Survival

This month I wrote 50,083 words for my new novel, In God's Country. That's not counting the reports for work or blog entries or anything else I've worked on. That's just material for my novel. I'm not going to pretend like it isn't a big deal or like it didn't make an already hard month even more stressful. Because it did. I woke up early most mornings and wrote before I went to work and then wrote through my lunch break, barely stepping away from my computer to heat up a tortilla to munch on while clacking away at the keyboard. You might be asking yourself why I did this in the midst of one of the most difficult times in my life. I'd just started a new job. My father just became seriously ill. I'm trying to get my body to a healthy weight through diet and exercise. I had already completed 50,000 words in June. I had every excuse not to try to complete the NanoWrimo challenge this year.

That's exactly why I did it. I had every reason to need more time, to not want to work hard, to need a break, to need more sleep, to feel depressed. I have every reason to say I was going to put my efforts toward getting my first novel, Lilith's Repose, picked up before starting a new manuscript. I had every reason to save NanoWrimo for another year. When I sat down on November fifth with zero words to count toward my ultimate goal, I was tempted to quit. Five days may not seem like much, but by NanoWrimo's standards, I was already over 8,000 words behind. Eight thousand. Despite knowing I would spend the month fighting an uphill battle and knowing that I was always going to be behind, I decided I was going to at least try to hit the 50,000 word mark.

November fifth did not go so well. I wrote 500 words. The words I wrote didn't make much sense and the story wasn't there. Last time I wrote for a NanoWrimo month, I had already completed 30,000 words, which meant I knew where my story was going and I just had to finish it. This month, I had nothing. I had no words, and only a sparse and unclear outline. My main character didn't have a name or much character to speak of and all I had was a list of who died and when. No whys, no reason, no rhyme.

I didn't write again for two days. And, then I wrote 1200 words. Not enough for the day, let alone to catch me up, but it was something. Over the next few weeks, I gained momentum and by the time I left for Fresno to see my family and move my father from Nevada to California (seeing him for the first time in 3 years), I was only 5,000 or so words behind. Pretty good for having started out 8000 behind, right?

Then, I arrived. And, all my best laid plans for waking early and writing before my days started went the way of mice and men. I wrote one hundred words one morning before I broke down in sobs thinking of my own life. I gave up for the duration of the trip and didn't write again until I was on the plane back home. Before I knew it, the last Monday of the month had arrived. I have five days and 25,000 words to write. I sat down and asked myself it was really possible. The answer was plainly, "I do not know." So, I tried. I wrote as much as I could everyday, pushing myself beyond what I thought was possible. By Thursday at noon, I had completed my goal. Somehow.

I sat back on my futon at home and felt...odd. I had done it. I had climbed the insurmountable mountain and I was okay. Wasn't I?

I thought for a while, wondering if I'd done what I set out to. Then I wondered what I'd set out to do. I had wanted to write 50,000 words. The proof was in the pudding, I had a messy, beautiful, full document full of words. But, why had I done it? Just then, I thought of a professor from Harvard, Ron Thiemann. For one of his classes, I had discussed the act of writing as an act of survival, but even more as an act of getting beyond survival. When I presented my short paper to the class, he pressed me. I remember his question vividly: "What does it mean not just to survive, but to thrive?"

I looked at my paper and came up with the best thing I could think of. I don't know exactly what I said in response, but I can remember the feeling. An act of survival is something born of the deep impulse toward life, toward anything but death. An act of thriving, of living, is coming to terms with how one has survived and being willing to get beyond the act of merely surviving. In a sense, it means to get beyond the daily grind, to create.

Yesterday, not three hours after I finished the first half of my second novel, the man who believed in me died. Professor Ron Thiemann encouraged me to write, and when he read my writing, he told me that for me writing was not a choice, not a desire, but a calling, a vocation. Writing was in me, and like any gift, it was meant to be shared. Without him, I would not have made it to this point.
Today, while I sit at the end of a month that really gave me it's worst, I think perhaps I have survived. And, perhaps I have done more. While the storm threw me to and fro, seeking desperately to throw me out of my little boat, I hunkered down, not merely for survival, but to dream dreams. With my chin on my knees and a hood over my head, I weathered the storm. Soaked to the bone and tired, I pushed myself to create stories, to believe in what was inside me. I think Professor Thiemann would be proud of me. At this time when I feel perhaps most downtrodden, most heartbroken, I also feel renewed. Professor Thiemann saw what was inside me, he saw who I am. It's time I saw that, too.