It feels like I’ve broken the blogging or journaling habit. While writing upwards of two thousand words a day for “National Novel Writing Month”, it hasn’t even occurred to me to write about daily life.
I sit down at the old Macintosh late on an evening, type like a crazed lunatic for an hour, and then walk away. Even on the tough days when the enthusiasm isn’t there, I still do it. I’m just concentrating on writing – emptying my head of memories each time I sit down. I have a collection of cue cards – daily prompts if you will – things from the past that I think I might be able to write a few words about. It seems to be working so far.
I’m far, far ahead of schedule to write fifty thousand words by month-end. If I keep going at this rate, I may well finish with several days to spare. I still find myself smiling during the quiet moments – every time I have tried NaNoWriMo in the past, I have failed, and failed quickly. This time I have really attacked it, and kept at it – dogmatic to the point of idiocy. And it’s working.
I’m enjoying the writing. I’m not sure if it’s just down to spending an hour inside my own head each night, or a byproduct of reminiscing with myself about people, places, and events from my past. It’s become cathartic – looking back and ruminating somewhat. I’m not sure anybody else will ever be interested in the thirty-odd-thousand words I’ve written so far, but you never know.
Time to go put the kettle on, and perhaps write a few more words.