Last night my imaginary world finally started to make sense. Which was a relief, because I've invested a lot time in this piece of crap. Twenty-something days.
For the fifth year, I'm doing Nanowrimo. Fifty thousand words written in the month of November, that somehow hang together in an approximation of a plot.
A vague approximation.
It's been different for me every year. The first year it was about finding the discipline to simply sit down and write. Okay, that's true for every year. The first year is about proving you can find the discipline to sit there.
Year two was actually fun, because I knew I could do it, so the pressure was almost off. Year three, a little harder to motivate because I knew I had two crappy first draft novels sitting around, untouched, unedited.
Last year was the roughest. It was a tough year at work, my story idea was totally depressing, and I ground out the 50k in just a few marathon writing sessions. The magic never happened.
So why do it again this year?
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