I count my years in Novembers. I feel through days in numbers. Alphabets spiral as my children sing their ABC’s and I can’t for the life of me see clear of Thanksgiving.
There is 1 hour and 12 minutes until NaNoWriMo begins.
Last year, I all but lost my mind. Everything went all ugly and green and gray while my husband worked excessive hours and my children shrieked with anger. When Daddy works too much, everyone pays. Except his job, because Daddy don’t get no overtime, just more work piled on, piled on.
And I tried to focus, to hone in on the big picture–the story, my memoir. Then I wondered if there even was a story. Then I realized there wasn’t, that starting a memoir with no starting place was danger in itself, that a whole life can’t be summarized in a day, that a whole family can’t be written. And still.
And still, I’m going to try it again.
I’m picking up my memoir where I left off, right here, in this blog. It has been an entire year since I thought I could get a grip on what I need to say. It has been an entire year since I sat at the desk with my head on my arms crying at a stupid computer screen that didn’t give a rat’s ass if I sat there or not.
It has been an entire year of experimentation, of playing writing games, of playing writer.
And that’s at least a little something.
The secret of NaNoWriMo isn’t in winning, exactly. It’s in doing. It’s in being. It’s in effort. And fuck if I don’t have effort.
So sign me up again, buddy boy. I’m going to kick it in the teeth.
Who’s with me?