NaNo, my old flame,
What I’m about to say may sound crazy. But in memory of the love we once shared, please hear me out.
Forgive me. I’ve been such a fool.
I was scared. Fifty thousand words seemed a herculean task, and I felt so small, so wholly unprepared and inadequate. And yes, there were some dark days when I couldn’t call myself a writer.
But now I realize that I was never alone in my struggle. You and a community of 500,000 wrimos were there by my side showing me that I’ve been a writer all along.
Even though our story is imperfect—even though our characters stumbled, even though the world we put them in was hollow, even though our plot was misguided—it was better to have written and lost than to never have written at all.
If all I have to show for my hours spent with you is a broken-hearted story, I’ll take it. I will gladly sign my name to it.
But I have a feeling that this is not the end. November still draws breath, and there’s still life left in our story.
I’m asking for a second draft, a second chance.
I know we haven’t seen each other in a week. I know that we only have 33,340 between us, but who needs a fat wordcount when we have each other?
Let’s run away together. Let’s make this a shotgun love story.
We’ll escape all the distractions of day-to-day life. We’ll hole ourselves up in a cheap motel or an isolated cabin deep in some forgotten woods. Just you, me, and an old trusty typewriter.
We’ll abandon food, sleep, and an internet connection. Writing will be the only sustenance we’ll require.
Let’s pledge our undying devotion to one another. Let’s word sprint headlong into the dwindling hours until, at long last, we reach our story’s happily-ever-after.
Nano, if you feel the same way, put on a clean shirt and your best pair of jeans and meet me on November 30th at the courthouse. I’ll be waiting for you.
Forever yours, forever a writer,
P.S. Um, about that internet connection, we’ll probably need it on November 30th to upload the word count. Bring your hotspot.
P.P.S. A bottle of bubbly would be nice too. And don’t forget the ice! (Partly because I’ll need something to cool down the carpal tunnel.)
P.P.P.S. I have a sudden craving for Funyuns. Bring a couple bags. On second thought, make that a couple dozen bags. Writing makes me peckish.
P.P.P.P.S Slight change of plans. Instead of the whole courthouse-isolated-cabin-thing, let’s meet at the local library. Much less likely to run into hungry, Funyun loving bears.
P.P.P.P.P.S Drats! The local library is closed for renovations. Don’t they know what month it is? Let’s just meet at my place. After all, we write best in house slippers and pajamas.