Nope, concurrently noveling is not for me. I’m forty-six, in overall good health, can plow through 5K mornings with a few flicks of my wrists. But I cannot write two books at one time.
It’s a humbling statement, and if a few of you are rolling your eyes and snickering wildly, I totally deserve it. When I was forty-one, my first NaNo on American soil, second NaNo overall, I blew through three books in November; one in the morning, one after lunch, one at night. Hit 50K on each, felt like a real radioactive novelist, and maybe I was. I was also very wet behind the ears with the prose, but I was writing, and thought I could go on that way forever.
Uh, no. You’re human honey, and you’ll never be forty-one years old again.
But I don’t mean to whine, just stating the facts; three days of 9K-plus was followed by a fourth of about 7K. Then my brain imploded; that afternoon, after writing half a chapter for The Richard Brautigan Club, I watched football in vegetable-like state on the sofa. Since then, I finished that half-chapter, have written plenty for Kelly Tremane, accepting concurrent noveling was theoretically a great idea. I tried it last year, was sidetracked by my husband’s annoying goiter. This year, it’s just old age.
Relative seniority, or just accepting that one’s early forties aren’t as taxing as those staring at fifty. But mentally, I’m still forty-one; didn’t we just leave England, aren’t my kids still at home? Uh, well, two are, but they’re not 15 and 17 anymore. There’s a grand-basset in the picture and published novels and hummingbirds and… 1825 days between then and now. Each of those days have incurred wear and tear to my collective gray matter. Thankfully my hair is still all brown, heh heh, but wrinkles and small age spots (that my husband claims are figments of MY imagination, bless his heart) and one novel at a go proves that I’m not impervious to time’s continual march.
Aging is a funny thing; it happens so slowly that it really takes something like a brick up the head to realize it. I really thought that without a goiter in the way, I could do this thang! Darn the torpedoes, yada yada yada, but that was a big load of hooey. Which is OKAY. It really is. I take blood pressure meds now, I can’t eat chocolate much past seven p.m. or I get twitchy at bedtime. I can’t drink caffeinated tea past noon, or I can’t sleep. (But maybe if I drank tea later, I could eat chocolate later, then go to bed later, hmmm…) But I can still write; jeez, at the rate I’m heading, Kelly Tremane is going to end up like Shogun! Which is WONDERFUL; may those words just keep tumbling from my slowly aging brain.
But just those words, for that novel. One at a time, woman. One at a time…