I always told myself that I would write about whatever was happening in my life. There are many things that are happening, but at the moment this is the main thing that is happening...
I've resisted the temptation to post a Halloween story this year on my blog. I have a spare ghost story called 'The Shade of Hades', but it is too long to expect anyone to read it on a blog. Anyway, it's becoming a tradition that I do it and that isn't always a good thing. So, I'm sorry to anyone who expected a ghost story.
What I am doing is participating in NaNoWriMo. For those who don't know, this is a kind of marathon for writers. All through November (NaNoWriMo = National November Writing Month) writers all across the world will be trying to write 50,000 words. Sometimes into a novel.
It is an act of total folly. There is no rhyme or reason or method to this madness. It is just a matter of writing for the joy of writing (and possibly not even that). So, because it is folly, irony dictates that I should take the subject of survival as a theme.
I'm a slow writer when it comes to fiction. I can crack out a piece of journalism to deadline, but when it comes to fiction I usually take my time. My novel ('Destiny and Dynasty' (still coming out on Dec 15th)) took me years to write. Even poetry (which I have now turned away from in favour of prose) would take weeks to write.
So writing 50,000 words (which I think is about 1666 words a day) in a month is a genuine challenge.
The only useful part of the whole writing marathon is that I have a draft at the end of it. If I manage to complete it.
I'm planning to blog about it a little next month if I get the time (bearing in mind that writing time will be at a premium).
Hopefully I shall have improved as a writer by the end of it. But I still maintain that there is no method to the madness.
'A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.'
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.'