November without NaNo

Aside from 2020 (which was a dumpster fire in every possible way), I've participated in NaNoWriMo every year since 2015.

Up until last year, I'd "won" (where winning is defined as writing 50,000 words in 30 days) each year as well. I held onto those winner's certificates and horribly uncomfortable winner's shirts like they were made of gold. They were proof that I could complete something.

Each year I competed against myself to see how quickly I could reach the goal. The last year that I "won" NaNo, I hit the goal of 50,000 by the middle of the month and ended the month at 85,000 words. I also entered December with the first draft of the novel I now have out in the query trenches.

This year is the first time that I'm not doing NaNoWriMo where I also know I'll never do it again. Everything imploded with NaNo during the month of November last year and it was the first time that I didn't "win." I spent most of the month shellshocked by every new revelation about the ways NaNo had failed to protect and support it's members, especially the children and teens in the youth writing program.

After what happened last year, and the continuing direction of the new leadership at HQ, the other Municipal Liaisons from the Phoenix area and I decided we could no longer be a part of NaNo. We started our own rogue writer group for the Phoenix area instead.

I deleted my profile from the NaNoWriMo website.

I've unsubscribed to their e-mails.

I signed up for Pacemaker and set a word count goal for November via Sisters In Crime's November Marathon. (Which is only open to members for November, but another marathon will open for everyone in January.)

All that said, I knew I would miss NaNo. It had been a part of my life for so many years after all. But I hadn't realized how much it meant to me until I walked away.

Prior to NaNo, I struggled to finish anything I started writing. After a (deservedly) failed attempt at self-publishing a novel and the (somewhat undeservedly) critical responses, one of which can best be summarized by saying I'm the worst writer who ever existed, I was more than a little hesitant to write again.

I was a slow reader. It wasn't until the third grade that I really learned how to read and my love of books took off. Then, in the fourth grade, we did a fiction writing assignment and my love of writing (aka, life-long homework) began.

No matter what was happening in my life prior to that disastrous novel, I always wrote.

I wrote while sitting on the bleachers at Forensics meets in high school.

I wrote in my car when I was a cashier at Home Depot.

I wrote on napkins.

I wrote on receipts.

I wrote on the back of my hand if nothing else was available.

I may not have let anyone read what I wrote, but I wrote constantly.

There's a fair amount of hubris that comes along with being a writer. Though most of us suffer from a dash of imposter syndrome, the truth is that we wouldn't write if we didn't believe that we have something important to say.

This is true no matter if you write fanfiction, YA, cookbooks, or even True Crime. You write because you feel your perspective is needed to help others understand you, themselves, and the world better.

When your confidence is shattered, it's hard to start writing again. I'd never struggled with the blank page problem before those online criticisms, but afterwards that was all I had. A lot of writers believe there is no such thing as writers block, and that's great for them that the outside world doesn't affect their ability to write.

But that isn't true for all writers. Some of us are affected by outside forces which limit our ability to write. Economic hardships, caring for ill and infirm family members, being the sole caretaker of children while working, day jobs from hell that take every waking hour of your life, or your own illness.

Right now I'm dealing with a mysterious illness that my doctor and I are tirelessly trying to diagnose.

The exhaustion I feel on a daily basis is like nothing I've ever experienced before. Combine that with chronic faucet-like nosebleeds, memory issues, a lot of concerning lab work that indicates kidney (and points towards possible autoimmune) issues, and the anxiety from all the unknowns, and I don't think it's any wonder that I'm having trouble writing.

I set a goal of 50,000 words for myself on Pacemaker this month.

I'll be lucky to finish a tenth of that.

Rather than concentrate on what I can't do, I've been concentrating on what I can do.

I can host write-ins and encourage other writers.

I can polish existing short stories and submit them. (I can also deal with the constant rejections because you only need one "yes" after all.)

I can send out novel queries.

And I can outline the second and third books in the series I've created around my first book.

The NaNo HQ's failures can't take away the joy I felt at finishing the first draft of a book of which I am absurdly proud.

A book which has made its way through manuscript swaps and beta readers.

A book that led to my first "send me pages" from an agent, then to "send me the entire manuscript" from another agent.

A book that, if nothing else, showed me that my ideas and plots are something saleable by an agent- even if this book never receives publication.

Though I miss NaNo, nothing the national HQ did can ever take away the sense of accomplishment I had each year as I found my way back to writing. And I hope the same is true for every other writer out there who has felt displaced and unmoored without NaNo this month.