I'm going to go ahead and make a prediction.
"Nick Edminster will not complete National Novel Writing Month this year. Or any year, for that matter."
You doubt me? Look at my track record. Ever major project that I have tried to actually follow through on has failed. Miserably. Which, if you've read my past posts should come as no surprise.
I burn out easily, I suppose. Or, I set the bar for every subsequent action just a bit higher. Hmm... that could be a decent explanation behind my pattern of success followed by massive failure. I set the bar just slightly higher everytime I succeed, and when I finally can no longer vault over it, I crash in a remarkably explosive manner.
Yeesh. I really don't want that to be the case.
People tell me not to focus on my failures, to keep looking on the bright side. Of course, I'm also told to learn from my mistakes, and what are mistakes if not simply another sort of failure? I know that some of you will say that they aren't the same thing. I say that if they aren't the same, they're close enough to it to make no functional difference. It's just a matter of perspective.
I'm rambling, and not sticking to one particular topic.
But at least I'm writing, you know? Christ, all this text up there? Took all of about six or seven minutes. If I was trying to stay on one topic, rather than just type? An hour, easily. Maybe twice that. I have no attention span, when it comes down to it. Anything shiny, and my mental course changes. My train of thought derails, one could say.
I just wish I could sit down and type out a novel in one month. Hell, I wish I could sit down and type out a novel, period. I hate that I cannot for the life of me come up with an interesting character, interesting world, and interesing story. I want to make money writing. I want this to be how I support myself. But I can't. I don't know why, but all I can seem to create are little two-bit characters who can be fully explored in a short story. I have nothing that can be stretched into something long-form.
Wow. That's a lot of writing done already. And on nothing in particular, at that. How can I be so able to write about nothing? Ugh.
So, according to some of my friends, I am full of self-hatred. I can't remember if I've ever told you all this, so I'm saying it now. Hell, I probably did say so a while back, but I can't remember for the life of me. Crap. That's another problem I have. An absolutely horrendous memory for events and occurances. Yes, I know that was redundant. That's how I roll.
You know who I want to write like? I want to write like Spike. She's the Author/illustrator behind the absolutely amazing webcomic Templar, Arizona. It's absolutely beautiful. The story is awesome. It's about a young man named Benjamin, and how he's trying to make a place for himself. Find out who he is, even. Or I could be completely wrong. I don't know. All I know is that it is the best comic that I have read in quite some time.
That should take you there. It's the first page. It's also available as a physical comic book. That's something I wouldn't mind having, to be honest with you. I've already got a shirt from her. It's my favourite shirt, too. I've got shoes from her, too. They're not my favourites, but that's because they wore out too gorram fast. I still have them, though. I like them that much. All she need to do now is make pants, underpants, and socks, and I will wear a full Spike wardrobe. She's awesome, people. Check her stuff out.
Wow. I'm up to about six hundred and fifty words. Only a thousand more to go today. I am incredibly jealous, though. Apparently one of my friends is already eight thousand words in. That boggles my mind. Eight thousand? That's almost a fifth of the way through this. And in one day, no less! I will admit that it really makes me feel horrible about my own skills. I mean, the day is half gone, and what do I have to show for it? I'm not even one sixtieth of the way to completion. My friend knocked off eight thousand words in a couple of hours.
At the rate that I am going, I should hit eight thousand words in about eight more hours. That assumes of course that I do absolutely nothing but sit here and type the entire time, and let's be honest folks, I don't have that kind of attention span or willpower. I'm not eevn going to read what I've written so far, because it will probably depress me to no end.
Seriously, what do I think I'm doing? I'm writing whatever comes to mind and claiming that it is just the same as writing a novel. How do I even look at myself in the mirror, perpetrating such a lie? That's it, I'm going to go make tea. Hopefully I'll be a better example of a human being who doesn't try to pawn off half-assed ramblings as actual writing. Be right back.