NaNoWriMo

It has been suggested to me that I attempt to participate in National Novel Writing Month this November.  I have never tried NaNoWriMo before.

A part of me has always wanted to write a novel, but the biggest issue I have isn't so much the writing as the even bigger question of subject matter.  I'm impressed by Terry Pratchett, Philip Pullman, and Jim Butcher for the way they have created alternate universes so completely and convincingly.  The latter two do not even bother to expostulate to the reader openly about the variance from the reality we know, allowing the reader to just absorb the concept through the plot development.  However, I also dearly love Elizabeth Buchan, Charlotte Bronte, J.D. Salinger, and Louisa May Alcott with their very down-to-Earth real books that do not sugarcoat or overly darken the world as we know it.  The human condition is a major player, dusted off and shown to the world in a kind of clarity of aspect that is less than common in today's world of stereotype-ridden novels.  (For the latter, I refer you to the abomination that is the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich.  Utter tripe.)  About the lowest common denominator I can tolerate in books is Carole Matthews, who writes books that read like romantic comedy films, and even then, I would say she is generally above the curve.

So, as you may note, I'm very critical.  Part of being a pantheist is recognizing that the world around you is all an extension of yourself, and that you are an extension of the world around you.  There are parts of the infinity all around me that I find rather pleasing.  And other parts of this cosmic relationship that I find rather embarrassing to even acknowledge that it exists.  Some people have a great attitude about these things, like the elderly British women who decided to take advantage of their status as being generally "uncool" by wearing the same sort of clothing of local gangs.  It's that kind of human ingenuity that I really admire:  the ability to take on a saddening task with humor and pleasantry and, with some luck, shatter the foundations of a thorn on society like gangs.

When this criticism is extended to everything, as it is with me, it can be very crippling.  I don't want to write things that are trite. I'd sooner throw out a work that serves no value or perpetuates negative stereotypes than aim to see it published.  Whatever I construct, I would want it to be something people could read that would make them take some time to think about themselves and the ways in which they interact with their environment and the people it contains.  Yet the format for such an undertaking hasn't presented itself to my brain thus far.

Admittedly, I have been chronically sleep deprived for all but a few months out of the past 3 years, so my abilities are not at their highest just now.  But part of recognizing my own contribution level to the world at large is finding fault with myself, and thus I have (before even conceiving of this post) made a pact with my husband that we would be in bed with lights off by 11pm tonight, rather than the ridiculous midnight and 1am nights we have been keeping.  That's a start, but it still gives me no subject matter from which to cull a novel.

No one will want to read a novel that is 50,000 words of the letter Z.

So, while I try to catch up on sleep, I have an appeal to make.  Send me your suggestions (in email, facebook, comments below, whatever appeals to you most), and I'll try to get myself in a condition to write.

Deal?

....Please?