Well, that’s how I’m feeling today. I set myself this task that I believed was doable, even without any particular advance planning, and disregarded the fact that I always travel for a week in November. This year we threw in a family wedding and bachelorette party to prepare for along with cooking the TG dinner (nothing too new about that!) and I am wobbling around at less than 18,000 words with only four days to go. I don’t know why I thought I could actually do this, in this of all years, but I did. I see my writing colleagues spinning along at 35,45, 48,000 words and feel like a flop. I feel like I should have made sure I could do this because Grant wrote that article about me, I took on the task of being a Municipal Liason, and, well, I believed in myself.
Or did I? Did I undercut myself by not planning it all out ahead of time? Do I just get mid-novel ennui in which it seems like too much to actually write through the whole thing? Do I fear not knowing how to end it so guard against that by not really getting beyond started? All of that, probably. Whatever it is, this has not been my year for finishing. Again. No matter how much I write between now and Sunday, 30,000 words are not going to happen, certainly not 30,000 words in which I go all the way through the beginning, middle and end of a novel. So, there you have it.
A nanoflop! There’s always next year, I guess. Although if I can’t work past my stuck-in-the-beginning without a way to forge aheadness, I will never finish. The nanoflopness isn’t about doing it all in the month of November, or this month being too busy. No, not really. It’s about me. Gulp. That’s way more than November being busy. Way.