Two years ago, I wrote a novel during National Novel Writing Month. It was an intense experience, in part because I only decided to do it on November 2 so was playing catch-up from the start, and in part because it was a stressful time in my life otherwise. But it was a valuable discipline as disciplines go, so this year I decided to modify it. 

Instead of celebrating National Novel Writing Month (affectionately known as NaNoWriMo), I celebrated National Writing Month, which is an observance of my own concoction, a time when my own writing comes fist because I wake up two hours earlier to do it.

Practicing this for 30 days convinces me (as it has in the past when I’ve made similar efforts), that it’s the writing that matters. Doing it first and doing it often starts my days off in the way they should begin. Like composing the proper outline for the high school theme, the dedicated writing time becomes the frame on which I hang my day. 

Today is December 1. NaWriMo is over. I could stop rising early, sitting in the dark living room with these keys beneath my fingers, letting them take me places I hadn’t thought to go.

Or then again, I might keep right on doing it. NaWriMo is over. My writing … is not.