I want to talk more about NaNoWriMo which starts in two days. Here is my post from yesterday about it. I want to get back into writing. I miss it a great deal. I mean, yes, I write a post a day, but before my medical crisis, I wrote a post a day plus 2,000 words of fiction. Every day. I would love to do that again. As I’ve mentioned, I did continue to write after my medical crisis, but it was shit. Now, I am hard on my writing no matter what. That’s not unusual for writers. We are (usually) our own worst enemies. In this case, however, the negativity I have towards my writing is valid. Of course I would say that, though. Nobody has a great assessment of their own anything, really. But to me, my writing as of late has been shit. Maybe I needed to push through it to get to the good stuff (which is often the case), but last year or the year before, I tried to write the second book (though I didn’t realize it would be the second book at the time) of my mystery trilogy. I wrote over 50,000 words, and the words never started to shimmer.
I mentioned this before as well that I don’t consider myself anything but a conduit for the words to flow through. I don’t feel like I was the creator of any of my novels, which may actually be the problem now. The words are not flowing through me. Before my medical crisis, I could sit down and write effortlessly for hours. After my medical crisis, I had a much harder time doing that. Yes, I could still write the 2,000 words a day, but it wasn’t nearly as effortless as before.
My goal this NaNoWriMo is…well, I’m not sure. Writing the 2,000 words a day, obviously. That’s my own personal goal because it’s what I used to do. It’s also to see if I can actually finish a novel as I did before. Or my memoir. Speaking of the latter, if I write it, it’s not going to be a straightforward memoir. As I’ve said a few times, my life is not interesting enough for a memoir. Except for the one situation that is unique and has never happened to anyone else.
The problem is, will anyone believe it? I almost can’t believe it myself. Yes, I’ll reference my brother’s CaringBridge journal in which he details what happened to me–but, wait. I’m not sure he mentions that I had two cardiac arrests and a stroke as that happened before he came into the picture. (And the non-Covid-related walking pneumonia which kicked it all off.) He told me about it when I woke up, but no one needs to believe that.
I am not sure I would believe it if it hadn’t happened to me. Hell, it’s hard to believe even when it did happen to me. I have no idea if I can write about it in a way that will make others believe it happened. I mean, the people who know me believe it because I’m not a liar*, but I would not expect strangers to accept what I am saying without a qualm.
That’s just an excuse for now, though. I don’t need to convince anyone as I’m writing the memoir. My job as a writer is just to write my truth.
Big digression:
What is my truth? I know what it is, but I rarely feel safe to share my truth unless I’m very sure that the person/people I’m sharing with are receptive to said truth. I have said to Ian that I’m immoral. I said it in jest, but I meant it as a dig against Christians. But also that because I had been told all my life, explicitly and implicitly that I was immoral for so many reasons. Ian disagreed with me. He said I was very moral, but just not in a way that aligned with Christians. He didn’t say it exactly like that, but that’s what he meant.
I am an intense people-pleaser, but I try to keep that to myself. Also, I have a hard time holding my own opinion in the face of strong opposition. Not to myself, but vocally. I have learned this is common in autism as well. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know that maybe it’s not that something is wrong with me, but that it’s just the way I am.
What a revolutionary idea! That maybe different people can be different ways without it meaning that there’s something wrong.
I want to bring this all into my memoir, but I don’t know how–
Here’s the thing. Yes, I’m digressing from my disgression. It’s just how I roll. I’m messy. I mean, we all are, but even my public bits are messy. I can’t make myself tidy and presentable no matter how hard I try. I have spent my whole life sanding down my edges to make myself palatable, and I’m not sure if I could go even further.
I have a hard time ordering things because my brain works in circles. I can’t do linear for the life of me; I alawys have to go back because I keep remembering things that I’ve missed and need to bring forward.
This is something I have to keep reminding myself. Not everyone sees the connections that I do. In fact, most people do not. It took me way to long to realize that, and my life is better now that I do. Mostly because I can stop myself after explaining once or twice and just walking away. It’s not me–it really is them.
This is another thing that neurodiverse people have difficulty with, apparently. What’s that? Assuming that any conflict is their fault. See, when you’re so often the weird one in any given situation, it’s easy to assume that you’re the one who’s wrong.
That’s all for now. More tomorrow.
*At least not about important things. Or rather, important things to people who can be trusted not to handle it appropriately. I have always liked Captain Awkward’s mantra of “reasons are for reasonasble people”, and I extrapolate “the truth is for people who can handle the truth” from it as well.