Blog of doom?

  I'm not a particularly computer-oriented person, so the whole blog idea is an alien being invading my fingertips and forcing me to enter the 20th century.  And by that I mean the 21st century.  I still write my fiction longhand with a dipping pen so how am I going to pull this off?

  Why am I doing this?  I'm still reeling from last week's bitter rejection of my very first novel.  It's not even the rejection that really hurts, I know these things take time.  Its the fact that they shredded her.  They shredded my own book-child, with all of my honest and vulnerable words, aborted and chopped up by some evil dictator who didn't like her sense of the world.  Writing right now is the hardest thing to face, I'd rather numb myself with bad TV.  I don't even enjoy TV, it just means that I don't have to feel for a little while. 

  Really, it's only been a few days but it's time to feel something even if it turns me into a weepy mess of a woman for a while.  No one needs to know, right?  So I've created this blog and signed up for Nanowrimo in a crazy attempt to walk right past all those demons of discouragement, re-read my novel child, and send her off to someone else in the great, scary publishing world.

  Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month (November), is an idea I can only presume was hatched by a group of escaped mental patients wishing to drive a greater chunk of the population over the edge to join their ranks.  Or, possibly, an inspiring group of creatively driven souls who are willing and able to push that same chunk of the population off the couch and into their imaginations.  They accomplish both of these tasks by goading, encouraging, and inspiring their members to write a 50 000-word novel in 30 days.  My mom hooked me up with them.  Imagine that.  Crazy?  Yes.  Inspiring?  Absolutely.  Just the thing to get me out of my creative stupor. 

  Now my only problem is - what do I write about?  There are two novels in my head right now, bouncing around and noisily piecing their plots together.  One is the sequel to my chopped up novel child, the other a rather epic fantasy based on a recurring dream I had during my teenage years.  Maybe I should just write them both.  In one month (she laughs, but there is fear in her laughter).

  The point is writing again.  Working out my fears, my sense of loss over that shredded hard copy (as if I don't have a copy on the computer, in my desk, and safely on my mother's nightstand) of my poor book.  That's right, putting pen to paper again and laughing at paper shredders everywhere.  Apparently, I seem to be doing that already.  Phew.