When I was little, I loved to write. Everything I looked at had a story that could be written about it. The leaves falling from trees, a rainy day, anything. I would write all the time and manage to get half way through before I decided I didn't like the story and trashed it. At least seven would-be novels ended up that way, and thinking about it now, I wish I had kept them. Their stories deserved to be told, and my stubbornness swallowed them into nothingness. Not a very pleasant fate.
NaNoWriMo taught me to persevere, keep writing no matter how much I hated what was spilling onto the paper. At some points I wanted to scrap the entire story and just start over again, but I knew I didn't have time. A poorly timed family reunion out of the country would make it impossible for me to restart even if one of my best plot ideas hit me on the head like a falling brick.
I had to be done by the 20th, ten days earlier than everyone else and the thought haunted me the three days leading up to the 1st. I started writing with only one sentence thought up beforehand and everything else had to just go along with it.
My story was filled with angsty, forbidden, and unrequited love, demons that tried to go against who they were at the core, and so many 'Where the heck did that come from?' moments that I honestly was dying to read my finished work just to see how I managed to string them along.
When I finished the novel yesterday, (It ended at 40k, but I had several bare bones scenes I had to go back and flesh out) the feeling I got was indescribable. I wanted nothing more than to run around screaming in ecstasy, throw a party, and make everyone read what I had written.
I reread through my story, filling in patches as I went, and lo and behold, I loved what I wrote. It was filled with suspense, foreshadowing, romance, and a death defying race to the top of a mountain. I poured over what I wrote and tried to decide where to add things and take sentences out completely. It took hours before I had the novel prepped for reading.
NaNoWriMo sparked a series in which the first book was written in sixteen days, a feat that not many can brag about. From now on, every month is the month where my social life is put on hold, I keep my school grades up only by sleeping a bare minimum of hours that I could run on, and I let my imagination run wild and free.
I cannot wait for next year's exciting adventure, and can only wait to see what I churn out when I (hopefully) have the whole month to work.
Novelists ahoy! Riase anchors and write up a storm!