Danger! Run away!
Sep. 26th, 2003 10:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
radegundOh, friends. Oh, dear. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
daegaer, you are a disruptive influence.
I speak of NaNoWriMo, which I had shakily managed to block from my consciousness (or at least to maintain at the level of detached interest) until I read Daegaer's post yesterday. And now I'm all buzzing with it.
I can't. I can't. It's taken me almost four years to write not quite 70,000 words. There's no way in hell that I could contemplate attempting 50,000 in 30 days. (Although, to give me my due, I did write 1,400 words in an hour and ten minutes last night, mainly on the strength of this crazy bubbling.)
Andyetandyetandyet. I couldn't prevent myself from reading through the FAQs on the NaNoWriMo site yesterday afternoon, and I left work with my mind milling.
You see, I could start off with the idea I had a while ago about the young queen in the world where there's a telepathic link between nobles, and she wasn't a noble but a commoner with unexpected telepathic powers, and the king fell in love with her and married her against the wishes of his court, and now the evil courtiers have turned the two of them against each other, driving in a wedge that affects the telepathic link, and they manage to convince the queen that the king doesn't really love her and plans to have her killed as soon as her baby is born, and we start the story with the birth of the baby and the queen's nocturnal flight from the castle (baby in tow), and at the end of the first chapter the king (in another part of the castle) wakes from his drugged sleep and cries out because he felt them go, but it's too late ... and then I don't know how it goes on - except that the sprog must, of course, turn out to be a Baby Of Unusual Powers.
Butbutbut I've already committed myself to finishing my current novel by Christmas. And unless I went insane and frenzied my way to the end of the draft by late October, then let it sit for November while I got on with this other thing, then did my editing in December, there's just no way.
But it might just loosen the literary poker I have up my arse - get me writing like I used to - fluidly, quickly, without worrying about whether I'm redefining the landscape of human endeavour with each pellucid sentence. You know. And this is, after all, my writing life: nobody else has any say in what I write when...
No, I can't. (You can.) I can't.
What think ye?
daegaer, you are a disruptive influence.I speak of NaNoWriMo, which I had shakily managed to block from my consciousness (or at least to maintain at the level of detached interest) until I read Daegaer's post yesterday. And now I'm all buzzing with it.
I can't. I can't. It's taken me almost four years to write not quite 70,000 words. There's no way in hell that I could contemplate attempting 50,000 in 30 days. (Although, to give me my due, I did write 1,400 words in an hour and ten minutes last night, mainly on the strength of this crazy bubbling.)
Andyetandyetandyet. I couldn't prevent myself from reading through the FAQs on the NaNoWriMo site yesterday afternoon, and I left work with my mind milling.
You see, I could start off with the idea I had a while ago about the young queen in the world where there's a telepathic link between nobles, and she wasn't a noble but a commoner with unexpected telepathic powers, and the king fell in love with her and married her against the wishes of his court, and now the evil courtiers have turned the two of them against each other, driving in a wedge that affects the telepathic link, and they manage to convince the queen that the king doesn't really love her and plans to have her killed as soon as her baby is born, and we start the story with the birth of the baby and the queen's nocturnal flight from the castle (baby in tow), and at the end of the first chapter the king (in another part of the castle) wakes from his drugged sleep and cries out because he felt them go, but it's too late ... and then I don't know how it goes on - except that the sprog must, of course, turn out to be a Baby Of Unusual Powers.
Butbutbut I've already committed myself to finishing my current novel by Christmas. And unless I went insane and frenzied my way to the end of the draft by late October, then let it sit for November while I got on with this other thing, then did my editing in December, there's just no way.
But it might just loosen the literary poker I have up my arse - get me writing like I used to - fluidly, quickly, without worrying about whether I'm redefining the landscape of human endeavour with each pellucid sentence. You know. And this is, after all, my writing life: nobody else has any say in what I write when...
No, I can't. (You can.) I can't.
What think ye?
