Tag: creativity

30 stories in 30 days: Unpacking No Novel November 2019

No Novel November is officially over! Here’s my debrief of the challenge, plus my personal takeaways and future plans.

A wild abstract design coming from the quill of a writer's pen - I am writing you a poem by archann via Deviant Art

I can’t believe I did it, you guys. 30 stories in 30 days (read them all here), and I only got behind once.

I learned so much.

So buckle up, kiddos, because it’s time for a debrief.

…not that kind, put your pants back on.

How it started

If I could produce a drawing every single day, maybe I could parlay that structure into writing.

The idea for No Novel November came to me during Inktober, when you do one drawing a day for a month. I tried it as a fun thing to do with my actual-artist sister-in-law, but not expecting anything from myself. About halfway through, I realized, “Hey, I can actually do this.” And I did!

The whole experience shifted my perspective of what’s creatively possible. Since choosing the stay-at-home-parent life, I’ve struggled mightily to continue even thinking of myself as a creative person, much less to generate any actual work. But if I could produce a drawing every day, maybe I could parlay that structure into writing.

November is traditionally National Novel Writing Month, but I knew my toddler-bound schedule wouldn’t let me write 1667 words each day to win. I had to find something else.

I considered drabble and six-word stories but found them too restrictive. Standard short stories were too long for daily production; same for flash.

Microfiction, though, had promise. Shorten it to 250 words (a page in editing terms), add a prompt list to springboard from, and it actually sounded doable.

I fished for interest on social media and was surprised so many people wanted in. NaNoWriMo can be daunting, and I appeared to have hit a vein of writers itching to stretch their muscles but who, like me, weren’t able (or motivated) to novel.

And thus No Novel November was born!

The challenge

I never expected so many people to play along, much less dedicate themselves to the challenge so wholeheartedly.

Perhaps the most surprising thing about how this went down was how many people jumped on board. I expected a handful of friends to join, but we wound up with 65 in the Facebook group and a handful more Twitterers—almost all people I don’t know!

When I realized that interest was way higher than anticipated, my Type 1 brain kicked in, and things shifted from “casual writing thing” to “official community event.” I wrote a miniseries about writing microfiction for the FB group, made shareables, created a couple hashtags, and even spooled up the ol’ dusty newsletter. Srsbzns.

All told, we had nearly 20 regular contributors, and several opened themselves up for critique. Reading everyone’s stories each day was by far my favourite part of the challenge. While I’d originally planned for that, I hadn’t planned on providing feedback for everyone who asked. Which I did. Daily. It was a hell of a lot more work than I bargained for, but truly a joy; the stories were so good and the writers so invested that I couldn’t not.

In the end, roughly 10 people “won” No Novel November. I never expected that many people to play along, much less dedicate themselves to the challenge so wholeheartedly. Even those who fell off the wagon along the way are insanely precious to me. The challenge was about just doing the dang thing, and they did! I’m bursting with den mother pride.

What I learned

If I could spin an entire world with characters and plot in 250 words in under an hour, what other projects could I undertake?

This challenge took the revelation I had with Inktober, slammed it down on the table, and demanded another round from the bartender. In October, I realized I could create something every day; November opened my eyes to the larger implications of reliably generating new, complete stories every single day within strict limitations. If I could spin an entire world with characters and plot in 250 words in under an hour (and not always all at once), what other projects could I undertake?

I could write mini posts every day.
I could write a microfic once a week.
I could write a flashfic once a month.
I could finish Apple of Chaos in a year.
I could do all of those things at once.

Whoa.

For the past 60 days, I’ve done what I’d thought was impossible. This challenge showed me how I’ve been limiting myself and opened up a world of possibility that’s both tantalizing and daunting. Rather than diving in headlong, like I usually do, I’m taking my time to see what develops. It’s all too glorious to look at directly.

Also, doing 30 days of feedback for 4-6 people was like boot camp for my consultation and editing skills: grueling at times, but oh so satisfying in the end. I loved the puzzle of each story, looking for its gems and pitfalls, then presenting them to the author in a loving, yet professional way; I loved their delight at finding the potential in their own work even more.

What was most revealing, though, is that I never got tired of doing it. I seemed to have boundless patience and energy for reading and critiquing, asking questions and finding answers. And if I’ve learned anything about finding your path, that’s the neon sign pointing you in the right direction.

Going forward

I can do more. I can write more. And I’m going to.

You might have noticed that I failed to post three of the 30 stories here on the blog and missed even more social media. Never fear! Those stories will have another life in the near future. I can’t say more because I promised the newsletter crew they’d hear first (so get on it if you want to hear secrets), but it’s gonna be good.

