Towards the end of October I started looking ahead to
the hell that is NaBloPoMo. And though I’ve participated in this particular flavor of insanity several times before, I naively thought, “Oh, I have plenty of time and plenty of ideas. I’m not going to write anything ahead of time. Keep the purity of daily writing that way. It’ll be ok, I’ll be juuuust fiiiiine.”
Apparently I was batshit crazy.
This is the sixth or seventh or eleventy billionth time I’ve done NaBloPoMo, and every year about the 12th or 13th I am like a drowning woman, looking for any kind of life preserver. I can’t give up (because I am insane and don’t give up unless it’s really really bad and it’s my health or sanity on the line) and I can’t imagine going on. And yet, somehow, I manage to suck it up and put on my big girl panties (they’re the ones all purty and sparkly and say WRITER on the ass) and get through the month.
I’ve also determined I’m doing entirely too much in my life. This is nothing new. However, I am less tolerant of it, older, and considerably more exhausted. I also think Mary Poppins was wasted on Mrs. Banks. Yes, suffrage was important and all, but you also had a maid and a cook, so cough up the magical nanny, woman.
This month will fly by, and I will post every day here. If I can manage it I’ll even sneak some quality writing in there.
But next year? Bet your ass I’ll have pre-written half the month.