NaNoWriMo Pep Talk: Thanksgiving Eve, 2017
As NanoWriMo draws to a close, winter is really, truly closing in. It’s Thanksgiving Eve, and I’m counting my blessings as if it would stave off the Long Dark. Friends. Family. Career. Community. Art. These things are a rosary that I click through in my head, naming the good things in my life. Late at night, it gets very concrete, very simple: this blanket. This cup of tea. This worn and comfortable pair of shoes, that I slip on when I get up to write before dawn. This water bottle. This reliable pen.
Last November, I lived in an apartment building in downtown Cleveland, where many residents were walking the fine edge between stability and desperation. I got on the elevator on November 12th, and said to my neighbor Denise, “I’m headed to work today. I’m nervous.”
She said, “You have work? That’s good, that’s good. Work is good. Why are you nervous?”
I answered, “I haven’t been to work since before the election, and I don’t agree with all of my coworkers politically. I’m afraid there will be ugly words in the office.” She nodded. The elevator stopped, and we walked out into the parking lot. Mist was rising off the asphalt, and the morning breeze was chilly and damp.
“It’s cold," Denise said.
I nodded. “Brr.”
“It’s a cold morning to be waking up in a bus shelter.”
That’s what finally got my attention, and drew me out of my anxiety. My neighbors are waking up in bus shelters, flophouses, and war zones. My neighbors are waking up in loveless beds, or, by habit, sleeping on only one side of a bed dented from someone who’s gone. This winter will be cold, and dark, and for many people, it will be lonely too. We are all huddling with candles, blowing on scraps of tinder, desperately trying to make shelter in a large, empty world.
As writers, we can imagine all the material comforts in the world for our characters. We can dream up imaginary friends and families, new lives, new worlds for ourselves and our creations. But this Thanksgiving, as tempting as it is to keep dreaming of my novel and the people who live there, I am making an effort to be thankful for my real-world blessings: this NaNoWriMo community. This time dedicated to art. The library that shelters me and the children and the writers who gather here. This computer. This blank page.
Thank you for spending this month with NaNoWriMo. Thank you for being vulnerable, and for taking a risk, and for putting your words on a page. Whether it’s five words or fifty thousand, whether we’ve met in person or you invisibly lurk in the forums, thank you for your time and your commitment to literature.
Happy Thanksgiving, and happy writing
Last November, I lived in an apartment building in downtown Cleveland, where many residents were walking the fine edge between stability and desperation. I got on the elevator on November 12th, and said to my neighbor Denise, “I’m headed to work today. I’m nervous.”
She said, “You have work? That’s good, that’s good. Work is good. Why are you nervous?”
I answered, “I haven’t been to work since before the election, and I don’t agree with all of my coworkers politically. I’m afraid there will be ugly words in the office.” She nodded. The elevator stopped, and we walked out into the parking lot. Mist was rising off the asphalt, and the morning breeze was chilly and damp.
“It’s cold," Denise said.
I nodded. “Brr.”
“It’s a cold morning to be waking up in a bus shelter.”
That’s what finally got my attention, and drew me out of my anxiety. My neighbors are waking up in bus shelters, flophouses, and war zones. My neighbors are waking up in loveless beds, or, by habit, sleeping on only one side of a bed dented from someone who’s gone. This winter will be cold, and dark, and for many people, it will be lonely too. We are all huddling with candles, blowing on scraps of tinder, desperately trying to make shelter in a large, empty world.
As writers, we can imagine all the material comforts in the world for our characters. We can dream up imaginary friends and families, new lives, new worlds for ourselves and our creations. But this Thanksgiving, as tempting as it is to keep dreaming of my novel and the people who live there, I am making an effort to be thankful for my real-world blessings: this NaNoWriMo community. This time dedicated to art. The library that shelters me and the children and the writers who gather here. This computer. This blank page.
Thank you for spending this month with NaNoWriMo. Thank you for being vulnerable, and for taking a risk, and for putting your words on a page. Whether it’s five words or fifty thousand, whether we’ve met in person or you invisibly lurk in the forums, thank you for your time and your commitment to literature.
Happy Thanksgiving, and happy writing