On Writing

It's almost here: National Novel Writing Month. I have thought about doing this year after year. Last year, I started it – but I fizzled out fast. I did about 6,000 words over four days. And I did not do a darn thing for the rest of the month. I trashed the words – I did not like where the plot was going, and I was sort of frustrated as well. So I trashed it. It felt good, actually.

Kerry McFee, NaNo-Overachiever, wrote a piece about how she wrote so many words last year. Sort of funny, but not sure I just want to write words. Still, she wrote a whole lot last year. Pretty impressive.

I have read that writers write because a bunch of woman will sleep with you if you publish a book. When I was younger, I may have been in that screaming throng, eager to shed my panties for a playwright or a poet. I don't know what it is about men who can write. But that's not what I am writing about today.

I find myself on the edge of November once again, and I desperately want to write, but I am not sure how to begin. I know, I know. You begin by diving in, writing word after delectable word. But I don't even know what genre I want to write in. I mean, because it is a novel, that would eliminate all the books on buckeyballs and nanotechnology. Okay, I will admit it, I know nothing about them, but they sound darned impressive. Nearly damned impressive. And I will not write a cookbook. Or a travel book.

Everyone's mind leaps to erotica. And you know, I have the stored knowledge and experience to write a nice tale. But when I write about erotica, I tend to want to masturbate A LOT, and I am not sure I would have the energy to write 50,000 words about erotica and masturbate nearly continuously in order to find my muse.

Doctor: "This is a highly unusual case. Notice the vaginal tearings, the engorged clitoris, and the carpel tunnel syndrome from typing. Frankly, I have no idea how she got into this condition. Very strange."

Nurse: "You can stop examining her, doctor."

I just don't want to visit the ER for such a reason. Yikes.

And I am not thrilled about writing a children's book. I know, I know, JK Rawlins may be the highest paid author ever – going from living in her car with her kids to a nest egg that is over one billion dollars – but that only happens to one author (and it already happened to her).

I don't want to write about vampires – I find them too creepy – or romance novels – too trite. And the more I write here, the more I have a "don't list" instead of a "do" list. Perhaps writing turns me into a negative person. I write about what not to say to someone who has lost of loved one instead of what to say. How not to fuck 40 of your co-workers instead of how to fuck 40 of your co-workers. How not to contract an STD in a public restroom instead . . . you get the idea.

This year I am going to write about how to ring 50,000 words from my brain in the month of November instead of worrying about not being able to do it. One word at a time.