Cue two o’clock in the morning me, typing away before crashing hard. Today was the day.
I won NaNoWriMo. For the third year running. Only this time it’s ten days early.
I should be celebrating. Throwing confetti in the air and treating myself to chocolate puddings.
It hasn’t quite registered in my brain, I think.
My novel, for its part, isn’t even kind of done. The plot has gone to fluff, I am still adding new characters, and the final dramatic ending scenes reside only in my head. So I can’t fully accept the idea of being done.
I knew this would happen. Short stories for me hit their sweet spot at 15-17,000 words. So a 50,000 word novel feels like it’s just warming up (Also, what’s the deal with 5,000 word stories? In fantasy genre? How can you even worldbuild? It’s like a sneeze! Either flash-fiction or don’t. Sorry). The length is one of the hazards of fantasy writing, especially when I’m spending so much time to go hunt trolls or develop characters or theorize about the nature of dryads and shape-shifters. In a sort of Elizabethan-steampunk world. If that’s a thing.
And yes, sometimes I just like to luxuriate in detail. Sometimes. When appropriate.
So if I didn’t celebrate riotously and wake the neighborhood at 2:30 a.m., what did I do?
Slept a lot. Drank my matcha tea. Ate an oat muffin.
Now I’m going to keep writing. Until the story tells me to stop. Until November 30th comes and I can’t write another word.
Because I’ve got unicorns and shadow-things and mechanical engineers to deal with over here. I can’t leave them yet, now can I?
To all those still writing, and all those not NaNoing, best of luck. May your plots always be present and your pens never run out of ink.