It’s November, NaNoWriMo month. A number of my friends are twenty or thirty thousand words into their novels, and I think that’s amazing. Personally, I’m not that interested in writing a novel, but every year, November reminds me that I should be writing something. Writers write; poseurs talk about writing. Currently, I am more poseur than writer. I pile so much on my plate that I don’t have time to write, a convenient excuse leaving me drained, depressed, feeling fake.
Soon, middle age will crash in upon me. I fear that I will find no creative solace in the rubble.