It’s been one year.
Three-hundred-sixty-five days, plus one leap day, and a couple thousand cups of coffee, since the last time I stared November in the face.
And the first time November stared right back.
One year ago tonight, I got lost in something so frightening that, until I lived to see the end of it, I had always been too shaken by the very idea to even let myself speak its name.
To be asked, no… forced, to go through an experience so life-altering that some I once called friends never recovered. Just 30 days on a calendar that, coincidentally, begin in the still quiet hours of All Hallows Eve. When deals are done with whatever tells grown men and women that everything will be okay, if they just keep their hands and feet tucked inside the covers at night.
The name that, if you’re a writer, you know.
NaBloPoMo. The writer’s boogeyman.
And every writer knows that, on All Hallows Eve, you can’t kill the boogeyman.
So here I am, one year later, and the boogeyman is back. Only this time, he only comes out at night. This year, very unlike last year, the world… my world… is lived from dusk till dawn. And I write for the boogeyman on the graveyard shift, in November, during 30 days of night.
And for those of you who write in the safety of the day, NaBloPoMo is just another word. Like sunshine, or coffee. But for those of us who live to write at night, well…
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© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday