On Writing (50,000 words in 30 days, this year)

NaNoWriMo has turned into a bit of a joke on Twitter. The joke is something about all the terrible books that are being written by terrible writers. Like most jokes, it has some grounding in truth — I wouldn’t bet on any of the books written in November. But it’s a toothless critique founded more in snark than insight. It’s not like one new awful book being finished pushes a more accomplished one out of the way because our literary limit has been breached. In fact, for those book snobs worth their salt, I argue that NaNoWriMo brings us closer to Borges’ library. It’s one more variation, one more bound text created towards the horizon of infinity.

There is also the participants endlessly tweeting about their word count or how difficult a time they’re having, but thats a non-issue given the unsubscribe button. Complaining about them is akin to people who don’t understand Twitter complaining about lunch tweets.

This year, for the sixth time, I participated in NaNoWriMo, and this year for the fifth time, I finished my 50,000 words so am a “winner”. I didn’t tweet about it not because I find the people who do insufferable, but because I generally don’t like talking publicly about such things. The endeavor is personal, as is the goal.

And because it’s impossible to write a finished book in a month, the work that I will eventually put forth to be judged will probably little resemble the unfinished half-done first draft that is now sitting on my hard drive.

I didn’t tweet about it, but part of me wanted to just to spite the people mocking those who did. The annoying people who were writing their terrible first drafts, or failing at it while trying, were at least trying after all. They were running the race as the hecklers had a beer on the sideline. Fun to have a beer on the sidelines. Harder to run the race.

Or, stronger said, I’d much rather be someone who tries and fails then someone who makes fun of people because they look funny before they’re good at the thing they are practicing. The world is full of more people practicing writing, and I can’t think of any argument that casts that fact in a negative light.

As for me and my goals? Allow me this one indulgence, please: I did that thing. It wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I did it. It may not be as accomplished as the thing you did, but I did it. So, for a moment, and not again, I will say it: I did it.