Sunday, November 9, 2014

Nono Nanowrimo

At the beginning of each November, my newsfeeds/timelines (or what have you) are filled with exuberant and determined people who have taken up the Nanowrimo challenge. Apparently, this stands for National Novel Writing Month. Some of these brave souls make it, though I would wager that the mortality rate is rather high. I applaud those that do make it through, despite their guilt inducing posts of how many thousands of words they have written in a day. I cheer (more or less) for those that exultantly post on the day of their completion. Yet, something about all this brings out the Grinch in me.

It's not the right season for the Grinch, though retailers would have you think otherwise. Still, it's an appropriate description of my feelings on the subject. I sit atop Mt. Crumpet with my feet ice cold in the November frost and I look down on these industrious souls with a mixture of cynicism and disdain. How can they do it, these Whos at their keyboards, tablets, and pantookas? Writing all these many thousands of words as if it were nothing at all. All the noise, noise, noise of those clacking keys and scratching pens. And then, they do something I hate most of all. All those writing Whos down in Whoville will start singing. They'll sing and they'll sing of all the words that they've written. They'll sing of their novels and how good they are. That. That is a noise I simply cannot stand.

And yet...

As I stand here atop my lofty perch with my nose in the air harrumphing at all the star bellied sneeches below (I'm doing a theme here...just go with it), I think to myself "Maybe its not just banging out the words. Maybe. Just maybe. This Nanowrimo thing means just a little bit more."

It's not for me, of course. I cannot produce strings words like the Once-ler made thneeds (Thank God Suess didn't have spell check. So many red lines....*shiver*). For me, it is more like the stubbornness of Horton as he clings the thistle. One word after another in dogged perseverance. I cannot make myself into one of those star bellied sneeches. I am not like them, Sam-I-am. Were I to try it, the thing at the end would not be a novel. It would be a mess. A horrible, awful mess.

BUT...I would be writing. And that is the true meaning of Nanowrimo, Charlie Brown (Sorry, I ran out of clever Seuss-isms). It's true, though. One cannot be a writer if one does not write. Yes, most of the November-ites may not manage something viable at the end, but at least they tried. They wrote.

So, perhaps my heart might grow three times it's size this November. Perhaps, the true meaning of Nanowrimo is in our grasp. Or, maybe, I'll just mute those posts until December when people go back to posting videos of cats.

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