Before art, linguistics, politics, womanism and social activism, writing was my first love. My momma loves to tell the story of how, when I was about three, I became so curious and jealous of her signing credit card receipts that I insisted that she teach me how to write my name as well. By age five I wrote little poems, and by seven I was so sad about Bambi's mom's death that I re-wrote Bambi to have a happy ending with her playing with her grandchildren.Simply put, writing was my world.
But then life sort of got in the way. It was during my uni years when writing began to lose its magic, its wonder. Writing term papers on political economy and Sharia Law became the norm and before I knew it, I barely had time to write for myself. Later on, I wrote grant proposals and reports on gender violence, genocide and war. Writing became something I had to do. Because it became an obligation, I avoided writing during my free time. I created art. I hiked. I wrote e-mails. I scheduled "Quote of the Week" posts for this blog. But I didn't write for the sake of writing.
I would like to re-claim the magic I felt as a three-year-old, which is why I'm joining NaNoWriMo , which stands for National Novel Writing Month. Every year in November, participants are given the task of writing at least 50,000 words. There are no "winners" per se; you get kudos for completing it. It will certainly be an interesting time, and I hope I can complete this task.