My dad had this T-shirt a long time ago that a friend made for him. It had black iron-on flocked letters on a tan shirt. The front read “ROLAND” and the back read “WHO SANE?” I loved it because I’d never thought of playing with the sounds of my last name that way. Hosein. Who sane. Hysterical. I borrowed the shirt from my dad one day and he never saw it again. At least, not in his own closet.
I’m reminded of that shirt today as I ponder my own insanity. If you’ve been reading this blog you know that I’ve been pretty overwhelmed lately with freelance projects, and on the brink of depression over what I deem are pitfalls in my fiction career. So why would I push myself, knowing that I’m right on the edge? Because I have no idea who I am if I’m not working crazy hard. So yesterday I signed up for NaNoWriMo against my better judgement. I know there is no way in hell that I will write 50,000 words in the next 29 days, but I’m excited to be writing anyway.
If I do manage to get some semblance of a draft down by the end of this month, I will consider it a major accomplishment. And if I don’t, I won’t really care. For once, I’m not putting any pressure on myself. I simply couldn’t resist the idea of riding a communal literary wave. Literary abandon! says the Office of Letters and Light. And I totally get the abandon part. I’m going to abandon stressful thoughts in regard to this story. If some days I only manage to write “boogidy boogidy boo!” 500 times, that’s going to be OK too.
Who knows, this might turn out to be the healthiest thing I’ve done all year.