Nanowrimo

Who's taking part in NANOWRIMO this year?
ME! That's who!

So what if I am a week late in starting?
So what if I only came up with a novel idea today?
So what if my idea has already been milked by a hundred other authors till its nothing left but a barren pile of dust too dead to fertilize a garden?

The point is, I am nearly 2000 words into my novel and I am determined to finish this challenge. The point of NANOWRIMO is not to write the-next-great-novel. It's not even to write a 'good' novel. The point is to write a novel. Any novel. As long as it is over 50,000 words by the end of November, I will have won the challenge and proven to myself that I can do this sort of thing. I can be self motivated. I can be inventive. I can stick to dead lines and work on big projects with nothing to help me but a word processor, an mp3 player and more caffeine than you can throw a cow at.

Are you interested in taking part of the NANOWRIMO challenge too?
Well, if it's not too late for me, it's not too late for you.
Check it out at: http://www.nanowrimo.org/

The White Space

Here I am, walking through the place where I least expected to find myself. Having felt so lost, it is a relief, but I start to wonder: for something to be lost, that means, once upon a time, we had it.

I sit here at my computer, trying to write stories, to think up clever poems, romantic rhymes and new combinations of sounds that will evoke emotions to pale the most resonant spell. I can write. I know I can. People have told me this. I have published articles and straight A's to prove it. However, none of that ever helps. Not when it comes to that dreaded moment when you are alone - just you, and the white. It doesn't matter what it is - white pages, white canvas, white Word screen. White is absolutely terrifying. At least most notebooks have lines going through them. Staring at the computer screen, I want to write something, to type something, to usher sound and give birth to new worlds, but I am afraid. So many voices inside my head, waiting to be born. And I am stopped, because I am afraid.

Of what exactly?

Perhaps not being good enough. Perhaps the battle with myself to find the right way to express how I feel, what I see or imagine. More accurately, I think of that white space as a void where I become lost, and dissolve into. When I come out the other end, it is all triumph and paragraphs filled with syllables to justify the struggle. But when you are standing at the edge, fingers gently breezing the edges of the white void, the empty void, every time is just as hard as the first.

Together, hand in hand with fear and desire, I step into that void, and pray.