The Post Nanowrimo Report

So, I did NaNoWriMo this year.
I stayed up till midnight on October 31st and then every day from November 1st through the 30th, I woke up early in the mornings pushed my self late at night,  said no to TV and books and carved those 50,000 words out of the created time.
Last night, I wrote the words that I knew would push me over the finish line, and when I pasted them into the word count validator, the count read 50,001. By Nanowrimo rules, that's an official winning word count. So, I did what WriMos all across the world had been doing all night long as midnight slowly crept across the globe. I put down my computer, and celebrated. All of a sudden, the tiredness that had plagued me when I had started my evening out at Starbucks and followed me home to my writing spot on the couch, left my body as the rush of adrenaline from completing my marathonic writing goal flooded in. I broke out the sparkling grape juice and toasted in mason jars with my sister. "To putting books on shelves!"
I printed out my kitchsy (but oh so sweet!) certificate, proudly instagramming, and tweeting the moment to my fellow WriMos on the interwebs with the hashtag #nanowinner2015.

and then I went to bed. I had to work this morning after all.

You know how people ask you after big birthdays and milestone occasions if you feel any different, and more than likely, you never do?
Well this morning when I work up, I felt different. It wasn't that I was super proud of some highly polished and finished product that I had to show for my months work, because I'm gonna be honest with you here: that draft, 50,000 words though it may be, is far from complete in story and to top that off, it is, as Hemingway so succinctly put it, shit.
Rather, as I reveled in the time I had this morning, to wash dishes, make cocoa, gather lunch and still have time to sit on the couch for a quiet moment before I left for work, I felt the oh so subtle shift in my mindset.

I can make time for anything.
I can discipline myself to perform an act of creativity.

More specifically,  I can sit my butt in a chair and churn out the words that now lay on the white sheets of a pages as a pile of bones, waiting to be added to, fashioned together artfully,  fleshed out to make the kind of story my heart wants to hear.

Showing up is what gets the job done. 

November was a month of showing up to the job, of persevering, of self denial, of dragging my guilty self back out of bed and turning the lights back on because I knew I wouldn't forgive myself if I didn't write that word down.
December will be something else entirely.
Tonight, I won't be writing, aside from this blog post, even though I have some story finishing to do yet. Tonight I need sleep.
But I will finish my story and I  will revise and redraft, if for no other reason than the fact that I've already come this far. Why stop now?
And even if I never decide to send my hard written words out into the great wide world someday, I will be satisfied that I rose to the challenge I dared my self to take ,  and I met it bravely and truly the entire way.
I can ask nothing more of myself than just that.
Wrimo out.


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