There is nothing better than sharing a bottle of earthy, Chilean red and a decadent selection of palatable, European cheeses with a friend.  That is, until my friend calls me a name.  I could not trust my ears, so I compelled her to repeat her surprising claim.  “How’s the life of a writer?” she said with a hint of amusement  at my unease.

Me? A writer?  I imagine writers as being clever and witty with their words.  I can pull off clever, but witty is a stretch.  I dismissed her claim as absurd and silly.  She insisted.  We moved on.

I took a detour through a nearby park on my way home.  Driving clears my mind. It always has.  I considered all of the things I have written over the last year or so.  Perhaps I am a writer (in training).  While I don’t see myself as a writer, I do enjoy the process of writing.

So, after much prodding, I decided to embark on a journey otherwise known as National Novel Writing Month. The goal: 50,000 words in 30 days! I will start writing on November 8, although it officially launches on November 1.

While I have amassed several short stories loosely based on my early childhood, I want to take this opportunity to work on a larger piece directly delving into my upbringing in Germany. I find myself constantly negotiating my identity as a Black German, as a woman, as a lesbian.  My childhood experiences profoundly influence the person I am today.  My teen years consist of a web of ill-fated decisions driven by a desperate need to fit in -  quest for consciousness and community.  Yet, as time passes, my memory of that time becomes increasingly nebulous.  I want to put things down before my recollections are too clouded by time and space.

So, there ya go – I am publicly announcing my goal.