This
year, for the first time in my writing life, I signed up for NaNoWriMo.
Actually signed up that is—publicly put it out there that I would strive to
write 50,000 words in just thirty short days. So far, more than halfway into
the month, I’m at just over 10,000 words. Fail! I’m still hoping to catch up,
but if I don’t, I’ve made peace with my failure on this account. I know the
reason is that my “everyday” took precedence over the time to do the one thing
that I, like many writers, consider a luxury: actually writing.
“But,”—I
hear the screams of ten thousand rabid NaNo-ers—“that’s the point. NaNo is
about sacrificing the everyday for once, not about sacrificing your precious
writing time AGAIN!” My answer to that is, “Try telling that to a seven-month-old girl who has no way of knowing why mummy
sits tapping at a keyboard all day. Try telling that to a man who does hard
manual labour in the hot sun for more than eight hours a day and then steps in
the door to be handed an irritable child and have to make his own dinner so I
can write. Try telling that to
clients who are patiently awaiting their edited manuscripts so they can make
their own writing dreams come true before the Christmas Kindle rush. Try
telling that to the dishwasher, to the vacuum cleaner, to the ever-growing
washing pile!”
It
might sound defeatist, or like an excuse, and in some ways it is. And I am
disappointed that my novel won’t be finished by the end of the month as I
hoped, and that it won’t now make that Christmas Kindle rush. But I realise, as
the month goes on, how ambitious it was of me to attempt to sacrifice my
everyday to the Grand Poobah of Word Count in the first place. Don’t get me
wrong, I have also written more than 4000 words of a novella this month. I have
edited more than 150,000 words of other writers’ works, and I’ve written more
than 2000 words of a commissioned non-fiction book. All of those words are
paying words—words that keep the wolves at bay and pay the mortgage; at
present, my NaNo word count does not (and that’s a very good thing, judging by
my current results). The biggest factor is that, in the juggle between
creativity and the everyday, my everyday life wins out. I can’t forgive myself
for putting writing above my family, my house or my friends—not even for a
month.
A
month in the life of a small child is an aeon. This month, my daughter learned
to sit unassisted. She learned to properly crawl, not just commando roll
around. By the month’s end, she will probably say her first recognisable word
(please let it be “Mama”). This month, I got back to nature and camped with my
sister-in-law and her lovely family at the beach. This month, my parents who
live more than eight hours away, came to visit their youngest grand-daughter
for a weekend. This month, one of my dearest friends, whom I’ve known more than
twenty years now, flew back to Australia from Scotland for a brief visit. Even
while writing this post, I stopped to take a Skype call from a very dear friend
who lives in London. These are everyday things, the comings and goings—and
lovings and laughter—of friends and family, the small satisfactions of paid
work, the smiles of a child. Yet all of these them are considerably more
important to me than 15,000 words (the amount I have fallen behind).
Essentially, life is not a word count. Life is not something you do when you’re
not writing. Writing is something you do WHILE you’re living your everyday. The
everyday IS the writing. The meaningful discussions you have with the people
you care about are the true word count.
Every
day, tiny gems fall out of those relationships. Seeds of novels and stories are
born from thoughts that happen while I’m at the sink, at the gym, in bed,
reading, feeding my child, washing my dog. And when I do have that blissful
time to write, these everyday moments will blossom from the page, adding an
honesty that is difficult to merely “imagine.” These are the truths the old
chestnut “Write what you know,” speaks of. There is another writing adage that
relates to this topic “Write every day. Writer’s write!” And that is true.
Regardless of how busy I am, most days I find the time to write something—a
blog post, a poem, an outline, even a sentence or two. Sure, there are days
when I feel a volcano of resentment boiling inside me. When an idea is burning
itself into my brain like a brand, and all I want to do is lock myself in my
study and scrawl it down, oblivious to the squalling and sweepings, the
feedings and fussing of the household. But then I realise that the idea came to
me in a rare moment of peace—while folding the washing, or in a rushed shower,
or while feeding my child—and that it stemmed from something that had cropped
up during my ordinary day. Yes, there are many rare finds in the washing pile
(aside from the five dollar notes I sometimes, but more rarely these days, find
in my partner’s pockets).
Strangely,
I have also discovered that my creative brain has a way of compensating for my
overcrowded everyday. As my life grows busier, my creative output actually
increases. The less time I have to write, the more writing I do, because those
snatches of time become far more precious. There is no time for writer’s block.
No time to procrastinate (Unless you count Facebook, and let’s face it, who
does? Facebook is a necessary part of promotion. More excuses? Perhaps). My
limited time also means that I am less likely to dismiss any idea out of hand.
I clutch any small stem of an idea, treating it like a creative branch overhanging
the roiling river of life. All of my ideas are now hastily scribbled down and
left to germinate, or in some cases, to petrify and fossilize until I unearth
them years later and dust them off. Then, when I find the time—and I am
assuming that I will, that my everyday will sometimes include rare breaks,
beautiful moments of solitude and space for washed-clean, sparkling prose—I
will take those ideas, those “washing-pile words,” and I will grow them. I will
knit in a little of my everyday, and a little of my imaginings, and I will craft them into novels that
transform some other reader’s everyday into something extraordinary. Perhaps
not this month. Perhaps not this year. But “everyday” is still one day closer
to that dream.
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