So I’ve noticed november has started (yep, I sort of need to go out of my way to notice the passing of days, around here, since they all look very much the same), and, with it, NaNoWriMo. Every year I tell myself I might give it a go, and every year I realise I won’t, because, let’s face it, november is the EVIL MONTH where things pile up, exams appear out of nowhere and general administrative chaos rules. (Plus, if you’re lucky enough to be in Switzerland, you generally get to forget what the sun looks like for a month, so my plan to survive it usually involves building an Igloo out of books in my room and hiding with tea and chocolates until december starts, and it becomes socially acceptable to do exactly the same thing outside).
Anyway, it looks like 50000 words is too much for me for one more year, as I’m already spending most of my day writing for a thesis project, collecting data for the same project and a small billion of other things. Also, I have absolutely no idea of how to find a plot, which might be useful if you actually want to write a novel (unless you’re Proust, of course, sorry Marcel).
Anyway, I admire everybody who actually shows a little bit more persistency than myself (I suppose it means I admire a lot of people, then!) and am looking forward to reading about it. The task I’ve set for myself is, rather than on novel I won’t write, is to write every day a short bit of something: poem, short story, anything, just to practice. What I wrote today is just below, to give you an idea of what I mean.
And what about you all, any plans for NaNoWriMo?
Happy november (I can wish it being in Nepal, at least I’m avoiding the clouds and the cold!)
At the end of the lane
There is a stilness in the air, a stilness in words.There is the disappearance of what you once knew, creeping up to fill it all, leaving only those few white walls and the trees outside.
There is no strength left to fight even this, this crumbling of the world, this erasement. Is it worth fighting for something you don’t recognize anyway?
There is sometimes as great noise, or at least so it seems, as people come to “bring a little life” in. Not realizing how insulting it is, saying it so, as if you already belonged to the other side, along with this white furniture, white walls, white desert of nothingness that smells like nothing but itself.
There is light, in the morning, reminding you it is not done yet. Light in the night too, to remind you where you are, so that you don’t loose yourself in your own emptying mind.
There is mild unpleasantness: pills, tasks to perform like a savant ape in a zoo, every morning, just to occupy the day. You don’t really mind, you know it’s a pleasure to complain about small things, while facing the end of it all. It is small grievances, after all, that make the world go round.
And you wish there were more, but there really isn’t. No big moments, no big words. It does not deserve a grand gesture, this dying entreprise you’ve set your foot into. It is, after all, petty and schieving, coming slowly to you while no one is looking, or rather, everyone is looking away. So it will grab what it can get: a few memories at once, and a few bits of yourself, taken away every day, every second, so that it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate between you and non-you.
There is transparency of the worst kind, seizing you.
There should be an end to all this, there will probably be, but no matter how much you would have wished it to be definite, one last cut, and the curtains draw, you know now it will be as rampant as everything else. You will already have disappeared in so many small ways that when the last one will come, you won’t notice it.
You doubt there is someone to raise a flag at the last moment, up there or anywhere where those things are supposed to take place. You doubt it despise sunday school and your wish of clouds and wings. It shall go unnoticed then, if it must be.
There is no epic goodbye scene, at the end of this.
There is stillness, whiteness, and the beeping of a monitor, somewhere, counting heartbeats (are they yours? probably not – but it matters not who they belong to: something, somewhere, is keeping score after all).
There is, and there isn’t at the same time. It is an almost quantic state, more a probability than an existence. And, slowly, it washes away.