THAT WRITING THERAPY

I have long known that writing is a good therapy for my unbalanced soul. When my girlfriends chirp away happily about their successful raids of a certain department store, I usually note that I am no stranger to that happy feeling that flusters their cheeks and raises their voices that teeny bit higher. Only that happy feeling, for me, derives not from finding the perfect pairs of jeans (oh where art thou?) or that perfect tone of eyeshadow. It derives from hurting my butt by sitting in front of the computer for at least one hour, and whipping out a piece of writing that I call perfect. (The one that I call perfect is not necessarily what my English teacher called perfect.)

It takes a disciplined mind to be able to write everyday, boy, don't I know it. A long time ago I prescribed myself a page a day to ease my mental illness, and I can never fulfill that. I simply do not possess the teeniest bit of discipline to save my life.

Now that the National Novel Writing Month is here, I wonder whether I'll finally get down to that one page a day. Or 1,677 words a day, to be exact, because I'd have to finish 50,000 words in 30 days. That is a lot more than a page a day.

It's already November 1st, the first day, and the day is almost over, and I still haven't written anything resembling a novel. I don't have any plots in mind either.

Still I am willing to jump headlong into this writing month blindfolded. Will I or will I not be able to string 50,000 words together by the end of the month, I do not know.

But I know that the simple act of trying will do me good, so good that by the end of the month, I will emerge with a slightly mended soul.