"Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: Ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night, 'Must I write?' Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple, 'I must,' then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse."
— Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
The Knight posted this to my Facebook wall a few days ago.
It's a little heavy ("…she said, forgetting for a moment who she was talking to," he told me), but this is the desire I have lately to write. I am physically compelled to do it; the words practically flood out of me: on this blog. I've written more this past month than I can ever remember in the past. I am prolific.
As of this afternoon, my NaNoWriMo count is up to 9,336 words.
By the time I go to bed tonight, I'll have 10,000. (And two loads of clean laundry.)
I will be twenty percent finished with this shitty, shitty first draft.
(If you're reading this and still don't know what NaNoWriMo is, go away now and read up.
In that vein, if you have no interest in writing and would rather grow a whole lot of facial hair, go read up on Movember instead. Hilarious concept, great opportunity to support a good cause.)
So, this novel I'm writing.
It's about me.
It's about me, but this character won't have my name.
Nor will any of the people this character comes into contact with have the names of the people I'm actually writing about.
There will be changes. There will be simplifications; there will be embellishments.
But this novel is about my life, the past year and a half of it or so. Peppered with a bit of the past and some speculation on the future, probably.
Which makes it pretty easy to write.
Because, you know, I've lived it.
But then again, it's kind of a bitch to write.
Because I've lived it.
And life wasn't so easy for me last year.
I made it difficult, and other people made it difficult.
Looking back at old blog entries and e-mails, the things I did and said? Yikes. Some of that really stings to recall.
But writing it all down, making it the best, most beautiful version of that it can be? Fabulous.
Even when it hurts, it feels good to be getting it down.
Yeah, vague, much?
My vest looks better with all these cards fanned out against it anyway.
But the writing is good. So good. I love my progress and can't wait to see where I am on the other side of this weekend.
Thanks to everyone who has been so supportive already. I never knew I had so many friends, even if you're often just words on my screen.
More overblown prose and forced reflection next week.
For now? Weekend it.