The sun set a few hours ago and children on the street walk hand-in-hand with their parents as they collect candy from the neighboring stores and restaurants. It’s Halloween in Brooklyn. As the younger children make their way home in half-dressed batman costumes and smeared face paint, the older children make their way to the street. It’s their chance to foot those same restaurants and stores and get a much more grown up treat this evening.
As the festivities of the evening commence, there is a group of people from all ages and from all walks of the earth waiting for the clock to strike midnight. No, it’s not the witching hour that they so desperately anticipate. It’s the beginning of NaNoWriMo: National Novel Writing Month.
Along with this quiet group of introverts sits one girl on her couch. She lifts her feet up and rests them on the edge of her story-filled coffee table. It wouldn’t be a story she would tell to any knowing person, but glancing at the nicks and holes reveal a secret story. The girl ignores the subtle pleas of her coffee table and begins to wrap yarn around her fingers. She needs to make sure to maintain the same amount of tension throughout the project she is in the midst of knitting.she needs to concentrate on her gauge if she wants to have the correct size afghan at the end. The tv blasts the sound of audience laughter as another episode of the Big Bang Theory airs at the hour.
The clock strikes once. Twice. Three times. And continues on this way until it reaches ten. The potential energy gathering in the offices and apartments of all the writers waiting for November builds as this girl knits. Each stitch perfectly formed as her movement synchronizes with the seconds of her watch ticking loudly against her frail lists.
While the rest of the world wastes the evening in alcohol and drugstore face paint or writes the finishing touches to their outlines, a girl sits as the character of Wolowitz cracks another joke in poor taste. This girl, me, doesn’t know what to do with herself. Deep inside, she knows the moment is nigh and the time should be spent organizing the notes of the stories she’ll be penning. At the same time, the month could be better spent resting. Her pride and procrastination are at odds. Will she begin to write her story or will she left her feet Reston the table where stories are born?
To be continued…