I went into National Novel Writing Month at the beginning of November with a spring in my step and a song in my heart, and with my wide and dewy eyes I gazed upon the word count that was to be my goal. 50,000 words. Having only found out about this event 3 days into it, I would have to average 1851 words a day which, whilst seemingly a little steep, was perfectly manageable.
Under certain circumstances.
One of said circumstances is that you can keep your imagination from bouncing around like an over-excitable labradoodle. I started with a respectable and serious novel with deep philosophical and political connotations which would put our entire social paradigm into question, but before long I noticed small cracks starting to appear, revealing a sense of humour beneath it. Not that this novel didn't have room for humour, but the contrast between the main narrative and these snippets of wit and whimsy was so stark that it would have been more subtle to walk into an office with an electric blue mohawk and a 'My Little Pony' briefcase. It wouldn't work!
Unfortunately, my imagination spotted this and leapt onto the idea with the fervour of a horde of crazed rabbits that have just seen something that rabbits really like (don't think too much about that metaphor, I certainly didn't). Suddenly, I had the idea for the novel I was writing at the time, a sequel, a completely different novel, and about two or three plays running rampant in my mind.
There was also an infinite number of monkeys at my door wanting to talk to me about a script for 'Hamlet' they'd worked out, but I told them I had enough problems of my own and to come back sometime next week.
Anyway, in conclusion, I've decided to dedicate myself to my imagination, take it out for candle-lit meals, long walks, and write a novel in my own time rather than try and squeeze a story out within a month.
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