Writing a novel is something that I have dreamed about for awhile, but that I never considered a real possibility. The idea just seemed too overwhelming. When was I going to find time to write a novel. Seriously.
And then I heard about Nanowrimo and I thought, why not. The only prize for winning was expanding what I thought possible for myself, and the only ramification of not winning was the reinforcement of a perceived limitation. Thirty days later I had written 51,000 words and I was pretty jazzed. After all, if 50,000 words was possible in just 30 days, surely I could revise, edit and expand until I had a decent size novel within the next six months or so.
Ummm. Maybe not.
December rolled around and I realized I had written so quickly through November that I really had no idea how to go back and fix what I had written or how to expand the plot into a full size novel. So, I started reading library books about the craft of writing; I started following blogs and websites for authors, agents, and publishers; and I started reading more fiction in various genres. And I realized I have a lot to learn about the craft of writing.
Plus life kept happening. Every day.
And I thought maybe I should just give up.
But God has been quietly reminding me that my love of writing comes from Him. And that without Him, I couldn’t have completed Nanowrimo. He gave me the desire and the ability. I gave myself the unreasonable timeline. I don’t have to finish my novel in the next six months. It’s a process, not a race.
So instead of focusing on a deadline, I have been trying to discipline myself to just write everyday. Something. Even when I don’t want to. Because 15 minutes of something is better than nothing. And that feels much more achievable.
But then the Olympics came on…