Nanowrimo 2010

It's almost time for Nanowrimo again, and I've been getting the occasional e-mail from the organisers revving me up to participate in this year's marathon writathon.

Shall I? Shan't I? I enjoyed it last year, especially when I achieved the goal and got to print out a shiny self-congratulatory certificate.

But shall I do it this year? I am a writer, after all, and this is the kind of thing that writers do. Writers also come out of hiding from behind their laptop and send their work off to publishers which I am just psyching myself for again. I'm figuring that if I send stuff off now, then by the time it comes back attached to a rejection letter, it'll be almost Christmas and I can cheer myself up by slobbing on the sofa with a jumbo size tin of Roses chocolates and watch all the Christmas specials on TV.

And talking of novel publication, I noticed on a trip to Waterstones today, that Tara Palmer-Tomkinson has a new novel out. I wonder how she managed to get that published then??

But I digress. I have been thinking about the Nanowrimo project for a couple of weeks or so now, and twice I have woken in the wee small hours with a starting sentence in my head. One was 'But you have to go to school, you're the Headteacher,' which is the punchline of a very old and poor joke. The premise for the story would be a wry look at the education system as a struggling comprehensive gets sucked into the whole Academy process. It has the potential to be quite funny, it has the potential to be quite bitter. A bit like a clown falling into a bucket of brussel sprout puree.

The other starting sentence I can't for the life of me remember, which goes to show that proper writer's should always keep a notebook and pen by their beds in order to jot down sparks of genius when they happen. To be fair, I do keep a notebook and pen under the bed, but sometimes, when I am woken by a moment of genius, I lie there thinking, 'I should write that down. But that means I have to scrabble about trying to find the pen and notebook, and try and write without putting on the light so it doesn't wake Andy, can I be bothered?' And then I try and convince myself it'll be okay because I'll remember the moment of genius, which I invariably don't, and then I think I could have coupled the waking moment with a trip to the loo and put the light on in there instead and the whole waking moment would have been worthwhile.

Do you see how complicated it can be?

I think I shall participate this year. It's getting dark in the evenings, and cold, and the activity will be a good way to stave off the S.A.D which usually arrives mid-November.

And maybe I should put a torch under the bed.

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