An English Teacher Takes On NaNoWriMo
EDIT: Follow along on my NaNoWriMo journey! Updates to the story will be posted below.
Day 1: 1, 894
Day 3: 3, 872
Day 6: 6,011
Day 9: 7,883
Day 12: 10,389
Day 22: 14,216
Day 23: 15,993
Day 25: 17,802
Day 26: 20,159
Day 30: 23,622
We are just a scant few days away from the month of November which for many folks means thoughts of Thanksgiving and the inevitable holiday season. However, for those of us who like the idea of a pen and paper or a blank Word document- I am speaking to the writers of course- next month is NaNoWriMo.
National Novel Writing Month.
Holy cow. You mean you write a whole novel in a month? Eh. We try and that truly is the goal. Really it is a community of writers-from beginners to NYT authors- who write and encourage each other with daily word goals. The goal is to write 50,000 words by November 30th.
So, I an enthusiastic, unpaid student teaching intern will attempt this feat. And to give myself some credit and hype it all up I am posting the first chapter I have been working on of a story I am calling “Untitled”
Enjoy and let me know your thoughts! (Index below)
It was a small studio in Chelsea that seemed to cost me more than half of my life savings, but it was mine. I signed on the dotted line and was unceremoniously handed a small, golden key from my grumpy landlord who claimed his name was Peter.
“His real name is Marty, but he hates it so he tells everyone his name is Peter,” those words tumbled out of the small mouth of my neighbor Marie.
Marie was a short female with small features that did not reflect her personality. Marie had given me a tour of the studio flat a week ago and was adamant about one thing: “Men are pigs. I’m telling you that now to save yourself from heartbreak.” Marie was tough, she told me to never let a man define my worth. It was an encouraging conversation only dulled by the fact that I had to lean in to hear her say the words because her small mouth always seemed to be so tightly shut. On top of that she spoke just a decibel above a whisper in a building full of screaming children and study abroad students who decided to extend their stay.
I thanked Peter for the keys and walked into my tiny flat relishing in its simplicity. I had one small, round table and a weathered stool. That was it. Convincing myself to start from the bottom up I don’t think I can get more bottom than this. But it was mine. The stool, the table, the building filled with personalities and my neighbor Marie.
The decision to move to this studio was not hasty. In fact it took me nearly three years to come to the decision that I was moving to London. My parents were rather averse to the whole idea, as any concerned parent would normally be, but they knew how determined I was once I set my mind to something and allowed me the chance to spread my little wings.
Truth be told I was admittedly terrified. After struggling to find employment at the top publishing house in New York City I decided a change of scenery was in order. My dad and I researched flats and houses all around London’s city center once he accepted that I was planning to move. When we had settled on this flat in Chelsea he turned to me and asked what any sane human being would ask a writer in this situation: are you sure?
At the time I told him I absolutely was sure. I never had been more sure of something in my life. But now, standing in my studio with that stool and baby blue table, I was entirely unsure. When I went into college every human under the sun told me I was going to struggle in life if I stuck with this whole ‘wanting to be a writer’ thing. I never told these humans that they were wrong, namely grandma and grandpa, but I never told them they were right either. See, I always exist somewhere in the middle most of the time with anything really.
I have just always known that nothing suits me more succinctly than being a writer. When I was a little girl my parents would always tell me how they could never find me. That was until they figured out that I was always in the attic of our house surrounded by piles of notebooks bent over one with my tongue poking out between my lips in concentration. By the end of my childhood I had written nearly 10 short stories all filling notebooks that were kept in my writing attic.
While cute boys and homecoming dresses clouded my eyes for 8 years after that I rarely ever went into the attic and barely wrote in my notebooks anymore. It wasn’t until I was in the midst of making a decision about which college to attend that I stumbled into that attic and read through the many pages of my notebooks. That evening when I came out of the attic I realized I wanted to be a writer. My parents were supportive, in the beginning, because I had decided to stay home and go to New York University to study journalism and creative writing. By the time I graduated college I was convinced that the top publishing houses in the city would metaphorically be knocking at my door to offer me a position on their team. As one would expect the knocking never occurred.
And so for three years I worked myself to the bone taking on any job I could get my hands on. Jobs that had absolutely nothing to do with writing because I had let the voice of society make me believe I needed to earn money in order to be considered successful. It wasn’t until I was looking at myself in my bathroom mirror one evening that I realized I was discouraged and quite literally a failure.
“I am moving… somewhere.” I had announced to my parents that night. They both were unaffected by my words. My dad scrolled through his iPad and my mom continued folding laundry without missing a beat. “I am moving to Tokyo.” I challenged. I wasn’t really considering moving to Tokyo but it seemed like a good city to get my parents to at least acknowledge the gravity of the situation.
“Tokyo?” my mom finally responded dropping a pair of socks and turning to look at me.
“Well maybe not Tokyo but I am definitely going to move away from New York City.”
What transpired was a nice heart-to-heart where my parents told me it was okay to dream big but that I should be realistic.
“Maybe you should go back to school and get your master’s,” my mom just loved to say that. That statement was uttered for a fifth time that particular week alone.
I gave up that night and went to sleep thinking about where I would move if I followed through on my wild exclamation that evening. It had to come to me only through a friend’s Facebook post. My acquaintance, because who really knows 800 people that well, was traveling Europe at this time in my life. And on that particular day she was in London. For any lover of writing and Literature you know about the greats who came from London including William Shakespeare himself.
“I am moving to London,” I finally decided telling my parents that day.
After some negotiating, and reality checking, here I stood in my studio in Chelsea only a short tube ride to London. I had no official writing job, for the moment I was a hostess at the chic Hospital Club in Chelsea, but I am determined to become the writer I always wanted to be and it starts here in this studio flat with my neighbor Marie and my landlord Peter.
Follow along on my NaNoWriMo journey! Updates to the story will be posted at the beginning of this post.
