Writing a book is like making a quilt. I can back it up because I have, indeed, pieced a quilt. Not a very pretty one, and it was just one, but I pieced together a present for a cousin, and she still keeps it close.
I have another quilt in scraps crammed into a plastic, zippered bag on a dusty nook in my laundry room. I started the second about 10 years ago. I hate that it sits, occasionally mocking me. If I had a NaQuiMo, maybe it would be complete.
This trendy NaNoWriMo sucked me in, and shamelessly, I took bait. But skeptically. Today, Day 3, I see the value. I wanted to use this month to finish the draft manuscript of a book I started writing a year ago, and by gosh, I think it's gonna happen. Because I want to put in my 1600+ words every day and see that little blue bar on the NaNo graph slowly reach the goal line.
I'm stitching it together because there's a support group, a quilting bee of writers. Is it a little goofy? Sure. Am I on my way to fame and fortune? Hardly. Will I spend another year in revisions? You betcha. But I want the privilege of saying I wrote a book, published it, then wrote another. And another, and a few more after that.