To Write Or Not to Write This November

I came to a difficult decision the other day, and I didn't tell anyone about it at first.

Every November, National Novel Writing Month occurs all over the world. Writers every who choose to do so sit down every day or every other day or whenever and write a novel. They, we, have 30 days to write a 50,000-word novel. I found out about it last year, and I participated. And I won. I finshed it (56,000+) in 26 days, jotting down my progress on the white board in the kitchen for my then roommate to check.

I loved every excruciating, seemingly adrenaline-packed minute of it, and I couldn't wait till the next time. Well, the next time is upon me, and I think I'm opting out. There is another book that's been clawing at me and, while I mention it from time to time, I've pretty much ignored it.

The thing is, I officially completed the first draft about a month ago. The aforementioned former roommate of mine pointed me to the light of a two-parter (like I need the stress), and I understood. So having hit a wall where I last left off - somewhere in my mid-20s - it was a welcome conversation. I felt left off some hook I hung for myself. And I was drying. The draft, ambling along toward 272 pages as I was, had become stale. It was like a doorstop. Like that box of paper next to the desk you recycle. I hated it, and I grew sick of the details. Race, gender, sexuality, class, blah, blah, blah.

But I have to write it. So rather than trying to write another novel for NaNowriMo this year, I've decided to dedicate some time to hopping to my memoir. I am officially working on the second draft. It's time to edit. Fill out. Color. Find the emotion that I tend to leave out.

My fear is to failure. To be considered something less than what I am. It's the audience I have to ignore for now. Those voices that tell me my story's been told. That we don't need another goddamn memoir. That just because my upbringing wasn't marked by abuse, I have some things to contribute. People, whether in the States or here in Australia, still remind me by their stares that I have to say these things. To remind them that there is substance in otherness.

The main character I had in mind for my 2008 NaNoWriMo project will have to stay in my head for another year. Instead, I will edit, rewrite, and edit again the pages of my memoir. It starts on page one and it begins tomorrow. Again. Promise.