NaNoWriMo, day 21

Have you ever set yourself up for failure? Like deciding to run a
marathon, when your three-month training consists only of eating
sausage deep dish and watching the entire season of “Khloe and Lamar”?
Or in my case, attempting to partake in my first National Novel
Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).

For those of you who don’t run in literary circles, NaNoWriMo is a
writing challenge where authors try to pen an entire novel during the
month of November. The goal for each writer is to reach 50,000 words
without killing themselves and or others.

Before you protest that writing a novel in such a short amount of time
is impossible, think again. Some of the world’s most beloved books
were written in less time I wait in line at Hot Doug.

Charles Dickens allegedly finished A Christmas Carol in just two
weeks, whereas Richard Carlson wrote most of Don’t Sweat the Small
Stuff during a transatlantic flight.

Still, I have to admit that the vast majority of writers who begin
their novels, rarely finish them— just three percent, to be exact.

Will I come out of this Battle Royale of aspiring New York Times
bestselling authors as victor?

Only time will tell—actually, less than two weeks, as I just passed
the halfway point on the 15th. And let’s do a quick check to how I’m
faring on my word count:

1189.

Just 48,811 more words to go. In other words, I have written less than
3 percent of my goal word count and am more than 25,000 words behind
from where I should be.

Things are not looking too great. But I have a plan, a brilliant plan
in which I will channel the sparkly and cultish power of Stephanie
Meyer.  Simply put, I am going to give up on trying to write anything
good and just straight diarrhea words onto the page as fast as I can.

After all, the goal is to write something—no one said it had to be any
good. Right Steph?

Lack of literary merit didn’t prevent her from becoming one of the
best-selling authors (and film franchise creators) of all time.

In fact, all struggling mediocre authors should be grateful to Meyers.
Not only does she give us hope that we, too, can be billionaires for
writing crap books, but we can also go to Hollywood movie premieres
infested by rabidly forgiving fans who love our books so much that
they are willing to deform their bodies with tattoos of our poorly
fleshed out, one-dimensional fictional characters that sparkle for no
rational reason.

Yes. I foresee this same glittery destiny for my own nascent novel.

No more foolishly devoting hours and hours to crafting the perfect
juxtaposition, searching for the most evocative metaphors or creating
the most compelling and charming characters:

Instead, I’m just going to channel my inner 13-year old girl and start
writing. Whether it’s about starfish, the color yellow or potato
people from Mars—as long as I throw in a cameo by a sparkly vampire, I
know I can’t fail.

Notes

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