And we're off!

I just posted the first chunk of my NaNoWriMo project over at the blog where I hide all that stuff. You can check it out, if you dare.

I'm not quite as enthusiastic as some about the start, although I did write a lot last night. I chose the "new" story, partly because that's more in keeping with the rules and also because I'm more likely to be able to write 50,000 words of this story. I don't value it as much as the other project, because I'm well aware that it's a silly, probably pretty bad story.

Now for the disclaimer.

I've been paranoid about everything I write ever since a conversation I had with Diana some years ago now when she told me that she really believes that most writers are never really writing fiction, or something to that effect. I disagree. I write fiction precisely because my real life is way too boring to be interesting. My real life is so boring I don't even talk about it with friends; I can't imagine writing a story about it.

Now, to some extent I do think she was on to something. What worries me as a writer is the truth that anything I write is my responsibility. If I write a murder scene, it doesn't mean I've ever killed anyone, but it does mean I have imagined it - the more distubingly brutal the scene, the more disturbing my imagination is, presumably. Truthfully, I think we probably all have imaginations that can be, from time to time, very sick indeed. We live in a violent world, a dirty world, and we're only human. For the most part, the main difference is how much of our sick mind we're willing to share with others.

Some stories do come totally out of thin air. They can be inspired by something you see on TV, or read in a magazine, or see across the aisle in an airplane. Some stories come from a closer place, at least at the start. The story I'm writing for NaNoWriMo is more the latter type. It takes mundane and familiar situations and says: What if? That's fiction.

Hope you enjoy.