It's over. Really over. I have officially survived 30 days of consistent blogging and I "won" National Novel Writing Month by writing 50,000 words of a so-called novel before November 30th.
Though my so-called novel is too lame and too personal to ever fully go public, writing it was strangely cathartic. I am so sick of my own stories now - my frustrations, humiliations, epiphanies - I may never tell any of them again. I only wish I truly were a novelist. Then I could make up all new stories, craft for myself a more clever and interesting personality... But I'd have to be a good liar, too, and I apparently used up all that mojo on Naomi Largo.
My blog, on the other hand, has been quite satisfying. It is already more public than I ever imagined - I've had at least two visitors who don't even know me. Go figure. Maybe one day I'll get my hands on that mp3 of Ickis & Fungus after all. In the meanwhile, I can't promise I'll write every day. The honeymoon period is definitely over. Besides, as I said, I'm bored of my own stories. But I won't walk away either. We're in this thing now. I'll just have to look for fresh material in my life. And maybe, in a couple of weeks, I'll find my childhood charming again. After all, my mom uncovered that photo of Suzie Africa I was longing for...
He knows. He always knows.
10 months ago