It's National Novel Writing Month. "So what's that like?" Friends and family asked last year, when I did it. Like a marathon of knitting is how I think of it, except with no thread, no needles.
Writing is handicraft. It should be offered on Etsy. Whether longhand on parchment with a goose feather quill, or keyboarding, you are crocheting my friends. Purling with verbs. Looming. Tapestry-making like ladies in waiting who sat around the castle needlepointing and gossiping their way to making the Unicorn Tapestries. They had an endpoint in mind, of course: unicorn, walled garden, pot-bellied, serious-faced naked virgin. But along the way they were heads-down, needles-raised.
Were they alone? No. Well, sometimes. Like if they had some extra knitting to do on a hoof or pot-belly or something.
So my advice? Heed the looming Renaissance ladies in waiting and the stich-n-bitches, WriMoers, and go to the write-ins. Share the mirth of anemic word counts, place your laptops intimately back to back, weave together the threads of your writing lives. Few people do this and we need each other. Who else understands the strange call of 4 a.m. to resolve a love triangle between Mavis and Ebeneezer or to cast the jewel of Entemann's into the firey pit of Melchior?