#21: A Writing Odyssey
on nanowrimo and getting words on the page
As we approach the end of the November, Iāve been reflecting on how this time two years ago I was nearing the end of one of the hardest, but also most rewarding, challenges Iāve ever embarked upon.
I wish I could say that it was only last year, but in fact it has now been two whole years since I embarked on the journey that was NaNoWriMo, which means itās been two years since I started work on my novel, The Breweress. In case you didnāt know, November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo for short), during which the now disbanded non-profit that popularised this concept encouraged writers to buckle down and write 50,000 words in 30 days. This, in case youāre unsure, is not an easy feat. But, two years ago I was unemployed, feeling unmoored and without purpose, and decided that this is the year Iām doing it. Iād tried completing NaNoWriMo several times in the past, but had never gotten even close to reaching the elusive 50k goal. In November of 2023 I was also doing morning pages (I was clearly going through something!) and when I read back my words (I know, I know, youāre never supposed to read back morning pages), the pages are filled with scrawled complaints lamenting the excruciating daily grind of getting those words on the page.
I found that I could hit my daily word count of 1,666 words in about 90 minutes. I designated a daily 2 hour block using the pomodoro method (25 minutes of work followed by a 5 minute break). There are a plethora of pomodoro method videos on YouTube, and I pretty much religiously watched Ambient Horizonās Skyrim themed soundscapes. Thanks to these videos, copious amounts of wine, the occasional meltdown and dogged persistence, I finished my 50,000 words by December 1st. I had done it! I completed NaNoWriMo! But then what?
Immediately, I put down my metaphorical pen and took a long break from writing, coinciding perfectly with the Christmas festivities. I donāt think I wrote a single word for a month, even forgoing my morning pages. When I started back up again in the new year the first thing I did was read through the product of my month-long toil. It was... Rough. Also, 50,000 words does not a novel make - I had only just hit Act II in my story. But, the seed of something was there. I could see it; a sleeping kernel which, if nurtured and tended to, could grow into a thing of beauty. Or at least something that I didnāt hate.
The Breweress isnāt my first attempt at writing a novel - that accolade goes to a book I wrote during COVID, a story I fondly refer to as my demon sex book. The story is a twisted, sexy romp through literal Hell, but it was so dark that I knew I would struggle to find a publisher for it. I sent out a few half-hearted queries but after five or so rejections I decided to shelve Sirenās Song for the time being and write something new. I wanted my new book to be the antithesis of my previous attempt, and I started out with the intention of writing a cozy, sapphic romance set in medieval England (the period and setting doesnāt quite scream sweet lesbian love story, but it makes sense I promise!). It didnāt quite end up being ācozyā, to be honest I donāt think I have it in me to write something that doesnāt have a little bit of violence and trauma in it, but itās definitely a story that gives you that warm, fuzzy feeling when you turn the last page.
I wrote 50,000 words in a month, but it took me a year and a half to write the next 75,000. I finally got to type out the words THE END in March of this year, when I was holed up in Sweden waiting out my Visa. It felt strangely anticlimactic - the thing I had been working towards for so long was finally here, and yet I knew that the hard work had only just begun.
Iāve been writing stories for as long as I can remember, but it took me years and years and a lot of self-reflection before I felt comfortable calling myself a writer. It still feels uncomfortable, like putting on an itchy, ill-fitting sweater. I canāt call myself a writer - I havenāt published anything big! How could I? No-one reads what I write! But then I remind myself of the old adage, āif you write, youāre a writerā. And who cares anyway? Iām not out here trying to write the next great American novel, Iām just trying to make sense of myself and of life through words. And if I can write a silly little story that makes just one person feel good, then Iāve done all I set out to do.
Iām still finding my groove as a writer, evidenced by the many mediums and formats my words have taken shape: Iāve written feature screenplays, pilots, witchy poetry, confessional poetry, whatever this substack is (personal essays?), a handful of rough short stories, two novels in completely different genresā¦ the list goes on! It always felt like something deeply personal, and even a little bit embarrassing. Writing screenplays felt slightly more acceptable, especially when I was living in LA and had peers who were making a career out of writing for TV and film, but in the quiet and the dark, I always returned to my little notebooks where I scribbled my bad poetry, my innermost thoughts. I wrote my first novel completely alone, without any advice or help from other writers, and it shows. Every time you write, you learn something. And every time you write with the support and guidance of other writers, you become better.
The one thing that shaped me the most as a writer was finding a community of other writers. Suddenly, calling myself a writer didnāt seem so shameful, so pretentious. So trying too hard. I was just another person in a room full of people, who love words and expressing ourselves through them. The more I shared my unfinished work, the more confident I felt creating new pieces. The more I bounced ideas off people, the more ideas I had. I would never have been able to write 50,000 words in 30 days without my community, especially the Whatsapp group where our NaNoWriMo support group shared our daily word counts (and commiserations, and complaintsā¦).
I suppose what Iām trying to say is that writing and being a writer is often talked about as a solitary path, a lonely one. But the only way Iāve been able to grow as a writer, which most importantly includes growing my confidence on top of my skills, is with the help of others. For many this looks like going into an MFA programme or going back to school, but it can also just mean meeting up with a couple of friends at a bar on a Tuesday night and doing some twenty minute writing sprints. There are so many online classes, in-person meet-ups, and digital spaces in which to find your people. And there are so many other people out there who are also trying to find ways to express themselves through this glorious, tedious, frustrating yet beautiful medium.
So whatās next for The Breweress? I need to do one or two more rounds of editing, and then she will be ready for a second round of beta readers after my sister, who is always the first to read anything I write (thank you Andrea). And then we shall have to see. Maybe Iāll end up shelving it like I did my first book. The dream, of course, is to see it published. But I will rest easy knowing that I put my heart and soul into it, and that I had the guts to share my words with the world.
