Another Novel-less November

On challenges and the drafts of the past

November is National Novel Writing Month, otherwise known as NaNoWriMo. It’s pretty much exactly what it sounds like: a national challenge in which participants aim to write the first draft of a novel during the month of November by writing a thousand words a day for thirty days. I’ve attempted to write a novel my whole life, so for the past three years I’ve attempted this challenge, I have (naturally) failed.

I don’t know what it is. I’ll start with a strong idea, something I’m passionate about (at least initially), a few notes or thought starters, and I’ll set off with gusto. The first few days usually go well, with the words flying from my fingertips and onto the page, sentences stringing themselves together with ease. Then, after the second week or so, they feel heavier and the whole task starts to feel less like a challenge and more like a chore. I always peter out, eventually shuttering to a stop around ten thousand words.

That’s ten days.

I try for ten days.

I leave two-thirds of the challenge unchallenged.

I could make excuses and say it’s because the month gets busy thanks to Thanksgiving and prepping for Christmas. I could even blame it on my birthday, which falls in the dead center of the month. Though they certainly play a part, they’re not the full picture of the truth.

The full truth is that I start to see the words come together, the pages accumulate, and I panic. I begin to doubt my ability to keep the train running and I ultimately lose steam. I quit before I begin, really. I get stuck and I question everything. Instead of thinking about the next thousand words, I think about the end result and I doubt it before I even get there.

It’s not going to be long enough.

It’s not going to be good enough.

It’s not going to be enough.

I’m no stranger to being at war with myself – I’m a seasoned soldier in that regard – but there’s something about the writing process that only amplifies it. It becomes an uphill battle, an impossible obstacle.

Maybe I don’t do enough prep. Maybe I haven’t thought the idea through enough. Maybe I focus too much on details I don’t have.

Or maybe I’m just scared.

Maybe I stop myself in my tracks because I’m scared of where I’ll go. Maybe I’m afraid it’ll look, feel, or be different from what I expected, what I intended. For some odd reason that – the disillusion – becomes a failure in my mind, when really the failure lies in the fact that I never really started. I never really even gave myself a chance.

Maybe I’ll try again this year. Or maybe (most likely) I’ll be novel-less for another November.

It shouldn’t matter though. If I’m going to tell myself anything, it shouldn’t be that I’ll never achieve this thing. It should be that it will happen when it happens. Just as healing can’t be hurried, writing cannot be rushed. Creativity, like a cat, can’t be coaxed. It only springs to life in the space and the silence.

It takes experience, not just in practice but in life. Maybe I haven’t yet lived what it is I’m meant to say.

Maybe November isn’t my month. Maybe I’m meant to write in my own time, slowly scaling the Everest-sized hurdle I’ve constructed in my mind.

Maybe the meantime – the months or minutes I spend from now until then – is exactly where I’m supposed to be. And maybe, just maybe, I can let that be enough.