I’ll admit to a certain level of intrigue. But I have too many other things going on in November. I’m finishing up marathon training (and running said marathon!), shopping a novel to literary agents, planning a move to New York City (including finding a new job), and in the meantime working my existing full-time job and trying to keep up with the enormous Rube Goldberg machine that is my day-to-day life.
I also have decidedly mixed feelings about NaNoWriMo in general. As much as I try not to over-romanticize the craft, I still cling to that idea of the author as a hermit, slaving away in isolation on that book he or she is compelled to complete. Something about the communal nature of NaNoWriMo runs contrary to that ideal. It’s a whole month dedicated to reminding me I am not a beautiful unique snowflake, but in fact one of tens of thousands of hairless apes who consider themselves storytellers.
I may be a little bitter that other people are able to churn out even a very sloppy first draft in 30 days [November isn’t even one of the LONG months, people!] and resentful that every agent blog I read bemoans the avalanche of manuscripts that hit their inboxes annually on December 1. There exists a National Novel Editing Month, but I don’t think it’s as well-publicized.
I do have a new novel I’m going to start work on shortly, but I’m not yet sure when. I’m laying down some of the skeletal work now, mostly mentally – drawing characters, figuring out plot points and themes – but I think before I really sink my teeth into it, I want to sink more time into trying to sell the last book, and maybe write some short fiction. I may even wait until I’m a NYC resident, but I’m not certain I can hold out that long. The muse may first call me to my hermitage.