I spent my whole life wishing that I could just drop everything and "become a writer." I used to dream of the day when I could formulate characters and make them interact to weave a plot.
But for some reason, I was convinced that I just couldn't do it. That writing a novel was for people who were "artsy." People who had wild life experiences, like spending half your life living in an African tribe or growing up in an orphanage or something. I thought you definitely had to have a degree in Creative Writing, and I thought it took years and years to write something even resembling a book.
And then one day, I sat down and I started to write. And I wrote maybe a thousand words. Not really all that much, maybe a newspaper article's worth or so.
But then the next day, I sat down and wrote again. And, being a person wholly addicted to deadlines, I jumped on board the Nano train and set a deadline of 50,000 words by November 30.
And I kept writing. Just a bit, each day. Some days, I didn't meet my 1600 word goal, some days I did.
(Of course, on the days when I did meet my writing goal, being in a relaxing state of mind with great open swaths of free time to write didn't hurt.)
Although it is hard to write a scene about your character being stressed out when you are so very un-stressed. My characters suddenly all had the urge to go on vacation. I don't blame them.
And I am here to report to you that it is now November 12 and I have officially logged 19,305 words. Nearly 40% of the way there. Is it award-winning material? Probably not. Do my characters need a lot more development? Probably so.
But still, just seeing that word count tick higher and higher makes my heart skip. Could it really be happening? Am I really writing a book?
Does this finally make me a writer?
I guess we'll find out come the end of November. I can't wait.