Weak Knees

 Let's talk. (hopefully you already know what NaNo---err, NaNoWriMo---and their young writer's program is. otherwise none of this will make any sense. visit the NaNo YWP site here to become an informed human being.)

NaNo is important to a lot of people. But instead of diligently participating in it, I'm blogging. Blogging is important to a lot of people too. So which is more importanter? Depends on your Plot.

Plot and I do not get along. We squabble and bare our teeth at one another, and have lots of hissy fits between ourselves. Plot never follows along, always lags and pretends to be squeamish. She also never accumulates the smarts to get anywhere in life. On the other hand, she argues that I am to passive, lack any confidence whatsoever, have a severe depletion of patience, and have possession only of the very dimmest bulbs for brains.
We have no chemistry, no common ground, and no desire to work together.

Because of this I've come to a deadly conclusion. I am not a novelist.

I don't like to give in, give up, or get out. And it's against everything in me to give up on [ywp] NaNo. Weird though---It's not the word count that's choking me out this time. Nawww, I can spew a lengthy vocabulary whenever I so choose (well...okay maybe not, but adequate for a measly 25,000 goal). Wordiness is not the issue.
In fact, I won't say that I'm giving up, because I'm not. Exactly. I'm just frustrated. Frustrated because I've tried so many directions, and made the same amount of progress in each one of them.

---that is, roughly, no progress at all.

I've had so so very many false starts, and now I fear---yes, I really do mean that I'm afraid---that I will never finish anything. Ever. Or even worse, that I will never finish anything that I'm proud of.
I once heard someone, a real novelist I think, say something along the lines of: "When writing a book, make sure you fall in love with it. That way, when the editing gets rough and your work becomes boring, you'll still love it enough to want the final result."
(okay, so that was completely paraphrased, but you get the drift)

I don't love what I write.
In fact, I loath it's guts. All of the guts. Each story's gut ever.

I look at it, read it, analyze it, and hardly a moment passes before I roll my eyes and say: this. is. trash.

Here's the thing boys and girls, I know everyone has these moments. We are all such harsh critics on ourselves and sometimes we all deserve a break and we're supposed to stop bahumbuging. I'm a pessimist and I know it. I know all of this. There is no need to attempt to pull me from my slough of despair. I'm happy just wallowing in here with my fading self-esteem for my only company. That's perfectly cool with me.

But no matter how many times I hear tales of other novelists struggling with the same crashes and pulling through, I need you to know: I am not them. Nor is my Plot theirs (which is sad and upsetting because their Plots came out all nice and decent, whereas mine is just scowling at me, and chewing up the furniture, and rubbing my hopelessness in my face).

This is all hard to chirrup on about, mostly because I know that this will pass, and I'll be on the road of pretend novelism again. I cycle about like that. As long as I can remember, I've always drunk deep into the cider of storytelling. It stings a little to realize that I am a million miles away from becoming a good storyteller myself.

Returning to NaNo...I really don't know what to do. I'm drawing a blank, because I know one or two things about how December 1st might feel.

SCENERIO NUMBERO UNO: if I do end up winning NaNo '13, there will be a few bragging rights handed to me, but the 30,000 words that took up the space of 30 days will be some of the worst any human being could have ever jumbled together. These words will then proceed to sleep soundly in dusty file deep down in my cyber documents and never again see the light of day. That is, until I'm old and feeble and decide to take a trip down the chutes of my childish literary play. (annnnd, I rhymed -__- )

OR: I could put my foot down, squish my current wordplay itinerary, and go off on a mystical quest to capture a new (hopefully better behaved) Plot to domesticate and call my own. The downsides to this include
- the fact that I have tried this many times and never succeeded
- the fact that feral Plots are not housebroken

But wait! There is always a third door, right? I mean, if you don't like the door to the left, nor the door to the right......that's when you break out the TNT, yeah?
And so, option number three is to do none of these things. Instead, we pull a whole new spin on it.

I stop writing. And then read.

I want to crunch books. I want to gobble them up, and enjoy their many different flavors. I've been trying to do this for some time. But the reading is slow and droopy, and the homework hinders, and for some reason, I've developed a tooth for movies and filmy stuffs and such.

But if I read, that's like putting words into my head, right? And if I write, that's like taking the words out of my head, and lining them up in neat little columns through osmosis of the fingertips, correct? I hope I'm right. I hope that one will squash with the other, and once those two processes are assembled like a PBJ, the author will able to share her story effectively and effortlessly.

And so these are my thoughts. You've now read them and you're probably not understanding any of me. But that's what I have to say tonight. Or rather, this morning. I'm only half-conscious when I write these things, you know.

And so I will read.
And write.
And blog.

Cheerio, {and it's nice to be back}
K-Minty