I wrote 28,135 words of the first draft of my memoir. And then I got bored.
Yes, I got bored with my own life. Not particularly proud of that but there it is.
Maybe I’m more suited for biography – letting someone else tell my story. Though that doesn’t sound very appealing (I don’t like relinquishing that much control).
About three weeks into November, I stopped worrying about NaNoWriMo and stopped writing.
I missed writing fiction. So I revisited a story, The Uncluded, that I had submitted to a few places and was turned down.
I reworked a couple of sections and submitted the story to a literary magazine called The Oddville Press.
A few days later they sent me an email accepting the story.
To me that was a sign, confirming that fiction was it for me. Not that I needed another sign. I’ve never liked writing non-fiction (and I’m not very good at it).
If you want to know about me, you don’t need to read my memoir. You just have to read my fiction. My stories will tell you everything you need to know about me.