So I've taken it upon myself to try out doing this NaNoWriMo thing that everyone's been talking about, and I just feel resentful and avoidant about the whole thing. See, I'm terrified of having people tromping around the tender meadows of my mindscape. Some might be the typical fears of not presenting things well, but at the same time, I think people just genuinely won't receive ME well.

My words are me. They're the filter through which my expression and communication flow.

Right now I'm trying not to look at my own words, think about structure, moderate or organize or present myself so much as just pour thought onto the page.

And I hate it, because there are people here. Maybe I should put up thorns to keep them out, snark and irreverence, abuse humor, terrible writing for self-preservation's sake. Maybe I should just write the whole novel in lolcat. Maybe I should just crumple paper and throw it at a wall and cry.

Strangely, perhaps, these are all elements that live in my mindscape: keeping intruders out of the mindscape using metaphorical barriers. Building a labyrinth, hiding personal secrets at the center. Not only do I have an excuse to write badly -- I have reasons. It could be a stylistic choice. I wonder if that would be a worthwhile ...

Meh. Get something down. Something anything whatever. I obviously can.

I ... why doesn't Blogspot have a word counter? I'd pretend this was the intro if I could, and claim to have some kind of word count. But I don't want to quibble around pretending that this is novel-worthy ranting if it's not automatic.

I don't even care. Don't look at me like that, I don't. I totally don't.

I hate talking in front of you people. You always have something to say, even if it's in silence. Always with the implications.

I could live in the mountains and write by myself without the implications. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear, does anyone care? I feel the same about writing. There might or might not be a sound but it doesn't matter. It's not an existential conundrum, it's just plain and simple; interpretive things don't matter without an interpretation. They still happen just fine, but they don't matter -- and the value of mattering is the most interpretive value of all.

I don't want to write my novel today. I want to write pages and pages of notes about it in which I'm tricking myself into writing when I don't think I'm actually writing but I actually am. I don't want anyone to know about it but I want a support network that gives me feedback. I feel ambivalent and I like critique but not judgment and everything in this world is prickly.

Why am I even telling you this?