One of the craziest ways to get a novel on the page and existing in the real world is to participate in Nanowrimo. I would not have survived all the way through grad school without it.
Just before the bottom dropped out of the economy, I was quietly flitting through grad school in a foreign country, talking to no one I didn’t live with and quietly fading into my own shadow. I had attempted National Novel Writing Month before – and failed horribly. This time, I had no social obligations, I had a lot of studying to do, but I also had nothing left to keep me going outside of textbooks and tests. Deep in my soul, I was bored.
Part of Nanowrimo is attending write-ins, getting together with your local writing community, and meeting people who are just as strange as you. After all, you’ve all promised to write 50,000 words in only 30 days.
We met in Leeds, in York, on the train and in the rain and in cafes and in tiny little alleyways that had existed since before running water came to that part of England. It was magical. It was wild. I created utter crap. It was great.
I have done Nanowrimo nearly every year since and while I created several book-shaped objects, it was also what prompted me to dust off my very first failed project and to try again. That was draft 2, and a few other drafts. More importantly, the writing community in Nanowrimo has consistently been the same type of wild, creative, welcoming energy that promises yes, you can do this. Whatever this is.
They will help you gag your inner editor, they will help you work out that one detail, they will pick you up and kick you in the butt when you’ve spent the last ten minutes starting at a blinking cursor. We’ve all read those essays and articles about how writing is solitary. It exists just passed the door of your mind, a door through which only you can enter. They can’t turn the knob or help you push it open; but they can help kick you through it. If you haven’t yet, I highly recommend looking up the Nanowrimo website.