I did something you may not approve of. So therefore I have a confession to make, and will proceed to locate the pink lampshade hidden somewhere in my closet after posting this and put it on my head for emphasis.
I will not, however, take a picture of this. It’s best to leave it up to your imagination. Trust me.
The Ten Commandments of NaNoWriMo clearly state that cheating on your novel is, uh, extremely looked down upon. (I’m paraphrasing, because looking back through 650 posts to find that one is just so not happening right now. But SPECIAL PRIZE to whoever does find it!) For the record, I have not “cheated on” my novel. My novel is still here. I’m still thinking about the characters in it and what I want to happen next.
Okay, so I started writing something else. But I have a valid reason. Because I did not get bored with “Disorderly,” nor did I want to stop working on it. But I have not been feeling much like myself lately. Understand that I am usually up at five, in bed around eleven, always perky, always smiling, always ready to take on each day’s many challenges. Not this week, though. Going nonstop for ten weeks straight hurt. A lot. And recovering is going to take much longer than I anticipated.
Yes, it was my choice, and I’m dealing with the consequences. But don’t give up on me yet. Hang on.
I’ve been toying with the idea of constructing a memoir for most of the summer. Is 21 too young to write a memoir? Honestly, not when you’ve been through what I have. I’m not saying that to gain sympathy, either. In fact, if you even start feeling sorry for me, well, just don’t, okay? I’m not revealing all my deep dark secrets to you here anyway (I’m not that kind of blogger). I have enough material to work with. And so I started working with it, this morning. All 3,100 words of it.
And now you want to know why. Right? Ha. You’re not getting that lucky today. Not entirely.
They say college shapes you, morphs you into who you’re supposed to be when it’s time to enter Real Life. I’ve technically been in college for four and a half years, and at this point in my life I feel ready enough. But I know, even if you can never be fully prepared for the things life throws at you (trust me, I get it), I won’t be adequately prepared until I dig way down deep and deal with my past in the only way I know how.
Everyone has their own way of healing. And I sincerely believe writing can be, is, and will be mine.
Maybe you’ll read it someday. Maybe you won’t. Even if it’s just for me, it’s for me. It’s important, so I can move forward and take on the rest of my life with a smile. And that’s how I justify committing literary adultery.
Hm. When you say it like that, it really does seem worth wearing the Cone of Shame, doesn’t it?
Since I deprived you of your picture privileges earlier, here’s an appropriate one to supplement.
Seriously though, does it bug anyone else that the punctuation is outside the parentheses? I know a particular professor who would give this picture a “No.” That’s right. Just, “No.”
I love my professors.
It will not be easy, what I’m about to do. I’ll be pulling out old journals, thinking about the things I’ve all but forgotten, finally taking steps toward healing. Forever.
And as always, I will keep you updated. What kind of writer would I be if I didn’t?