Well, that was quick. Not that it felt like anything but eternally wading through treacle while emotionally and physically exhausted. I’m giving up on NaNoWriMo. Sunday, I wrote nothing, thinking a day of rest would give the words a shot in the arm. Monday, I realised they were dead, and beginning to stink up the place. I’m happy to say this course of shock therapy has worked in a surprisingly short time. I’m cured of ever wanting to write long fiction.
Unfortunately, the shorter form of the disease is still lurking in my system, and it could well mutate over time. Flash fiction and short (very short) stories still have a fingerhold on my mind. Poetry has always been there. I’m happy to indulge the latter, since a bad poem doesn’t take long, and it’s unlikely to derail your life and almost plunge you into a major depression (again).
So I’ll continue to nurture the bug for short pieces, without setting impossible goals. My admiration for people who choose to inflict novel writing on themselves is immense. And I’m grateful to novel writers for producing work I love to read.
Life beckons once more. Allons-y!