I told myself last year that I wasn’t going to actually participate in NaNoWriMo. Of course I did, but I didn’t do it officially. I attended write-ins and hung out with my friends and it was a good time all around. Of course it was a good time; I find the whole event to certainly be worth something. But I was also told that setting such a goal for my kind of writing, for the story that I had been working on, was unrealistic. That I should just sit down and write, and if I only write a paragraph instead of several pages, that was fine. It’s not fine in the NaNoWrimo scheme of things, but in terms of actual writing it’s perfect.

Fast forward to a year later. I’m no longer in Dearborn, Michigan but rather in Buffalo, New York.

And until this very moment, I had no intention of doing NaNoWriMo. I honestly didn’t. I was just going to ignore it this year; after all, it’s a different group of people whom I heard were not nearly as into it as my Detroit Wrimos, so what’s the point?

The point? The point is to write. And, of course, when you’re living with your muse, coming up with new story ideas is something that happens, well, on a daily basis. Like, what happened tonight. I got a new story idea planted in my brain, and now? Now I’m doing my damnedest NOT to try and write it before the first of November.

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