Getting Geared up for NaNoWriMo #octoprep


brown book page

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So here I am, long aware that stencilled in my diary amidst work commitments and social promises is the NaNoWriMo start date of November 1st 2018

Earlier, flicking lazily through Instagram, I realise there is now a newly added diary entry of Octoberprep! Mmmm, methinks this did not exist and is also a rather naughty pre addition to what is supposed to be a full 30 days of writing to reach a set amount of words by the end of November. To the unintiated National Novel Writing Month in November gives one a kick up the rear end to get our acts in gear and get writing and finishing that novel. While I want to lament that its unfair to prep a novel you should write in only 30 days…I have to confess my copious notes and character visualisations, my endless plotting and structuring, my playing with various beginnings but I hasten to add, not endings – is surely of the same ilk?

Yet I began years ago I counter in my defence….ah, therein lies the rub. The long awaited novel gets dusted off but its premises and original plot rejuvenated ready for The Big Write. My aspirations then to sit languorously at a neat desk – or was it neatly at a languorous desk – to bang out, churn out, spurn out, force out, 3000 words a day may in fact materialise after all.

adult book boring face

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The main planning of course needs to be the desperately required endless cups of coffee, and simultaneously someone with endless patience to keep providing them to my hunched. oblivious to reality figure, to fuel and oil my ceaseless thoughts, stroke or should that be stoke? my brain into further creativity.

Publishing my short story in April with 2 more to add to the trilogy plus a small volume of poetry, entering a local competition and attending to my other blogs makes me sound prolific. Sadly untrue. Those were the culmination of thoughts etched into ink long ago and then botched together when it finally hit me I could indeed selfpublish and that my long held notes and ideas did indeed actually have a structure to slot into. A structure that had eluded me for many years, yet once I stopped thinking too hard appeared to me confident in its knowledge it would work.

The novel is a whole other Entity. It breathes of its own accord and haunts me in shadows, beset by memories and indecision, shrouded in mystery and a very opaque ending preceded by a long drawn out journey.

Lets hope it can breathe Life into itself over November.

Good luck to all else involved!

 

Note to self@2.am the following morning ….its actually called Preptober ….oops 🙂

black calendar close up composition

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Reblogging a wonderful lady’s post to inspire you all. She runs our amazing local Writer’s Group – and as you will see – so much more! Well done Krissy!


We’ve all experienced that ‘New Year, what am I doing with my life’ moment. It took a mountain for me to realise what I needed to do, but all you need is some scissors and glue.

via Why you don’t need a mountain to change your life – but it helps — Krissy Lloyd

ball of wool.


Am I the only one here whose anxiety is envisioned as, depicted as, a ball.?

In my particular case, a ball of wool.

A solid mass of intermingled, knotted, coarse, crude wool.

For many years, tightly bound

At one point beginning to unravel – even more fearful than the tight knot….

Even unravelling at speed once, alarmingly so.

Did it ever really leave me, that ball in my stomach. There since Childhood.

Taken me years and years into Adulthood to realise it was in fact, Anxiety.

It had a name. A capital for a proper noun.

Why didnt they tell me back then? Why didnt we label, categorise and print out our woes … back then.

Is it that they existed less than now?

I thought the ball had gone at one stage….maybe I was truly happy for a while….

Yet then it returned with a vengeance! With a searing emptiness to remind me daily it was missing

That I had wickedly unravelled it and torn it, wrenched it from my gut and now my comfort rock was gone, painful as it felt at times, pressing down on my very inner core.

But this….this utter Emptiness. This hollow ringing Despair. Not even a worthy replacement.

Its mantra – There is nothing left inside of me. There is nothing left inside of me.

Echoing throughout my very person. Singeing the edges of my Soul.

Of late it has changed its form again.

 

It decided, this Entity, to reconvene its gnawing, its inimitable gloopy presence in the pit of my stomach, clawing at my insides at any given, but unexpected moment. No warning, just layer upon layer of uncertain certainty that it will lay down again. Resurface again. Simultaneously.

 

If I imagine removing it by force I know it will just thwart me so I have to let the feeling, the invasion of me, dwell until it decides its time to vacate again.

This unpaying, scrounging, vagrant.

Sucking me dry of energy, motivation and desire.

I want to scoop it out, scrape mercilessly at my innards, free myself from its sticky tendrils wrapping around the walls of my gut.

It resists. Like a mollusc created from transient thought. A growth manifested by Guilt , Shame, Lies, Tragedy, Confusion. All abstracts leading to one concrete, unperishable mass.

Am I then?

Am I the only one?

Sadness.


And that is all.

Evocative Tragedy with all its trappings of Woe.

