If I told you I was writing this naked, then would you be inclined to comment on this blog? Of course, I’m not – or am I? I have spent the day writing a novel. If I was an old Mexican woman hovering over a manual sewing machine, you’d say, “Put a bra on,” and then you’d say, “Sew! Sew like the wind, Consuella.” But I’m not sewing. I’m writing a story about a woman named Regina who has lost her mother and carrying her ashes around.
National Novel Writing Month was not designed to encourage writers to write naked. It was meant to help them write fast and get through the quick sand that swallows so many wanna-be authors. It’s about getting the story moving, and real quick like. I struggle with this sort of speed. Just ask my husband what happened when he asked if he could kiss me for the first time. I told a story, a long one, their were chapters and foot notes regarding whether we should be more than just friends. Those of you who come across a single lady like my 24-year-old self, just plant one on me, for Christ’s sake. I think, on that night, even Jesus was saying, “Jesus, Christine, my dad made the world in less time.”
Anyway, it’s a challenge, especially when there are plenty of other things I could do naked. Turn up the heat, for one. There’s the dishes in the kitchen sink, the litter box, the fact that it is 2:36P.M., and I don’t know what I’m making for dinner. Instead, I’m trying to fall in love with my characters. I’m trying make them real and, therefore, flawed. It’s hard to make up flaws about other people while you’re naked. Too many distractions. Seriously, why won’t the fricking heat come on?