An Update on Our NaNoWriMo Writer
When we last met Friend of SFist and NaNoWriMo participant, Brenda, she was about to begin her month-long sojourn into writer-hood and wondering whether she keeps on agreeing to do NaNoWriMo because she likes the challenge or she likes being a masochist. Two weeks into it and she’s already sick, stressed out, behind, and contemplating the eternal question every writer faces- t’is better to write and not have a life or have a life and not write. Hopefully, we won't find her at the end of November, face down on her laptop, having written nothing but "All work and no play make Jack a dull boy."
Every year I somehow convince myself that I can commit to writing 4-5 pages a day. I even try to write during the break while watching Tom Stoppard’s play “The Real Thing” at ACT, only I end up writing in my journal what a great writer Stoppard is, and wondering if there’s anything I’ve seen in the play that I can use in my novel.Carey Perloff, director of the play, said in the program, “One of the greatest challenge of being involved with artists is that they are by definition solipsistic people, particularly writers. The life of a writer is a very solitary and self-involved life, and the world revolves around one’s own imagination….” I read this and get depressed, and wonder why I’m a writer.
Then in a couple of days, right after signing up to do the 50K 30 day novel writing gig, I’m on a 6:30 am flight to LAX and going to a screenwriting conference. If I can’t write the great American novel, why not write try writing the oscar caliber movie that will pay a million dollars right? I’m thinking, okay, no big deal, I can write during the breaks and still keep up my word count. Then I get home and I realize I’m days behind in my word count, and I have a sore and scratchy throat which turns into a slight infection in my lungs which makes me too exhausted to write all week.
So life gets in the way of writing. I’m nine days behind in my word count, which is about 30-35 pages, and I’m so behind schedule that I’m wondering if it’s all worth it. And regret is not quite setting in, but it’s definitely there hovering like my lung infection waiting to turn into something bigger. I’m still sick and I just don’t feel like writing. And I’m becoming paranoid and anti-social and I keep thinking my love interest wants to break up with me because he doesn’t call and doesn’t want to see me. Not that I can see him anyway because I’m too busy worrying about why I’m not writing.
But I’m not giving up yet; I’ve still got 16 more days to go.