NaNoWriMo is proving arduous, but not for any reason I expected. The subject matter is taking too high an emotional toll; I can’t imagine keeping at it, especially since I am doing all my writing in the computer clusters at the university, and sitting here clickety-clacking away while tears stream down my face seems a breach of courtesy.
So… instead of following the original backstory for my main character, in which her partner dies young of a lingering illness, I am making her a young widow whose husband died in a wacky mishap, the details of which are pending.
But still I am flayed by the process of writing. I ruminated for most of the morning on love — what it is, what it feels like to the loving and to the beloved, why it is so damn hard whenever it isn’t effortless.
This afternoon in art history class, we discussed “reality” in art. The prof put forth a few examples to clarify the concept that reality is a slippery little sucker.
“Is this pen real?”
“Was your childhood real?”
“Is love real?” At this moment, she accidentally dropped the pen, and the crack when it hit the floor shocked me nearly to tears. I had thought all morning about the nature of love, and “real” never occurred to me.