Another NaNoWriMo has come and gone and this year is the first that I didn’t finish with 50,000 words. I saw it coming early on, but after a day of sadness, I accepted it. I was ok with it.
And I’m still ok with it.
It took me a while, but I think I’ve figured out why I’m not weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth. In the past, November was important to me as a writer because it was the one month where I could write with wild abandon and my family expected it. I could sequester myself at the computer, snack food piled around me, and a thermos of coffee with easy reach. With the exception of the holiday when we had to go up to my inlaws for Thanksgiving, I could write and no one would question why I was spending so much time buried in my craft. It was the only time I could honestly say I was a writer and able to do what a writer does.
Then I get into a relationship where my partner is not only supportive of my craft, but insists that I write, encourages my art, and does everything possible to make sure I write when the mood and muse strike. That is one of the reasons I adore her, but it is also the reason I believe I’ve been able to grow as a writer and to feel more like a writer and not just some bizarre, smelly, cranky, 30 day hermit that dwells behind the monitor every November.
I like it.
I’ll continue to support NaNoWriMo, and I may even join in, but if I don’t finish, I won’t worry. I’ll have a rough draft of something that I can work on when the mood strikes, and I like that too.
Now that it’s December I’ll go back to work on the second book of The Citadel Chronicles much to my beloved’s delight.
Mine too, come to think of it.