NaNoWriMo aka where I’ll be for the next month.
If you don’t know what this is, you should. It’s National Novel Writing Month, it’s the yearly celebration and marathon writing session. It’s free to participate and wonderful to participate in.
This year I’ve decided I’d finally join in. Writing is always a ‘pastime’ but it’s past time that I got more than general ideas on post-its. It’s time to give myself a word count and a deadline and see what I can make of it. I expect it to be awful, with a few moments of “ooh I like that bit” thrown in.
I’ve vowed to remember the following:
1) Just write. Beginning, middle, end, it doesn’t matter, just write.
2) Do not edit.
3) DO NOT EDIT.
4) Make your word count and don’t be frustrated if you’re a bit shy, you have days off… use them.
5) DO NOT EDIT! there’s plenty of time for that in December, January etc
I’ve decided to take on a very narrow focused piece, I hate to admit it but it’s fan fiction. There I’ve said it. Now, lest you think that I’m writing smutty slash fiction (not that there’s anything wrong with that cause I do actually like reading some smutty slash fiction) it’s not. Well I don’t think it is, but ask me again mid-November and it may have ‘evolved’.
I promise to post at least my Friday Fun music and maybe something here or there about the slog to write 1700 words a day for 30 days.
Wish me luck!
When first we met I was young, too young to know better, too young to care. I loved the ritual involved, the burn, the salt and lime taste. You were cheap but I held my own, you didn’t make me sick.
When next we met I was a little older, a little more worldly and had learned some about you. The ritual still held the same fascination and you were soon my shot of choice. Others feared you but not me.
When next we met it was my birthday, a friend gave me a large bottle of ‘the good stuff’. You were shared with the crowd, consumed in one glorious evening. You were always welcome.
When next we met I was older, wiser, and enjoyed you sparingly. My tastes more refined but still festive. You still never made me suffer the way you did others, I loved you for that.
When later we met I cooked with you. Your flavor adding so much to grilled chicken and mixed into drinks I loved. I joked that after all these years you were still part of my festivities. My old friend.
The last time we met I was in your birthplace, Jalisco, Mexico. I toured factories and watched you being made. I learned about the process, the grading and about your proud history. I found some marvelous versions to sip, that no lime or salt is needed for the good stuff. I began to think of myself as a connoisseur rather than simply an enthusiast. We have come full circle my friend, from novice to master. Thank you for your wonderful (if fuzzy) memories.
Taking my inspiration (and theme) from Sometimes Stellar Storyteller‘s prompt of Write about a tricky situation.
“It’s not mine officer” I said.
again on this week’s theme of loss.
Suicide yesterday. His mother devastated. Senseless.