Namowrimo, the month in which people try to write at least part of a novel in 30 days, is nearly upon us. I have horrible memories of m. and the 2013 nanowrimo disaster which caused m. and I to be estranged, during about the second week I went on chemotherapy. I found out about everything fifteen minutes after crawling to the bathroom on my hands and knees and spending half an hour alternately throwing up and laying back down on the bathmat (seriously--not being dramatic here).
I have since tried to figure out my part in all of it. That's the only side I can figure out. Though there was no ultimate reason for me to act as angry as I did, I realize the roots of it were in bewilderment and fear in the face of my entire life turing upside down--why were all these things happening? And then I found out that there had been a secret agenda for nearly a year. Does he feel badly about this? I don't know. Perhaps I never will. We have limited communication, always cordial
My friend who is now the person who works as the "leader" of nanowrimo in Santa Cruz asked me why m. was being so strange when she asked him if he was doing nano this year.
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