With the fun of Halloween behind us, the first of November arrived today, and with it the ominous spectre of NaNoWriMo. If you’ve been reading this blog for a few years, you might remember that this is code for “National Novel Writing Month”. It’s an adventure that thousands of brain-fevered writers embark on every November 1, hoping to churn out 50,000 words in the course of a month, never mind that it’s already a shorter month than some with only 30 days, and those are trimmed even further by Thanksgiving break.
It’s really got to be some kind of group insanity.
Anyway, you might also recall that I’ve participated in this group-based delusion before. Successfully, even, believe it or not.
Having been through it in the past and having somehow lived to tell about it, I can say with confidence that there are several things to remember when you’re trying to vomit 50,000 words in only 30 days. Most importantly, you must not consider the quality of any of those words on any given day if you can help it, because therein lies madness.
Drafting at this speed requires a breakneck disregard for any sort of self-editing. Well, that is, unless you can write full time and have all day to squeeze out your daily 1667 word count. I, however, along with most NaNo-ers, do not have all day. If I’m lucky, I’ll get 90 minutes while my daughter cackles too loudly on the phone with a friend and Second Son pretends to be Dizzy Gillespie with his trumpet in the other room.
Which brings us to today’s socks. I’ve been wondering for some time what might bring me to want to wear poop emoji on my feet, and this morning a good reason finally hit me. Namely, because it’s NaNoWriMo, and that means spewing out the words as fast as you can at any cost, even if that means the ones you get more closely resemble this print than something anyone would ever want to read.
Because you can’t revise what you never write, November is all about just getting a shitty draft on paper.
Pud’n
Puddintopia 