And so, our NaNoWriMo watch has ended (it's December in case you didn't notice)

Being self-effacing isn't as easy as it seems. It requires a daily self-administered dose of self-flagellation along with a lifelong set of expectations that you yourself will never achieve. Nevermind the fact anyone in your life will fall short of those similar expectations you set for them in the very many capacities that they "need" to show up in your life.NaNoWriMo is a valuable exercise in self-love. And patience. Oh so much patience.I've learned this November that I cannot, and I will not, force myself to write. I managed to eke out over 34,000 words. Actually, it was 34,234 to be specific and precise and exact. I happen to somehow (some way) be a prolific writer. If I sit my butt down on the couch, at the kitchen table, holed up in the corner of a cafe somewhere, I will write. I will write many many words. Usually. But I cannot force gorgeous prose out of my mind and fingertips. It just won't happen. What was the point of this NaNoWriMo, then? For me, this year it was about following the routine of writing every single day for thirty days. Which I did. And on approximately five of those days I only managed to get out 100-200 words. Which as you may have rightly counted, is about a paragraph. It wasn't about quantity. Not this year.I didn't hit that targeted 50,000 word count. But you know what I did hit? Unknowingly so, in fact. A personal record for most words written in a month. At least in recent memory. According to my NaNoWriMo account, back in 2013 I hit the 50,000 and then some (by just a few dozen words).I set out to practice a daily routine and learn some patience. In the end, I learned to be that much easier on myself. Which in turn as made my psyche a little bit of a gentler beast.There was one more surprise that came to light during my most recent bout with NaNoWriMo. Without realizing it, I immediately let go of the perfectionism that defines my personality. Or at least, that has defined me as far back as my memory goes. And I remember a lot. From day one, aka November 1, I sat and just wrote. Without agenda most of the time, sometimes following a timeline I'd readjusted or other days deciding to hone in on a specific scene in one of the locales I'd set out for my characters (namely Astoria, Vermont and Ireland). I let the words come out without trying to massage them into something beautiful and thought-provoking. That can come later. It will come later.Last year, I hemmed and hawed and did a proverbial hair pulling all three months I was pants-ing the novel that I'm currently querying. I was so absorbed with a need to get every word and sentence and scene just right the first time I wrote it down. That's not how writing works. Now that I see my manuscript in its eight iteration, and how much stronger it is, the reality of the writing and self-editing process is apparent. There will never be a final version (until the fateful day I get published and the book hits bookshelves... a woman's gotta keep the dream alive!). And so I let go of the need for perfectionism and have a solid chunk of words to grow and evolve and edit over time.And I can't wait. I can't wait to keep working on it... when I have time. I'm excited to revise and edit... when the muses strike me.For so long in my life, I've been trying to hit these self-imposed deadlines that don't mean anything. It's time to let go. And my commitment to my writing practice this November 2019 helped me get there.