Unforeseen Side Effects from NaNoWriMo: When the Storymaking Can’t Be Stopped

National Novel Writing Month is a mighty challenge, tossing down a challenge for writers everywhere to channel story into a 50,000 novel within thirty days.

We respond to the challenge as best that we can do — and then get to clean up consequences of neglected families, homes, jobs, dogs that needed lots more attention and walking. It’s rough going, but definitely worth it for the glory of story. It’s the story of December for us repeat offenders, grateful for the holiday opportunities to share the love.

Then there are the small side effects, as reliable and terrible as the obvious large ones. A particularly nasty and persistent one is the inability to turn off the storymaking. Even when we are far from the keyboard, the notebook, the writing desk, we are constantly weaving meaning from wisps of dead grass, playing with ideas, losing track of the conversation.

This state can be highly productive, energizing, and exciting. Words erupt onto the page, compelling drafts are vomited, worthy ideas are splayed into scenes, chapters, subplots. There’s no need to worry about hitting 50,000 words by November 30; we’ll hit that point and go far, far beyond it by November 20. The joy is real, the giddy laughter a little scary.

A lightbulb flares and goes out when you flick on the switch. It’s ghosts. You knew there were ghosts in the house. It’s the former owner, the one that you’re pretty sure died in your bedroom, only no one would ever admit it was true. And he is not happy. This lightbulb incident is just the first in an ever-escalating horror movie brought to life. Is your will up to date? Fasten your seatbelt, boys, it’s going to be a rocky night.

Your computer won’t let you blog. You can draft like crazy in a word processing program, but you can’t get anywhere close to posting it to a blog, any blog, anywhere. That cute purchase on a dodgy site? It’s plunged you into the dark web and you’re the next one to die. It starts without being able to post unless you go to a brightly lit, public place with fresh coffee. Then, there are the bumps in the night (oh, wait, no, that’s the ghost again) and your bank accounts being emptied and no wonder you can’t get anyone to come to the house to fix the leak in the roof. They know. The dark web has warned them off. You belong to it. And you’re going to die — and you can’t do anything about it.

Then the unthinkable happens. You change the lightbulb in the lamp again and it works. The replacement bulb was defective.

The unthinkable keeps on happening. You learn that there was a problem with the service to your neighborhood, so that’s why you couldn’t access the intenet. Today, all is well, the internet is its hyperactive, perky little self.

However, you are stuck with the stories that erupted in your brain and that you were foolish enough to share with others because you were so scared. Now you’re the one that everyone laughs at and pities at dinner.

April is not the cruelest month. The cruelest month is November, at least for those of us with stunningly well-developed storymaking abilities.

It’s a gift, not a curse, I tell myself, but I’m not convinced.