I’ve joined the legions of folks attempting to knock out 50,000 words in the month of November by participating in Nanowrimo. I’m using the commitment to explore more than to have a book by the time I’m through. Ideas for fiction, possibilities to follow up —that’s what I’m after.
Some days it’s like riding down a water slide on a hot day, the words coming out like a nice refreshing spray to soothe my skin. And there’s a smooth landing when my writing time is up.
Other days it’s like being stuck in a garbage bin. The stench is horrid; the fetid matter is deep; I’m mucking around; the walls are high; I can’t figure out how to either scale them or jump high enough to clear them.
Some days it’s like being in an empty room. White floor, walls ceiling, no windows, one white door, which opens to another white room, exactly the same, which opens to another and another and another. The endless boredom of that is suffocating, but not completely. There’s always another door, another day.