I love NaBloPoMo for how it makes you scrounge a dark corner in a room, desperate for words, with five minutes left to spit them out.
I love it for how it makes me remember that the reason why I picked this stupid name -- this LaurieWrites that I hate so very, very much -- was because I was halfway into my wine six years ago, broken hearted, desperate for an outlet, and this exact same space is what I found.
I love it for how I know that other people I love and admire and respect are doing it, for how there is a quickening pulse in my strangely small collective of a writing world, that this year feels so much more vibrant, for some reason.
I love how we have become more urgent as a result of what I'm guessing is our strange exhaustion.
I love how there are three minutes left.
I love how we're all still here.
I love that I still think that I have something to say, that I agonize over topics and conclusions and constructs, even though there is no defined audience.
I love that these posts don't get the perfect picture, that I don't care about the pixels and the diagrams.
I love the messy and insane and the stressed and the everything of this.
As a card-carrying glutton for punishment, I'm sure I always will. And I kind of love that knowledge too.