National Novel Writing Month. If I’ve written about it once, I’ve written about it a hundred times (or at least annually since I began blogging). It’s the one time each year I allow my writing to take center stage (how’s that for mixing metaphors?)–often, though reluctantly, at the expense of my other obligations. So far, I’ve won NaNoWriMo every year.
And this year will make ten consecutive wins. If I manage to make it.
It’s only been in these past four years that I consider the person I am today to have become defined. Certainly, the past twelve or sixteen months have been paramount, but I can trace my way back four years to truly see the seeds of my soul starting to blossom. My life until that point had been critical nonetheless, the insemination of the ideal, the incubation of my coming identity, but in the end they have only been my foundation, not my superstructure. Now, however, with the foundation finally finished, I can at last begin to assume my truest self, my ultimatum, my ultima.