That Oratory I'm talking about

Well, funny thing.

So I was doing Camp NaNoWriMo.

NaNoWriMo: noun.
1. Intense masochism.
2. National Novel Writing Month, November; one must set a word count and reach it by the end of the month. For adults, the target word count is always 50,000.
Camp NaNoWriMo: noun.
NaNoWriMo during other months, generally April and either July or August. Everyone can set their own word count goal.

Anyway, so I did Camp NaNoWriMo, with a goal of 40,000 words - I reached it, at 40,089 words on 2 pm on July 31st. My prize? Bragging rights! Which I'm obviously using.

And then I realized that I did actually sign up for the Yale speech tournament and it is on September 22nd and I do have to get my original oratory done. And guess when it was originally due? August 1st.

Anyhow, I tried to get typing but frankly, I had just come out of a three-day word marathon. I had practically lived on the living room couch with my laptop. I had written 20,000 words in three days. I didn't particularly want to do it.

I ended up sending my coach an email asking for more time. She let me have a week. But I was still in a post-NaNo haze for much of that time, so it didn't get done then either.

By now I was pretty sure this wasn't going to happen, so I told my coach I wasn't going to go. Then my other coach jumped in and said he did want me to go to this tournament as originally planned and was willing to give me five more days.

Therefore, I am writing again now.

On Writing, or lack thereof

There is a certain silent sadness to the lack of writing.

Now, don't get me wrong. There was a lot of writing in my life this year. Essays, blog posts, journal entries - a lot of nonfiction.

But there is a comfort to fiction that cannot be achieved with such safe material.

Fiction is dangerous. It feels terrifying because creating is terrifying. It is a jump into the unknown, where there may be a safety net or a concrete sidewalk in the thick darkness. If it doesn't work, it hurts. But that analogy is a poor one, since writing fiction will certainly not kill you.

Fiction requires a certain freedom to the mind, a lack of preoccupation. My brain, when fuzzy with obligation, does not want to write fiction. In that case, my brain just wants to sleep. Or look at adorable cat gifs. Or just stare at the ceiling for a while.

Suddenly, I'm out of school and I can write again. This year, I began to doubt whether or not I was actually a writer. But I suppose, in a way, that being a writer is not a question of writing every single day on schedule. Being a writer is a matter of coming back to it. Of needing to come back to it. Of having the ideas curl into smoky rings of vapor until they condense into liquid and can no longer be contained. That is writing. It is a difficult love, but a fruitful one.

This July I venture into Camp NaNoWriMo, land of 1613 words each day and insanity. I'm excited and terrified. And hopefully, in August, I'll have a novel to edit.

The silent sadness is over, if only temporarily.