|My view on a very dull, let's-all-do-nothing-today morning...|
Saturday afternoon, the first of November, I sat at my desk trying to recover from Halloween’s “events” and catching up on some work for my TV module. I looked out at the lake beneath my window and got that leaping feeling in my chest… I’d forgotten something.
What does November First mean? NaNoWriMo time. This time two years ago, I embarked on a journey, undertaking the challenge to write 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days. I achieved it. I enjoyed it. I fell in love with writing all over again.
Having chatted with my flatmate about it, I’d more or less decided to do it again this year. But all of a sudden, here was November, here was I, and where was my novel? I had no plan, no ideas, and there wasn’t even a single one of my stories I felt totally enthused about picking up. Somehow, I didn’t want to delve back into one of those worlds and reacquaint myself with all of those characters.
Since moving into University, I haven’t written all that much. In fact, now I think of it, I haven’t written fiction in a very long time. But now, even though I’m surrounded by writers, some of whom are even studying Creative Writing as a degree… I find myself with less desire to write.
Perhaps it’s because my love of writing stemmed from feeling a bit lonely, and now I have the luxury of living a corridor or staircase away from my friends? (And there are, thankfully, lots of friends). Perhaps it’s simply that I’ve been so busy adjusting to this new world that I don’t have the time to write.
I know what you’re going to say: there’s always time to write.
Although, of course, one can learn to be a better writer, I've always felt it's true that writers are born and not made. You're either going to be one or your not. Perhaps that can go untapped if someone's too afraid to try it out, and conversely there might be those who can write extraordinary things but wouldn't necessarily call themselves "a writer". It's quite a personal thing, a label you can only give yourself.
I know that I am a writer. I talk about this all the time. I've got writing I share with everyone (hi there), and writing I keep all to myself. I feel at home when I'm tapping away at a keyboard or scribbling in a notebook. I'd even go so far as to say that I've become a better writer over the years, simply through repetition and practice.
So why am I not writing now? Why, when I'm in first year at Uni, a year famous for leaving time on ones hands, have I not leapt into NaNoWriMo with gusto?
I don't know. I don't know why I'm not missing my characters. I don't know why real life seems more appealing than fantasy. But surely it can only be a good sign?
Honestly, I can't wait to start writing again. After however long this hiatus takes, I'm sure I'll recommence a story or begin a new one with renewed vigour and abundant creative juices.
But for now? We wait.