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National Novel Writing Cynics
When the subject of National Novel Writing Month comes up, a common refrain from frustrated, aspiring novelists is that no one can write a novel in a month.
They think this is the hottest of takes. They puff up their chests and offer it loudly enough that I am sure they have rehearsed in a Starbucks bathroom to ensure the greatest number of proximal gamines overhear it. They think their derision distracts from their nursing the same latte for the last three hours and that they have done nothing but loudly clear their throat and angle their screens so anyone passing by might see they are working on a Very Important Book. Their snideness, as with their ostentations of writing, is all a show.
They complain that people can't write a novel in thirty days because they can't do it in thirty months. They are terrified of the inexact word and will perseverate a week finding the lightning in the lightning bug, evidently unaware that imperfect first drafts lead to polished seconds.
NaNoWriMo isn't meant to get a publishing contract. One needs to look no further than the page of published WriMos, which it is easy to note is thousands, not millions, of people. NaNoWriMo is meant to combat the insurmountable barrier of a blank page and -- you may need to sit down for this, strawman -- have fun with one's writer community. There are events where we gather, do word sprints, win silly prizes, and chat about our stumbling, obstinate, beautiful projects.
Most can't write a fully polished novel in the gestation period of a small rodent -- Stephen King in his 80s, cocaine amnesia perhaps being a notable exception. Most people who try NaNoWriMo each year do not believe they will have Anna Karenina in their hands by December 1st. While there is likely a hiccup in the number of Kindle Direct books and query letters by January, I doubt it is statistically significant. Instead, the winner of NaNoWriMo may have a massive pile of barely joined words, some of them absolute garbage.
Good, that is what should happen. When I revisit all of my notes a year later, when I am distant enough to start my revisions, I am delighted with what my diligence created. I have traced a world in which I want to play because I had not given myself the time to hesitate.
If anyone thinks they are turning out beautiful prose in so short a time, I would not want to be there when the truth finally crashes down on them. However, flowers and trees grow in the fertilizer of crap. To paraphrase Michelangelo, writers need to first pile shit up to their necks before they can mold it into something worth polishing. It is not as poetic an image as releasing the angel from the marble, to be sure, but it is accurate enough.
I am a gardener of words. They are more topiary, seeds I have cultivated until they are full enough that I can prune them into shape. I may try to be an architect and have a detailed sketch of my next project by Halloween night, but it is more about sunlight and water. My characters refuse to follow my scaffolding assiduously. Where they take me tends to be more worthwhile. Under pressure to write at least 1666 words a day, my characters are forced to be talkative in introducing themselves. I get to know them well enough that I can trust myself to follow them through their misadventures.
I work through multiple drafts of my NaNoWriMo projects -- I do not count, but my guess is around seven -- until I finally find the best version of my story. I keep files of everything I cut, which are sometimes longer than the finished books. I don't regret a word and do not consider the murdered darlings wasted if they bring me where I need to go.
I have four books you can purchase that found their genesis during NaNoWriMo and have finished two additional ones awaiting publication. You don't finish a novel during NaNoWriMo. You begin one.
NaNoWriMo provides me the blessing of a deadline, though I am the only person who is counting and my "win" means nothing when first I achieve it. I won in eleven days last year -- a personal record -- and continued to write. That is the second of the blessings: to write as much as I can without concern of immediate quality, something that my other writing cannot permit. (I can admit that the stories and chapters that I upload to ThommQuackenbush.com and my Patreon are the best they could be at the time, but not the best they will be when I edit them for future publication.) NaNoWriMo shuts up my internal editor for thirty days, give or take, and reminds me that I don't have a problem typing out fifty thousand cogent (if not fully coherent) words of a story. I love writing but am often bogged down in editing and perfection. Even this article will have to go through a few revisions, and I am only doing this for the sake of doing it; it is not a means to make money or achieve acclaim.
So, ignore the pompous ass telling you that you shouldn't do NaNoWriMo because you aren't producing the next Infinite Jest. You only need to satisfy yourself and have fun doing it.
Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. He has published four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled and gifted. He is capable of crossing one eye, raising one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings.