Because I clearly don’t have enough things to do, I’ve signed up for this year’s NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge. The idea is simple. You start writing a novel on the 1st of November, and aim to hit 50,000 words by the 30th.
Some people use the time to create wild, chaotic plots, experiment with alternative genres, or just write random jibberish. I’m using it as a kick in the pants to finally write the obligatory semi-autobiographical first novel that I’ve been incubating for the last year or two. I don’t really have many aspirations for my first-born. Just that I know I need to get it out of the way before I can write anything else.
So far, I’ve reached more than 14,500 words (over a quarter of the way there!) and things are going OK. I’m off to a “write-in” tonight in Bethnal Green to get a bit more motivation. Mainly in the form of a lovely Canadian woman who is churning out the words at a frightening rate. Competitive? Moi?
Anyway, there might be a bit less blogging going on round here, depending on how shy I get about posting up excerpts. But for your delectation, here’s a little teaser of the first paragraph:
So this is where I’ve ended up. Sitting on the damp pavement outside a pub in the grey drizzle of a London morning, heaving great wailing gasps as the tears and snot slide down my chin. A small trail of puke dribbles down my front, hair plastered down and make-up running into greasy ravines in my crumpled face. To my left, a friendly hand passing me sheets of loo roll, torn from a grotty roll nicked from the pub toilets. On my right, a half-drunk glass of cheap white wine, gradually diluting with rainwater.
See you in December…