I have to say, it makes me giggle to no end when people hear about NaNoWriMo and come back with “Nanorhino?” I talked about it this evening on my friend Liz’s radio show MCRScrabble. It was fun. I think I’d like doing radio. I think I’d like doing a lot of things. (FOCUS NICOLE!)
Okay, NaNo. Day 5. I’m behind (shocker, right?), but tonight I’m gonna get back on track. I’ve hit 5,000 words, as illustrated by this widget:
My plot line has progressed to something that makes me anxious to write…(baby steps, right?) and I’ve only hyperventilated twice. Doing well!
While NaNo is happening this year I’ll be:
- Attending a wedding
- Spending 4-5 days in Denver with my big sis
- Moving across the country
- And starting work in a new store
But the big deal is that I’m writing again. My creativity came back with a flourish. It was gone for a while. In all the craziness of moving and moving again and figuring out where I was living and finding a job and losing my best friend to Minnesota, it got lost. I couldn’t write. Which is why my blog has been so depressingly bare. But it’s back…so YAY! NaNo is benefitting and my blog has new content and I’m not so sad anymore. I have things to do. This is why I love NaNoWriMo: it keeps me busy for a while. I know it’s only day 5, but already I’m getting up earlier and struggling to find a routine in all this.
So…I guess that’s all. I’d like to leave you with this beautiful poem that I found in an old book. It’s the third stanza of Thanatopsis by William Bryant.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsRock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom.—Take the wingsOf morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men,The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron and maid,The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,By those, who in their turn shall follow them.