I peer, deep into my monitor. Dust bunnies drift by, catching in the cobwebs hanging from the corners. Where did everybody go?
It's lonely being a writer in November when the NaNoWriMo virus runs rampant through the community. No, I don't NaNo, never will. I have enough stress in my life. Besides the non-conformist in me tucker her chin as my finger bones fuse into flippers. I can't think of any process less conducive to my creative process. Oops, there's one, popping her head up for air. Sounds a little rattled, crazed even. There she goes, back to the tribe. Come back, little writer, I miss you ... Oh well.
Good luck to everyone who has signed up for what amounts to a worldwide writer's boot camp. I'll be here, right where you left me, waiting to read your stuff.
Meanwhile, my own WIP has organically grown to 30,000 words since the last week of October. Writing comes to me in spurts, and once I unplug the creative tubes in my imagination, words and images pour out and go splat on the page. Feels fantastic, and with a week of vacation just around the corner, I imagine I will nearly double that count, but no pressure, the words will come, if I just relax and listen for them. That's what works for me, and I have no plans to change it. Is anybody with me?