OK, so I’m a fool. After deciding yesterday that I was absolutely definitely, in no way whatsoever going to be able to do NaNoWriMo this year, I sat down last night and wrote 1,667 words (which, for those not in the know, is the daily word count necessary to complete NaNoWriMo). It was easy, it was fluid, and it took me little more than an hour. Better yet, I could think of ways to continue the story, possibly even to novel-length (which, given that most of my stories fade into the ether after about 1,000 words, was nothing short of astounding). It would have been churlish to refuse such an opportunity.
So it looks like I’m doing it. Embarking on this strange, stressful, wonderful journey of sleep deprivation, repetitive strain injury and potential madness. I keep telling myself that I’ll stop if it all gets too much, but even I know that I’m kidding myself. I’m going to carry on with NaBloPoMo as well, because I’m too stubborn to give up on a challenge once I’ve started it, but the posts here will probably be fairly light on creative writing: I’m not sure if I can cope with any more that 1,667 words a day.
I’m writing my second day’s block of words right now (or I was before I started procrastinating), on the train from Reading to Durham. Sitting in my first class seat (courtesy of the parents – clearly I should get tonsillitis more often), taking advantage of the free power supply, drinking cold (but free) coffee, and wondering how the next month will pan out. Will it kill me? Will it destroy my degree? Will I ever stop writing everything in lists of three? Only time will tell.