Five Hours till Nov 1 Nanowrimo Marathon

child writing story
Little girl writing Story

Last night I listened to Stephen King’s book “On Writing” and reviewed his process of story writing.  I have what he has as far as “preparation” before he writes the first draft of a story.  I don’t write in the horror or paranormal genres’; and he has written famous stories that are not horror or paranormal.

So, I am “prepared” for NanoWrimo 2017 that starts in a few hours. The sad part is I do have stories and two trilogies that are at some point “outlined”— if only the 15 story beats Blake Synder recommends— and a few stories even have the finale broken down the way he recommends.

Plus, I have combined or blended with Hauge’s structure and turning points and I’m so anxious and not motivated to write those stories.  And yes, I can hear the “normal” writers out there in cyberspace saying just write what you want to write and forget what you have planned out–or start writing one of the two trilogies you plotted out and you’ll gain momentum and excitement! Or you are not a writer is your problem . . .

I have “scenes” that are decades to months old that are scattered hodge-podge in my brain, most are visual and sensory; some are dialogue bits with visual or sensory, and some scenes more visual settings without characters I know. and some sounds, but not much else. Some are the characters I truly love in different settings and stories, and those characters are tired of me too.

I’m a creative, indecisive mess. But I will participate in Nanowrimo and trust the process that is me.

That is not true- trust my process- I have finished several manuscripts over my lifetime in different genres. I think I just want to have fun like I used to when I just wrote and the people that believed in me were around me somewhere–and they’re not anymore.

I don’t belong anywhere-I am that lone figure, sitting on my bum on the dusty, breezy,  surface of Mars with my arms wrapped around my knees and my forehead resting on my boney, kneecaps, eyes squeezed shut. And my hair whips about in the dusty wind and sticks to my tears.  I’m a mess. And I don’t want to be.

 

 

 

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