I have been blogging somewhat faithfully this month for the NaNoBloMo (National November Blogging Month) which, at it’s very basic, was a month set aside (November) for the National Novel Writing Month (I am not exactly sure of the acronym) when writers would avow to knock out a specified number of words a day and specifically, a fully written novel by the end of the month.
That evolved into National Blog Writing Month where bloggers avowed to blog every day for an entire month in search of better blogging habits and overall, hopefully, better blogging.
I know, for me, I spend countless minutes of the day thinking about what I could blog about. I spend about equal amounts of time thinking about possible ways to start and finish that elusive novel I have promised to write since I was six years old. In the end, neither gets the amount of attention it deserves or I just think myself out of the idea or more often, just think I can’t do it and go find something else to think about or knit.
Why was I able to write so freely when I was 9 and 10 and 11? I wrote pages and pages and pretty much volumes and volumes of paper. Ask people who read it! What has changed so much now?
I am not an outliner. Why do I think I have to be one now?
I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I had a way to let these ideas out and get this unbridled creativity get from my brain and out through my fingers onto the paper. Or screen. Do I think people don’t think I can? Do I feel that there isn’t the environment for me to think these big thoughts? That my life bears down on me and my critics weigh so heavily that I just can’t squeeze anymore out?
I really just don’t know.