I’m also spending some time meditating on what to do next. I love the idea of a Fiction Friday here on the blog, and y’all know how I feel about Apple of Chaos being undone. But there’s also a part of me that wants to do spiritual writing. I know there’s a place for all of that somewhere; I just don’t know where yet.

What I do know is that I can do more. I can write more. And I’m going to.

No Novel November 2019 WInner Badge

PS: For those of you asking, YES, this will be an annual thing. No Novel November will ride again in 2020! I bought the URL and everything.

ALSO: I suspect we’ll do another microfiction challenge in March or May for alliteration, so stay tuned.

Why this introvert is going podcast-free for a week

What used to be my lifeline to sanity is now a coping mechanism that silences not just my inner voice, but the voice of the muse and of God, too. And that’s got to stop.

Skull and Headphones by hiddenmoves via DeviantArt Black and white digital drawing of a skeleton in a hoodie with headphones on the skull

Quick poll. Raise your hand if you:

  • are an introvert
  • listen to podcasts constantly

*counts hands*

Okay, everyone else, you’re excused. What I’m about to say is super niche and won’t make any sense if you don’t hit one or both of those. (Or stick around and watch me unravel. Also fun.)

I don’t remember exactly when I switched from music to podcasts as the soundtrack to my life, but I suspect it was in that “fourth trimester” window when I was walking roughly five miles a day to soothe a screaming newborn and needed something, anything to keep me entertained (and awake) as I trawled the same neighborhood streets day after day. Before that, I had a car visor full of CDs and one talk radio show I streamed from St. Louis; my husband could tell if I was up or down depending on whether or not I was singing.

But when I first became a parent, I needed more than music. I needed company. There’s a peculiar quality to the silence of the newborn season—of never being alone but also being alone all the time—that produces tension unlike any I’ve ever felt. It’s a yawning chasm of disturbing, isolated quiet that can be shattered in an instant for no reason, one that’s never satisfying or restorative.

Even (especially) as a life-long, verified introvert I couldn’t take that silence. And so I filled it with friendly voices.

Podcasts became more than entertainment for me: they were a lifeline. When I felt like I was drowning in crying and milk and sleep-deprivation and that never-ending silence, I clung to the stories, people, and ideas coming through my headphones as desperately as I would a life preserver on the high seas.

Over time, though, the silence has lessened. It’s filled up with movement and questions, friends and adventures. Eventually, I found that I could touch bottom again, no longer flailing in the deep, dark water of that unbearable quiet. Three years post-newborn, most days are so loud that I can’t hear the podcasts I’m playing while doing dishes, driving around, walking to school, taking a shower, making dinner, or the hundred other things I do in every day.

I didn’t realize how fierce the competition had gotten for my aural attention until last week when I snapped at Mackenzie when all she’d done was ask me a question in the middle of One Stage at a Time. But because my brain is so well-trained to focus on a single input (mostly from an auditory processing problem, but also from spending hours and hours and hours listening while walking her tiny butt around the ‘hood so she’d go to sleep) it’s now treating podcasts as conversations. Like I’m talking to real people and therefore any interruption is cause for irritation.

This is quite possibly the worst thing I could do as an introvert. Because when podcasts become people and you always have a podcast on, it equates to always being around people. I’m never alone. Which means I never truly get a chance to recharge my batteries. Which means I’m constantly running on fumes and at the edge of my temper.

So that’s not great.

What’s also not great is the corollary realization that, because my every waking moment (and some sleeping) is filled with sound designed to grab and keep my attention, I have zero mental white space. There’s no breathing room, no blank canvas, no stillness. By maintaining a constant stream of information and entertainment in my earholes, I’ve made it impossible to hear anything except what comes from out the outside.

No wonder I can’t seem to write new fiction. No wonder I feel so disconnected from God. No wonder I feel so claustrophobic in my own mind—it’s too full of other people’s thoughts to have any of my own.

I am taking a week off. (In fact, I started yesterday.) Seven whole days with nothing to listen to except music and the low hum of electricity in the silence.

From the outside, I’m sure this sounds ridiculously easy. How hard can it be to just no listen to podcasts?

But for me, losing 4-8 hours of sound input is painful to me in the same way as switching to decaf or starting keto. With the comforting distraction from the daily toddler grind removed, I’m forced to face what I’ve missed out on from being too lazy to wean myself off an old coping mechanism that’s clearly reached the point of hurting more than it helps.

I’m not sure how it’ll go. Maybe I’ll be curled up in a ball singing to myself by next week. Maybe I’ll have outlined a whole new novel. We shall see.

All I know for sure is that it needs to happen; I need to hear those still, small voices from within. I need to make room for the Spirit, for the muse, and for my self.