NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, seems like a great idea on paper, if you’ll excuse the accidental pun. And in many ways, it is. A few years ago, I took part in the writing drive and I successfully finished, but not before I’d cried, side-lined the much more important, and ultimately, come out with a whole lot of drivel.
I was in my first year of A Levels when I took on the challenge, and it can’t have been all bad, because I thought about doing it in my first year of university and blogging about my experiences. But then I realised, not only was I committing to writing 1666.6666 (recurring) words a day, but I was also considering blogging about my experiences. I doubted whether I even knew that many words…
Frankly though, the reason I don’t have twenty novels I’ve written on my bookcase is simple: because I have a whole host of other more pressing deadlines. In short, life gets in the way. The terrifying thing about NaNoWriMo, (apart from the shocking use of capital letters which gives you hand ache to even type)? You’re just adding to those deadlines by even taking part.
My ‘novel’ – inverted commas are necessary there, because it lacks an integral part of a novel in my opinion, an interesting plot – is still sat on my bookcase, in printed form, haphazardly glued, having used a small wood to print it off. But I haven’t proofed it yet, because polishing it would involve writing a whole other novel. While the process was somewhat therapeutic, and I will always be able to say I wrote 50,000 words in a month, no one will ever see those 50,000 words, so sometimes I ask myself, wouldn’t a poem have been better?