She was so lovely - elegant - like a stream-lined motif for regal life. Her voice had a blues singer crack in it and she giggled young though she had certainly left girlhood behind dusty decades ago. I bought her book because I loved her face and the way she typed all the important things in Evernote like an eager college student while we sat in the lecture hall together - me (like I was that side of 50) writing long-hand with a cheap pen and notebook.
"I wrote it for NaNoWriMo," she told me. And I was in awe. Because I thought it was all hype and the big build up to failure but I held her book in my hands and I felt it's pages and I thought that might be the bravest thing ever - what she did - putting it down in a torrent of flying fingers and scrambled ideas.
I asked her to sign the book and her fingers were old and graceful and nails painted burgundy and she acted like it was the kindest thing in the world - that I would want her mark inside the cover that spilled her name in crisp white font.
Instead, I'm propelling ahead with the NaBloPoMo challenge - a blog post a day - which lowers the daunting expectation of writing 1600 daily words but gives me a whole new kind of anxiety: What if I'm boring? What if I have nothing to say? What if my subscribers are annoyed when their in-boxes are dinging with daily hits of yours truly?
And what if I didn't do it and never realized that I could do it and totally missed out on a opportunity to push and better and dare myself?
So here we go. November first. And I'm already worried about what I'll write about tomorrow...