Meanwhile, I was all, bugger National Novel Writing Month.
Don't get me wrong. It looked fascinating from the outside. I wasn't going to discourage anyone from doing it. It's probably a valuable tool. Some people could even get a useful, publishable novel out of it. Some lucky person may even swing a iPod Nano out of the deal. The buggery wasn't meant for them at all. I wasn't even approaching them with the pitchfork, although I would quite like to play with the adorable gadget.
What I mean to say is that I chased NaNoWriMo out of my room with fourteen marital aids.
When I say "fascinating from the outside," I mean, "There is a window here made of transparent aluminum. We can see each other. I can do my best puppy impression, but all I'll leave are smears. This is four inches deep. This will never, ever break."
(Also, my inability to describe my emotions without referencing both puppies and Star Trek means that I should never, ever, ever be allowed to write a novel. Or poetry. Or even one of those God damned "postcard stories" that my "creative" writing teacher was so keen on, back in the day, really.)
I can't write prose fiction to save my life. If I'd figured this out when I was much younger, we would all have been far safer, I assure you. I won't deny that I've written novels, or large chunks of novels. A few times, in fits of youthful optimism, I managed somewhere over the NaNoWriMo word count during my free time. The first stab was destroyed in a tragic hard drive failure; subsequent ones... well, someone really should have told me how bad the short stories from the same period were, say, and done so months before I'd generated a couple of hundred more pages on something new. The manuscripts went straight into the trash once the point finally got driven home.
Nothing better ever came out.
I stuck to newspapers after that. Newspapers, pseudonyms and locked diaries. Much easier that way. At least, when the editor tells you that your article's worthwhile and it just needs some work, they're usually not lying to you. If they are, you figure it out pretty fast.
I have friends who tell me just to generate output, and not to care if it sucks. That way lies disaster. You may have read pamphlets, once, on clinical depression in all of its many forms. Some of them explain how telling a person to just "snap out of it" is not only bound to fail, but likely to be counterproductive; if they could turn off the depression, well, they wouldn't have clinical depression. Tell the afflicted depressive this, and they'll not only remain depressed, they'll feel worse because they can't snap out of it. Same goes for telling people not to dwell on their problems, or not to think so much. Same goes for reminding them that, down in Methylparabenia, there are folks with far greater problems than yours; you should be happy.
I can't shut off that sort of creative terror any more easily than I can flip a switch and make major depressive episodes go away. Trying to make myself not care exacerbates matters; I don't even know how one forces oneself not to have an emotion. NaNoWriMo was tempting, and has been tempting for a couple of years running now. I'd love to pretend again that I could write a book. But I know better than to think it would be helpful, or fun, or likely to generate anything better than a daily panic attack. I have enough things going on right now, in any event; playing the Red Queen's Race with wordcount wouldn't work, because all I'd be able to do is remind myself that I'm no good at this sort of thing. I wouldn't be able to do this any more than I can straighten my hair, or change the wind's direction, or calculate the tip.
This is not to say that I don't compensate, where I can. I'm just inclined to respect my own personal limits. I know what I can write, and where I'm capable of improvement. I can give myself permission to suck if I know that I can get better, but I'm always going to care. I have to have some idea of where to channel the energy so that it's not exclusively self-destructive.
I'm not bad at short pieces.
I'm also not bad at choosing wine. Not great; I made a horrible mistake the other night with a Rhone syrah that really should never have seen the barrel. But I know from wine, and I know well enough to have an enjoyable night with it.
I've written while intoxicated on a number of occasions. It was the only way to get through the last disc of Broken Saints without undue emotional trauma, for example, especially given that Hunter S. Thompson had just shot himself and it seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I won't pretend that the results are any better or worse than what you get out of a sober writer, or that it's something anyone should rely upon for more than the occasional piece. (I felt differently when I was younger, but I was also stupid.) The fallacy of the writer who's Always Better When They're All Messed Up is usually exactly that; HST aside, I suspect that most such folks are good in spite of the alcohol. But, if you can't actually distance yourself from your anxieties very easily, and there's something that you need to do, a glass of wine is a good jumpstart. Three quarters of a bottle of wine is a calculated risk. (Anything else, and you're probably on your own.)
Writing while tipsy is actually kind of fun sometimes. And I like not having anxieties for a little while.
So. Y'all can go off and write a book. I'll bet your book will totally kick ass. I, meanwhile, intend on partipating in National Drunken Writing Night on the evening of 5 November, and I make no guarantee as to the results.
They'll probably suck. I'm okay with that.