Today is the start of the wonderfully tense time called NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month. It’s my second year of participating, even though I didn’t “win” last time. That stature is achieved by penning at least 1500 words per day to complete a full-length, 50,000-word novel by the end of the month. No gold star for me under those stipulations, but there was success in the form of my last novella, Tests of Will. Fifty-thousand words were not written, but it was a close enough race for me.
Sometimes I write stories that fall into my own favorite genres. Other times they’re way off from my usual reading fare. The choice for subject matter boils down to the all-important aspect of writing something I think would be interesting enough to read myself.
I try not to be a book snob, especially in light of my novice status in the writing realm. My conversations and sometimes even blog posts, are still sprinkled with statements made while looking down my nose at other people’s reading choice. Shame on me.
The women in my book club are a discriminating bunch, though, and I usually consider their suggestions as the best ones. And that’s a good thing, right? They have great taste and are experts, in my opinion, because they all work or have worked within the local library system. By virtue of an overwhelming exposure to different genres, subjects, and vocal readers, I trust their taste.
I take these reading recommendations seriously, because my time is too valuable to spend on questionable, if not worthless, drivel. And time is at a premium during November. Being my wishy-washy self, though, I have to admit it’s all relative. One person’s chicken is another person’s steak (treasure/junk … whatever).
There’s a story brewing in my head and lots of notes about it in my notebook already. Let me just say I hope my NaNoWriMo writing this year adds up to a big ol’ delicious whole roasted chicken. Succulent and savory. At least for a few discriminating consumers.
And the writing begins.