So wow. November sped by crazy fast. I took part in NaNoWriMo which stands for National Novel Writing Month. It’s an online initiative that prompts authors to set a goal and write a 50,000 word rough draft of a novel by the end of the month.
I have never written that way before. It was very different from my usual read-reread-edit-reread-edit-repeat, as I write, style. Instead it’s like you are vomiting words onto the page directly from your soul, just get the words down on paper (or keyboard as the case may be). To give you an idea at 50000 words I have written (single spaced, 11 point font, calibri) 104 pages. It works out to for the month of November writing at least 1500 words a day (4 pages), no weekends off counting every single day in the month. Which any writer will tell you is a lot.
I don’t know if anything I wrote even made any sense, if the plotline is lost or characters likeable. I know nothing beside that I did it. It was incredibly questionable for quite some time (with four days left to go I was only at 37,000 words) but then the universe stepped in. I lost my television. Yes, it died a horrendous but sudden death. No television for me. So with way less distractions I focussed and got it done. 50,263 words at the end of November. The story isn’t done yet – and by that I mean the rough draft isn’t done yet I’m only about 2/3 of the way through my planned plotline. So I still have a lot of work to do. But I am rather proud of myself (self-congratulatory pat on the back now) for even completing the exercise.
As the month sped along I also had a lot of things in my mundane life fall to pieces (which I am still trying to glue back together in some semblance of normalcy) Overall my month away from the blog was a wild ride.
Supernaturally Yours is out and available and I can tell you there is nothing like the feeling of seeing your book on a kobo, in proper book format, with your name at the top, looking like a real live book! I still haven’t come down from that high. Readers have been telling me how much they love the character and the story and asking if I am doing another novel set in that world. I’ve even had to give my first autograph (a moment that threw me for a total loop) and the poor lady got a signature that isn’t legible since I was nervous shaking so much.
I talked to my brother the other night (we don’t talk often which really sucks since we were so close at one point in time, as teenagers and young adults (we were roommates after we moved out of home) and partied together a lot being only 16 months apart made our relationship different from most siblings) – but distance makes it hard and I am as guilty as him of letting the relationship slide) but anyways I digress. I was talking to him and telling him about my crazy author month and he said something that only someone who grew up with me so close could say.
He said, “You did it. This is what you always dreamed about.”
Then he told me to suck it up and get ready to sign autographs, which is also something
only someone who was as close could say.
We lost our mother ten years ago. She and I were also very close, she knew my dreams, my aspirations, she KNEW me as much as my big brother does. I would like to think that if she was still around that those words are what she would have said to me.
So enough of the mushy stuff, I’m sitting in a coffee shop with tears running down my cheeks as I think about what Mom would have said and now people are starting to look at me funny.
Talking to my brother brought a lot of things home for me. Understand my brother is a tough, no nonsense kind of guy. You know the type, black belt, MMA watching tough guy who hasn’t read a book since high school.
So he tells me that he bought my “damn book” and proceeds to yell at me for making him read “zombie porn.”
I laughed and told him it wasn’t porn that it was romance.
He ignored me and continued. “And the worst of it is every word, including thrusting and moaning is said, inside my head, in your voice!” I nearly peed myself laughing at that one. I really never expected him to read it so even the fact that he is trying is enough to make me happy.
So here I am adjusting to life. Adjusting to being able to honestly call myself an author (even though it’s still hard). Adjusting to being myself. I finally feel, at forty, like I am finding myself. I’ve done so much soul searching in the last year that I hardly recognize the person I am. I’m a lot more grounded, more stable, less of an emotional basket case, I’m still me, I’m just me2.0, a better version. And I am happy with the me I’ve become.