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Words. They form the foundation of human communication and the source of most human miscommunication. Words can uplift and words can tear down. Words can explain or obfuscate. They can be exciting or drab. They are the most powerful weapons in a person's arsenal, and the most soothing salve. Words surround us. They inhabit us. They're in our homes, our workplaces, our playplaces. They can be anything.
But the worst thing they can be is potential. Mere glimmers of possibility stuffed inside a brain that is waiting for "someday" to let them out. Someday when the person is good enough. Someday when there's more time. Less stress. A larger desk. A closer coffeeshop.
Writing is hard. At its most personal, it's a lot of grueling work just to leave your deepest insecurities laid bare on the page, given a permanence that may outlast even the writer. There's a myriad of reasons to not even start writing.
And there's one really lousy one. But it's the best lousy reason in the world. Because.
And just because, today, thousands of people today are letting fly with their fingers furiously humming over keyboards, frenetically stabbing at notebook paper with their Bic pens, or simply staring off into the infinite void that starts just beyond the wall in front of them, searching for that turn of phrase that makes everything sensical.
They are all participants in National Novel Writing Month 2004, striving to hit that 50,000th word, so they can be declared a winner in a contest against themselves. There is no prize -- no cash rewards, fabulous stereo systems, gift certificates to Denny's -- just pride. Pride, and an accomplishment that few can claim: they got those potential words out. They wrote a novel.
And for these people, I have nothing but respect. They are the brave soldiers on the battlefield of creativity, firing rounds of dialogue during subplot skirmishes. The few, the brave, the utterly bonkers.
Keep 'em comin', folks. 50,000 or bust!
But the worst thing they can be is potential. Mere glimmers of possibility stuffed inside a brain that is waiting for "someday" to let them out. Someday when the person is good enough. Someday when there's more time. Less stress. A larger desk. A closer coffeeshop.
Writing is hard. At its most personal, it's a lot of grueling work just to leave your deepest insecurities laid bare on the page, given a permanence that may outlast even the writer. There's a myriad of reasons to not even start writing.
And there's one really lousy one. But it's the best lousy reason in the world. Because.
And just because, today, thousands of people today are letting fly with their fingers furiously humming over keyboards, frenetically stabbing at notebook paper with their Bic pens, or simply staring off into the infinite void that starts just beyond the wall in front of them, searching for that turn of phrase that makes everything sensical.
They are all participants in National Novel Writing Month 2004, striving to hit that 50,000th word, so they can be declared a winner in a contest against themselves. There is no prize -- no cash rewards, fabulous stereo systems, gift certificates to Denny's -- just pride. Pride, and an accomplishment that few can claim: they got those potential words out. They wrote a novel.
And for these people, I have nothing but respect. They are the brave soldiers on the battlefield of creativity, firing rounds of dialogue during subplot skirmishes. The few, the brave, the utterly bonkers.
Keep 'em comin', folks. 50,000 or bust!
