It's true. But I did get further than last year.
Actually, I falsely started about 5 different novels, or pieces, at any rate.
Most recently, I decided my novel would be about a bar I once frequented and the characters I encountered there.
This Saturday, I met Elaine, my good friend and partner in crime from those days, for lunch to discuss some of the times we'd had and to help fill in some of my blanks. We had a great time. Kudos to the griller at the BD's Mongolian BBQ, who was impressed enough when I told him I was writing a book to offer to help. [I now understand why people tell lies, even though I still thought it was true when I said it. He was more impressed than he should have been.]
Sunday, I sat down to begin my writing. I threw down over 2000 words, then stopped to deal with something in the real world that distracted me. When I went back to it, I looked at what I had written, and asked myself if I wanted to do this 25 more times (to meet the 50,000 word minimum).
I didn't. I don't. For one thing, I don't have enough material. For another I've lost interest. I wasn't writing a novel, I was writing an anecdote, or series of anecdotes. As Rob suggested, I was writing a blog. Touche.
I've decided not to be embarassed about my decision. It's invigorating to have the option and to exercise it. This is not to say that I'll never write a book. It is to say that I'll probably never write a book under these circumstances. In the meantime, I'll stick to blogging and emailing, which come easier to me.
Thanks to any and all who cheered me on. Hopefully my decision won't affect your consideration of novel writing in Novembers to come.
