As a 13-year-old, I spent a lot of time in my bedroom with the lights off, listening to the Cure, eyes closed, hands hovering over my laptop keyboard. I turned my eyes deep into my soul and tried to scrape together all of the hardships I had endured in my extraordinarily sheltered secondary-school life so that I could evoke some real pain in my writing – because, as we all know, true artists are always on the verge of some kind of breakdown.

Incredibly, this method didn't work out for me. While I believed I was a prodigy (somewhere between DH Lawrence and James Joyce with a little Salinger thrown in), few agreed. Of course, everyone else was a philistine, but nevertheless the easy dismissal of my perfect, pure, distilled emotion got to me.

After a while, I began to reconsider things. A friend suggested National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo) to me. The idea is to write at least 50,000 words in a month – and a growing number of enthusiasts are participating each year (200,000 writers took part last year). Obviously, I had to do it. In fact, not only was I going to win, I was going to revolutionise the novel genre. I was going to reinvent prose.

Actually, I wrote an angsty high-school romance about two boys who fall in love with their dance teacher. But it wasn't as bad as it could have been. It was my first real novel, after all.

One striking aspect of my first Nanowrimo experience was the community. Up until then, writing, for me, had been a solitary act. It was a way for me to express my feelings and had nothing to do with anyone else. Through the Nanowrimo website I met other participants and discussed our ideas, and received regular pep talks in my email inbox. I befriended a girl who lived 6,000 miles away and we urged each other on as the month progressed. There was a sense of connectedness. We all knew the feeling of a slump after the first two weeks. We all knew about the all-nighters and the "word sprints", the reckless plot twists, the unnecessary dream sequences, and the magical properties of coffee beans.

And this kind of speed-writing was completely alien. Before, I had struggled over each word, taken hours visualising every scene. But I now discovered I didn't need to. I could type without thinking or re-reading, and my results would come faster, and not necessarily be worse. Yes, there were mistakes, but nothing was unsalvageable. And the story that emerged was still a story: as real and true as anything I could have agonised over. I cared about my characters and their fates just the same.

When I began new projects the following month, I noticed something. I was unafraid. I felt, for the first time, secure. I didn't feel any pressure to create a masterpiece every time I set pen to paper. I knew that I had a voice; that my writing was good enough; and that all I needed was to communicate the story inside me. In some ways, Nanowrimo accelerated my ability and my confidence. I might have taken six months to write a novel draft, but I'd had all of that experience condensed into a four-week adrenaline rush. Now I could do anything.

Not that Nanowrimo is purely for sensitive, misunderstood teenage artists such as myself. It doesn't have to be taken seriously. Anyone can give it a shot. There are plenty within the community who never write a word outside of November. You don't need to start with a plot. You can decide to start on a whim at 23:55 on 31 November. You can choose to write about a historical period using only information from Wikipedia and what you remember from a film you saw once. This year my entire idea is based around two things: "the apocalypse" and "an ill-advised party". That is literally all I have.

Don't think too much, and have fun. Remember, you can do this. Even if you don't have time, ideas or a proper reason. Get some fast music blaring and watch the screen as words and ideas appear before you've given them permission. Allow your daydreams to become tangible. And good luck.

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