Hello once again, with another memoir, this time, of something that happened quite recently, with NaNoWriMo, November Writing Month. This one’s quite different from the previous two, I think, so It’s a nice change of pace. Anyway, again, not much to say here, but, here you go, “My Greatest Achievement”.
I sat on my computer chair, hands in tow, fingers dancing across the plastic surface as the sounds of clicking resounded within my room, almost making me mad. For thirty days now, I had been reliving the same day over and over, on the same seat, on the same adrenaline, and my ears had been run dry. I had always thought that the sound of my keyboard had become commonplace to me, but never has it become this enticing.
I came home every day with one single goal in mind. At the start of November, till the start of December, I would become a pseudo erudite, to the point where one would perceive me as apoplectic. I had nothing else I wanted to do, and I had only one thing I needed to do. It was almost as if I was lost in a trance, but I would never admit to it. Rather, I was following a new routine. For the next thirty days, I would become lost in my work, and I would be tired. The gist of it was quite simple, I had one goal, to write something akin to a novel, or novella. The challenge then became the time constraints. All across the world, writers and aspiring, came together for thirty days to create something. It became transiently beautiful, something like a million minds coming together to create a million worlds. It was a great time to be alive for me, and a great time to really push myself.
I fancied myself as a hermit. Never before had I been able to follow a set schedule or routine. That was the infidelity of life, you never really have a plan until time hit you. Things don’t just come preordained, it is what one makes of it that becomes reality. I lived for that. My life was never innately boring because I never could predict what I would do next. However, this all changed once I endowed myself in a marathon spanning thirty days, where the next day would be ever so predictable. Sit down, write, sleep. That was my afterschool clause. Nothing more, nothing less. I had ideas I needed to sift through, and ideas I needed to place down. It was now or never, and I had to prove myself. Not to prove that I was some ingenious child of literature, but that I was serious and that I would pour myself into the world of writing.
Thirty straight days of crunching down on a word document, and thirty straight days of being worn out from my shoulders had all come to fruition on that very last day. It was like any other, on my computer, in my room with the lights above me and the curtains closed tight beside me. The sounds of the happenings of my kitchen were rowdy as my father began preparing his daily routine, and I myself had been completely entranced in the light emanating from my screen. Black-colored words appeared and disappeared at my whim as my fingers traced my keyboard and as the sounds of each meticulous movement filled me. My body tensed, and my eyes raced to fight the clock. My mind was swirling in a vortex of plot holes and characters, and It was up to me to piece together all of which fit into a puzzle. Finally, as my hands slowed, and as my strained eyes could finally be put to rest, I pressed the final key to the final word to the final chapter of what I had created. It was a novella, above the fifty thousand regulation, and well above my own expectations. Nothing I had ever done before could ever come close to what I had just completed. I poured my entire being into this one project, and I had come out on top. It was the highlight of my day, and even perhaps my entire seventeen years proceeding to that day. I had written a novella.
Nothing more could faze me from that moment. I had started a marathon and I had finished it. I had no right to complain about anything else in the world. I had proved to myself and to the world that I could do it, that with my own power and with my own volition that I could stand among those on the top. I felt like I could do anything, that there was nothing that could stop me. I had been given momentum, and from that moment on, I sought out to never lose that momentum, to push and strive for something even greater. I knew that finishing one wasn’t the end of my journey, that there were many to come, that the many works I had already finished would be my history, and that I could only ever learn from my history. They say that the victors write history, and that saying has some truth to it. Only I can write my own history, and I’ve already won.