One of the most interesting things about doing NaNoWriMo is that it’s given me a rare view into how effing crazy we human types all are – crazy and jealous.
Here’s the thing: Anything you write in a month’s time probably won’t be winning the National Book Award. At best, you’ll wind up with a mess with potential, and that’s all I’m hoping for. The most important thing is keep writing. I’m a little behind right now, but I’ve got more than 25,000 words, which is the most I’ve written on a single project since my senior thesis.
Anyhoo, I’m pretty proud of myself. This apparently is enraging to some people, because you would not believe some of the comments I’ve gotten so far.
Some of them are to be expected, given the context. My ex, for example, listened to my synopsis and said, “It sounds like it could be more than readable.” When I said, jokingly, I’d choose to take that as a compliment, he said, “Yes, it is. A cautious, measured compliment.” But hey, that’s pretty good for an ex, right? Just you wait.
Friday night, a boy I’ve never dated informed me that my subject was one of the most written-about of its kind. He then asked me who I thought would play my main character in the movie, and laughed and laughed.
Last week, a friend of mine asked me if I was still writing the damn thing, when I’d be done with it, and whether I thought it was any good, anyway.
It’s not just me, either: Members of my writing group are reporting similar pissiness from their near and dear. One guy says a friend of his asked him if all he did now was write in pretentious coffee shops, so that other people could see him.
I’m honestly a little flabbergasted at the hostility. It’s not like any of us have book deals. For me, writing a book has long been something on my Big List of Things to Do Before I Kick Off. Because I’m reasonable, I never specified “write a good book” or “write a book that sells a gagillion copies and becomes a New York Times Best Seller.”
My point is that my ambitions are somewhat humble, and therefore, anyone who wants to do what I’m doing, can. Anyone can write a book. All they have to do is commit to writing a couple thousand words on the same subject.