Last year I worked on a draft of my memoir, Inland Empire Girl, for the month of November, aka NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month.
I love the idea of NaNoWriMo. Just get it down – 50,000 words in a month. No editing. Just writing, spewing, vomiting on the page.
The problem is that I am a short story writer. There, I said it.
I am a short story writer.
I’ve even published two poems. What I haven’t published is a novel, though I would very much like to.
I’ve written four novels but they each are missing something. Or have too much of something else. The problem, at its core, is that I am trying to write novels, not tell stories.
Unfortunately, when I write my novels, I disassociate from my storytelling instincts and try to write like a Great American Novelist.
My challenge, and one I keep putting off, is to tell my stories, just in novel length.
Luckily, my procrastination has been filled up with other stories.
I am on vacation this week and I have finished two new stories, and submitted three for publication. I’ve also drafted another new story.
I’ve done everything but crack open the binder of the novel I brought halfway across the country.
Okay, fine. You’ve guilted me into it. I’ll do NaNoWriMo.
Now with the World Series over (go Giants!!) and the darkness of winter descending, why not spend my evenings re-writing my novel into a short-story-collection-disguised-as-a-novel?