Lose Yourself in NaNoWriMo

How many of us have grand ambitions of writing a masterpiece? Ok, how many of us have actually accomplished that? Yeah, me either. It’s OK. It’s not an easy task. Staring at a blank page can be daunting. You can see your world so crisply, so clearly. The mere act of typing out letters, though, dilutes your world. That word you just typed, that doesn’t quite convey what you felt while imagining. No, that sentence doesn’t really show the reader what you meant. Before you know it, your inner Editor has taken over, rationalizing and nitpicking your dream to death until it’s less than vapor. Suddenly that magical world in your head seems foolish, not worthy of bringing to the light of day. You walk away. Maybe next time…

Don’t get me wrong. The Editor isn’t your enemy. The Editor is a valuable team member. After all, there is a very small subset of people that like reading stream-of-consciousness. Most people prefer a polished work, something that they can lose themselves in. There is absolutely a time and a place for the Editor to do their thing. That time, however, is not at the beginning, before the work is even created.

Think about childbirth. The whole process is a bloody, terrifying, sticky, painful mess. You can’t wash the baby before it comes out. First priority is getting the baby out. Once that’s accomplished, while you’re (hopefully) riding on that post-natal high, then you can clean and present the baby to the world.

Yes, I suppose I just did use childbirth as an analogy for NaNoWriMo. I know it’s not a perfect analogy—at least, I hope there’s no actual stickiness or blood involved. Or maybe there is. Not for me to speak on your creative processes. The point is, NaNoWriMo is about cutting out the time you would normally use to silence yourself.  It’s about putting your Editor on vacation and just letting it happen. It’s about giving yourself permission to lose control.

Now PUSH.

The Faery Hare (or the cinnamon bunny)

2,705!

That’s how many words I wrote today.  Terrible, miserable, no-good very bad words, but whatever.  I’m writing and it feels great, even if plenty of other things have fallen by the wayside.

The Faery Hare, by Brian Froud

I also did a lot of reading, which was kind of encouraging, because I was reading old stuff I had written… stuff I still thought sounded pretty good - and that’s always encouraging.

Plus the read was inspiring.  Inspired me to write my own story of “The Faery Hare,” one of the most resonant stories from me from the Frouds’ “Faeries’ Tales.”

Anyway, here’s a little snippet of my original story that I wanted to share.  It was from NaNoWriMo 2010.  Maybe later this week I’ll post a snippet from my personal experience with a squirrel, a beaver and the faerie hare I wrote today… but for now here’s the history of the bunny instead:

*   *   *

Often, she left her dolls under the hemlock at night. Arden would cover them with leaves before dark and uncover them for her in the morning.  He would delight in the little girl’s excitement as she found them drinking tea from little acorn cups and saucers.

As she grew older would sit together, their backs against the hemlock’s trunk, and although he had not learned how to become tangible in the way of humans, she never questioned whether he was truly there.

“It’s because she’s a baby,” the trees told him, the faeries sang.  “It will change.  Times change.  Humans grow and they forget.”

“She remembers!”  He’d cry in response. “She’ll remember.  Wait and see!”

And as he called defiantly out to the sprites and spirits gathered around him, Arden knew he was growing up, too.  That he was learning what it meant to be human.

One spring afternoon when the windows were thrown open to the fresh April air, the girl’s father came home early.  When he slammed the front door closed Arden heard her scream.  Then the patter of little feet as she ran away crying.  Her sobs echoed from her open upstairs window.

Arden flew from the branches of his hemlock and shadowed the bed where she lay, her face reddening with tears and a large pink welt.

Slowly the sobbing subsided.  “Arden?” 

“I’m here,” he whispered into her ear.

“I’m scared,” she whispered back.

There was a pile of stuffed animals in the corner of the room.  She kept none in her bed like most children, so he took the one that struck him the most and handed it to her, a soft, cinnamon colored bunny.  “Miss Cinnamon will watch over you,” he said, infusing the cuddly toy with his protection, his essence, and the love she was beginning to cultivate in him. “Remember that when I am not here, she will protect you for me.”

Noe took the plush rabbit in her arms and rolled to her side.  Although he knew he would need to leave her soon, for the time Arden allowed his spirit to rest beside her, feeling the power in her breath as it rose and fell.