There are those of us that have Words. And I do mean Words with a capital, in italics and bold. It’s all words, words, words and they explode out of them in groups of a thousand and they actually contain brilliance that simply lacks a French polish. This is not me.
Words stumble out of me like it’s lunch time and they’re still in their pyjamas. They’re not embarrassed (but they should be) and I’m their mother, trying to make sense of their behaviour all the while feeling responsible for it.
I get caught in words, fixing their hair, adjusting their clothes, match making, trying to build perfection while avoiding clichés. I’m so poorly read I could weep. Yet, I’m not willing to undo that failure with any kind of gusto. If I read four books a year, it’s a Christmas miracle.
If you’re a follower of this blog, it’s well known fact I’m a slow writer and poorly read. For those with Words, it’s difficult to explain that each blog I write takes me hours, the comments I leave on a fellow’s blog can take just as long, compounded by panic – ‘is it offensive?’, ‘could I upset someone?’, ‘does it convey what I mean?’ and you have no idea how many comments I spend hours on, and then delete.
This is me. Loving Words, while fearing Words.
Knowing all this, NaNoWriMo is a dream, NaBloPoMo is a possibility.
I’m going to give that a go.
Please be patient, and don’t shout.
*Cuts NaBloPoMo ribbon*