This Year I Said ‘No’ to NaNoWriMo

Yesterday was the start of this year’s NaNoWriMo. For those of you who aren’t part of the frenetic and burgeoning underground of published or aspiring writers, this stands for “National Novel Writing Month,” when thousands (millions?) of people sign up and commit to writing 50K words before midnight on November 30^th.

I signed up for NaNoWriMo last year and the year before, but didn’t bother this year. While people talk about NaNoWriMo “winners,” I’ve twice viewed the month, and the “contest,” as more of an impetus for me to conquer my procrastination and simply start writing (dammit!). Admittedly, I’m a repeat NaNoWriMo “loser,” simply because I never came close to the 50,000-word mark.

I did write 30K words that first year—a feat I was incredibly happy with and proud of—but looking back I hate everything I wrote. Seriously. Hate it. All 30,000 words.

The 10 Things I Learned From My First Writer’s Retreat

I’ve been a part of a small group of writers on Facebook for more than two years now. This “writing tribe” consists of women in four states and three countries/continents, and includes both published and unpublished authors. We write in different genres and different forms, but we’re linked by our love for the written word and our desire to tell a story, whether of ourselves or a character or idea that has grabbed us and won’t let go.

Because we’re such a small group, we’ve shared more than just writing over the years. I respect and admire each and every one of them, for the lives they’ve had, the lives they live, and the lives they aspire to in the future. More than half of us recently met in real life for a long weekend of words, interspersed with wine, food, chocolate and laughter. Oh, and vodka.

The Writer, Unleashed

At what point do you become a writer? Is it when you first put pencil to paper or hands to keys and write a story? Or does your writing have to be published somewhere that people, and especially your friends and family, can tangibly see and touch it? Or is it when you start getting paid for the words you write? It’s something every writer ponders, and it’s been written about by nearly all of them.

Serendipity: What I Found on My Bookshelf This Morning

This isn’t it. Keep reading===>

I love books. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting on the floor of my bedroom, back propped against the bed, reading. I read it all–the Treasury of Children’s Illustrated Classics sprawled across the shelves in the family room, my mom’s old copies of the Bobbsey Twins, Judy Blume, Babar, Raggedy Ann, Highlights magazines; too many to remember or list. My favorite was Bear Circus by William Pene Dubois–most likely for the simple reason that I’ve always adored Koala bears. I was also a huge fan of horses and Secretariat.

Don’t get the wrong impression: I didn’t sequester myself in my room my entire childhood.

Mommy Has Left the Building: A Walk Down Memory Lane

This is a riot–I just found the blog that I started (and obviously abandoned) 6 1/2 years ago. You know–when I had no time to write. But I wish I had. Reading about the kids at ages 4/5 and 6/7 now, when they’re a semi-independent 11 and 13, would have been such a welcome walk down Memory Lane…

After All Is Said and Done: Whose Story Is It?

For the better part of a year now, I’ve been contemplating the ideas surrounding stories, particularly perspective and ownership.

The Rose Jar

I was 11 when I found my mother’s jar of teeth. It hadn’t been lost or even hidden. I’d actually been dusting the container for years, not having the slightest inclination as to the contents within. I couldn’t even say what made that day unlike the rest. Curiosity, of course. But I’d always had that and, more often than not, gotten into trouble because of it.

Not the Time, but the Place (Sunday Photo Fiction)

Time is irrelevant; place is everything.

That had been the first, and most important, lesson my father had taught me. “Wanderers, or what other people call spirits, transcend time. Instead, they haunt a place–a specific location–even if it changes as the years go forward. Or backward.”

FFfAW #20: Gone

This week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: Photo prompt with story to be 100-175 words.

I’d always imagined the End of Days as bleaker, blacker, somewhat more desolate. Well, okay, I’ve never really imagined the End at all. But in the movies, it was not nearly this serene. So maybe they’d got it wrong. Or have I?

As Good a Place as Any (Sunday Photo Fiction)

Prison time doesn’t follow the rules. Looking up, I’m convinced that the clock on the goddamn tower hasn’t moved a hand although it feels like hours have passed. Nobody else has moved a hand either. Not the clock, not the other inmates, and not the goddamn prison guards. In fact, where the hell are they?