For 22 days, I lived in another world.
Alcoholism. Domestic violence. Love. Passion. Infidelity. A beautiful but troubled woman. Her too-perfect husband. And one chubby toddler.
I loved being there. Because it was a world I created on my own.
I was, unofficially, trying NaNoWriMo, aka National Novel Writing Month. The premise is to try to write – without editing – 50,000 words in the month of November. It’s equivalent to 175 pages. A complete novel.
I was afraid I couldn’t do it. But I wanted to try. What I didn’t expect was how much I loved it.
The characters I dreamed up came alive for me. They roamed around my head constantly. I never knew what they were going to do next.
They surprised me. They weren’t always likable. Sometimes they broke my heart.
I talked about them as if they’re real. And to me, they are. They are.
Last night, just before 10 p.m., I finished my story.
I admit it. I got all teary.
I don’t often congratulate myself. I always seem to downplay my accomplishments as being not that special. But this one? I’m proud. I’m proud I took a chance. I’m proud I stuck with it. And I’m proud I can say I’ve given roots to my passion.
Now, I’m well aware what I’ve created isn’t publishable. There is still a ton of work to be done. A TON. The writing ain’t pretty.
For now, though, I’m going to enjoy the simple pleasure of following through and working hard and bringing new life into my world.