Available in different shades, but usually layers upon layers, with rippling, cascading echoes of silken sadness … a precious garment. Irreplaceable. Irrevocable.

Luxurious in its indulgence, bitter in its taste. Pointless in its extraction of silent emotion.

It creeps upon us stealthily, quietly, implicitly.

With no known reason, no necessary explanation why, no default Blame to lay.

But oh, how Sadness and Tragedy leave us quaking in their wake. Buffeted by their inimitable Storm. Shaken and broken, with no knowledge now of Time or routine, of rhyme or reason, of will or Hope.

Its shades, deep hues of blues and greens, muddy waters of brown and grey, bland expanses of Magnolia.

Odd that. They repainted her room in full Magnolia.

Whitewashed.

They created his tiny feet from cream clay. Feet that will never learn to walk…or wrap their tiny toes around their sleepless parents, hook those tiny fingers into loving hands.

Tragedy.

Sadness.

Poignant…

Everlasting…

Devastation

In its wake.

 

Wow…one whole year on! Nameless, blogless, many!! #procrastination


Should I be ashamed of my absence here?

Has it even been clocked? Unlikely.

My excuse is rather salubrious – I have been living, working, dreaming, travelling … and spending time with a new family addition!

So, although I may have denied myself the escapism of  solitary penned outbursts, I can at least say the last year has been somewhat decadent, somewhat crazy, but forever interesting and valuable.

If such indulgence adds to my offerings then all the better. One lives in hope!

Each time I returned home however, my redundant laptop stared balefully at me from its far flung corner of what should by now have manifested into The Office in this not so new {now}  abode of mine.  One great excuse lent itself to the fact that the charger had usefully gone walkabout…  Another that I was ‘just too busy’ – familiar? That earning a living doing my vocation took precedence now over doing my dream as a living.That I had such long ‘to do’ lists they took priority…even when they lay in tatters or failed attempts to tick them off left me in shreds of pointless frustration…..and the house, the garden, the lists, took on a jaded ‘we told you so’ look of their very own. Not unlike my treasured companion – the laptop.

Ok, Ok, Ill just get Christmas out of the way, the pesky thing, and then writing shall resume. Yet like my endless lists, my excuses raged on.  I feebly consoled myself with my enthusiastic signing up to a local writing club – well, not so local, therefore only a few out of the 9 months meetings since joining last year have actually been attended. I then kid myself that I do keep up to date on events on the linked website. Perhaps my guilt at not writing – and my confession to it – at the last meeting solidified as I heard account after account from other successful published writers.  Most were either on their second or third novel…even newbies finishing manuscripts in record time and being offered all kinds of tempting deals. I slouched, rather than walked out later, more mortified than inspired…

Guilt and his capital G  then hung above me across September and well into autumn  – another family death following hot on its accusatory heels. No, definitely not another excuse of course, but Death and I have never been fond bedfellows. So even though he gracefully returned Insomnia to me which had only just left me from the ravages of the last loss, I was – and am not – overly impressed. Particularly as this time Insomnia did not bring the gift of Inspiration with him and aid me in waxing lyrical well into the desperate jaws of Dawn.

If you could even be bothered, and why on earth would you? you would see from my entries here that Eagerness canters in around Jan/Feb of most new years, only to gallop out again by the first blooms of spring! Ironically, my most prolific period was in the month before and directly after losing my wonderful father…good old Grief with his double-edged scythe.

Yet if Death of the physcial body and its aftermath of Woe and silent, sacrificial Sorrow can oddly inspire, then why would I use my writing at that point as a familiar escapism? I welcomed it as a confident, compassionate crutch to escape true Pain and her cutting incisions… so why not now?

Am I the only writer here who feels a knawing emptiness when writing is bereft, when words are hemmed in our mind behind mental barriers that we alone refuse to break?

This is NOT writers block. No. This is almost like a ‘losing’ of oneself. An indescribable urge to break free from the restraints we self impose on our cathartic needs. Almost a resentment at having to blind Creativity with our myriad, pathetic excuses.

If, for me, it equates with other losses in Life itself I am not entirely sure. I do know that the gain, the utter release I feel when Freedom strides on in again and mentally acknowledges its time to release Angst again; to pour those miserably chained consonants, those vexed vowels, onto the waiting, expectant page;  – I know for certain that no amount of counselling or ‘much needed time out’ could ever compensate for this.

 

Writing is my Salve.

The laptop is feeling quite good too. It even got a dust off.

The Office & its own brand of Guilt can wait till tomorrow though…..

 

Watch this space Folks! 🙂censorship-limitations-freedom-of-expression-restricted-39584.jpeg