Every November, Jans writes a novel.
She makes me jealous. She inspires me. She shames me. It’s an incredible feat, and one that she has somehow pulled off for the past three or four years or something. 10,000 words in a month. Amazing.
Now, I’ve never read any of these novels. Jans, to the best of my understanding, keeps them under lock and key. So I don’t know much about their quality, except that I’m sure the writing is superb, even if the story lags a bit in places. The writing is the point, anyway. She writes for the sake of writing. Because it is in her. Every November, Jans writes a novel with desperation, as though her life depends on it.
I’m only now beginning to realize that it does.
A few weeks ago, three and a half now, I befriended a man who writes for a living. We’ll call him Forceful. And what Forceful has been teaching me is that a writer who doesn’t write every day, who doesn’t write like her life depends on it, is a sham. A writer who writes casually, as though she has all the time in the world? That, my friends, is not a writer.
So for the past three and a half weeks, I’ve been working on a screenplay. I came up with the idea, developed it, and dove into writing it within a handful of days. It consumes me. The screenplay is all there is. And, in case I ever for a second forget that, there’s Forceful to kick me in the ass and make me go again.
So that’s where I’ve been. I get up, shower, breakfast, work, home, dinner, and WRITE WRITE WRITE, then Michael, then bed. In fact, it seems the only time I have to breathe is lunch.
So I’m sorry that it’s been almost a month since my last blog. I’m sorry for all of you, because I’m being a bad friend. But I need to do this. I need to quit whining and be a writer. I need to write. Forcefully.
I'll be back when it's done.