Novel Writing Month

When I first came to Minnesota there was a woman in my apartment building who died of cancer one winter. Her husband threw out her things the next week. He practically filled an entire trash can with her unpublished, feminist sci-fi space operas. I grabbed a few and tried to read them. The manuscripts were neither awful nor wonderful. The rejection letters which were left in the manuscripts were kind and a few were obviously not form letters. My memory of Karen, who withered away from breast cancer, is colored by how her life's creative output ended up in the trash heap. Her work should have been buried with her and accorded a little respect. From my perspective, her manuscripts were as much part of her body as her bones; at least her bones were awarded a measure of dignity even in death.

I mention this as last month was "National Novel Writing Month". I spent my month doing things other than writing, so I have nothing to brag about.

One of my co-workers did finish the requisite 50,000 words in November. I was so impressed when I heard about this. While I have always talked about writing something substantial, I've never yet had the internal motivation sufficient to actually do more than write opening scenes and notes about what to include later.

So what stops me really digging in and writing something longer than an email or blog posting? I'm not sure; perhaps it's the image of Karen's husband unceremoniously throwing the type written manuscripts into the trash without so much as a curse or a prayer.

In all probability it's nothing complex or poetic or heroic that prevents me from writing. I am putting the energy and passion of my life into other more mundane pursuits like finding the perfect cup of coffee. Writing mustn't be that important to me if I'm not willing to give up something else in order to write.