I’m a storyteller at heart. I take annoying things like having a bad day or lacking faith, and turn them into stories. I like telling you about my son’s compassion and my daughter’s affection, but in a way that you can feel his warmth and her tenderness.
I like to take forgettable things and make them a bit more memorable.
But I also really like making stuff up completely. (I’m talking about writing fiction, not pathologically lying.)
November is National Novel Writing Month, and I’ve attempted this crazy idea for the last two years. And I’ve already hashed out this year’s attempt, and I’m itching to get started.
But I have this problem. There’s a difference between letting people read my blog and letting people read my fiction. The latter is way scarier. I don’t even let my husband read my junk. I kick him out of the room if I’m writing because I JUST KNOW he’s reading over my shoulder from across the room on the couch with the TV on.
Well, that’s enough of that.
I’ll be busy next month working on my fiction, and simultaneously working on this hesitancy (or maybe outright phobia) of sharing my fiction. So fair warning, all (or most, or some, or one maybe) of my posts next month will be pieces of my NaNoWriMo (that’s what we veterans call it) project, lovingly titled A Song for the Redeemed. Guys, I am SO GOOD at titling things.
AREN’T YOU EXCITED? I am. Or maybe that’s fear I’m feeling. To-may-to, to-mah-to.