I signed up for NaNoWriMo this morning, and already I’m regretting it. Not so much the writing, although that will stretch me to infinity and beyond, it’s the other stuff. Like packing off my internal censor for a month to wherever anal-retentive assholes go on their winter holidays. I’m used to it being here! Just splurging words onto the page is completely alien to the way I write. I hadn’t quite realised this is what writing a novel in a month entailed.
Then there’s the pervasive stink of Facebook about the NaNoWriMo website. It wants me to post a profile when I’m possibly the most profilophobic man on the planet. It wants me to be all jolly and social, have writing buddies, join in forums, even – and this is the most shocking thing of all – share snippets of the work in progress! No! No! And thrice no! It’s bad enough that I’m going to turn out a shitty first draft, do you really think I want to share? It should be hidden away like a mad relative in the attic until it no longer dribbles down the front of its clothes.
Possibly I’m missing the point of the exercise. As far as I’m concerned, writing fiction is a solitary vice, like masturbation, but nowhere near as pleasurable. The satisfaction comes from having written. Right now I feel a palpable sense of horror that’s entirely appropriate to Halloween. Every fibre of my being is rising up in outrage at what I’ve just committed to.
The purpose of this wholly sincere and heartfelt rant, by the way, is to burn my bridges. Nothing else will stop me from turning back.