onto the stage, embarrassed and shy. It hid one day, came out to play the next. The road it travelled on felt like a ribbon, being wound backwards through a misty, dark tunnel, rather than rolling out gently in front, through beautiful countryside.
The ”Quantity more important than Quality” rule is rather frustrating to say the least and there’s no time for editing - we’re not really actually allowed to edit as such! So I regurgitated a lot of very poor quality, dreary drivel indeed, under constant pressure to hit the 50,000 word count in 30 days. Apparently a perfectly normal sensation for NaNoWriMo writers.
So. This book-with-no-plot, characters, synopsis or plan of any kind, turned out to be a massive jumble of fumbling styles, from Kafka to Mills and Boon, William Burroughs to Norton Juster.
It was basically a long, very disorganised list of words.
It leapt about, got sidetracked, lost in the woods, drunk at parties, missed opportunities, got corny, messy, contrived. A derivative little story, padded out uncomfortably in an itchy drag costume, pushed out onto the stage, embarrassed and shy. It hid one day, came out to play the next. The road it travelled on felt like a ribbon, being wound backwards through a misty, dark tunnel, rather than rolling out gently in front, through beautiful countryside.
It all came to a slithery, muddy halt after 16 days, when I finally had to mutter a desolate "cheerio" after hitting what felt like a rather paltry 21,187 word count.
I watched the little evacuee on the cold, grey, station platform, name-tag tied to the lapel of his coat with string, ticket in hand, holding a tiny suitcase, looking back at me, through the steam, before boarding the train...
I watched the little evacuee on the cold, grey, station platform, name-tag tied to the lapel of his coat with string, ticket in hand, holding a tiny suitcase, looking back at me, through the steam, before boarding the train...
Surfacing from the dark NaNoWriMo isolation chamber now, a tad tired and emotional. Again, no regrets at all and a huge thank you to Louise for putting me up to this preposterous challenge, this inhumane experiment.
(Thank you for waiting so patiently)
There's a very warm, close cuddle between 
