Last week, I had an interesting conversation with Blake on goodreads (you don’t really have to click the link, he never updates [HINT HINT]) that has kind of had me thinking.
Without boring you with all the details, it went like this:
[...] but, I’m curious, are you a writer? Have you ever considered writing a novel?
I have not written anything other than what you’ve seen on my blog. I started it last year to get out of doing NaNoWriMo. Don’t think I haven’t considered it, because I know I have some ideas, I just don’t know that I’d ever be able to get them down. I get all panicky just thinking about writing fiction.
Don’t worry about the writing, I was just curious, because, you see, I’d heard of these people who loved reading but didn’t really write, but I’d never actually met one. Most people’s stories are just angst-ridden hypotheticals and perfect worlds. Like ‘Twilight’. Not to say that if you were a writer that I think your work would be terrible. (On the contrary…)
“You know, I guess I think I’ve always been a professional critic… you know, or some sort of professional appreciator or something.”
Isn’t that Nick Hornby or something?
Exactly. I’m the BEST at appreciating but horrible at DOING.
So then, yesterday, Heather announces that she’s doing NaNo again this year.
Let me tell you. NO ONE puts the pressure on like Mrs Becoming Cliche. I had it in the comments on her blog, via email AND on twitter. THREE PLACES AT ONCE! It was unbearable.
But I was ready to prevail. I held strong.
For about an hour and a half.
I did it. I signed up. I’m doing NaNoWriMo.
[hangs head in shame]
Because I couldn’t take the pressure. She enlisted OTHER PEOPLE to ADD TO IT! How am I supposed to say no to that?
I was really tempted to just quietly sign up under an assumed name and pretend that I’d not agreed to do anything at all. That’s generally how I roll. Hell, the majority of my friends don’t even know I blog.
But that’s it. I’m going to try to write a novel during November.
best worst scariest part?
I kind of know what I want to write about already. I went into this saying “BUT I HAVE NO IDEAS!” and then as I was trying to take a nap earlier, I was replaying a conversation I’d had with Nicole earlier today and a “Well, what if it was [this] instead…?” popped into my head.
And it’s something that I’d want to read if it were written by someone else. That’s a good sign, right?
Anyway, I’m super nervous and almost certain I’ll fail, but I’m going to try anyway.
This will be my first time writing fiction in close to 20 years. I had a teacher in high school tell me that he enjoyed my short stories then, but a huge part of me worries that he was just saying that, and it’s kind of why I gave it up in the first place.
I think I might be sick.