Every November, writers challenge themselves and set out to write 50,000 words by the end of the month. It's an overwhelming task but some writers have found success in it.

I'm not sure where I am on the spectrum of November writers though. I have dusted off a flash fiction and started to revise it heavily by adding more details – but I can't say how committed I am to make sure I finish it.

Don't get me wrong, I love to write. I knew I wanted to write for a living after I read my very first Dr. Seuss book in kindergarten. But after so many undergrad workshops in creative writing, I find that my post-graduation life is focused on reevaluating my life goals and dreams.

I'm unsure where my journey lies ahead. As I currently work for a literary magazine as a poetry editor, I am thinking that it lies in poetry instead of fiction. My role at the magazine is to find suitable poets, encourage them to submit to us, and see if they are acceptable enough to publish. I love reading all the submissions, no matter what level the poet is at because it teaches me what is poetry.

Because I find myself deviating from fiction writing and into poetry, NaNoWriMo doesn't seem to be a priority for me. If it were April and NaPoWriMo instead, then I think I would enjoy writing every day.

Writing a novel to me just seems like such a crazy idea that I can't get behind it. I have taken online fiction workshops, but for some reason, they didn't really motivate me. I really wanted to take the workshops face-to-face but, due to family obligations, online was my only option. I think it was my mind being in a different place that I couldn't really connect to writing stories.

I'm not trying to make the excuse that I am not invested in well-written fiction. I'm just not that experienced in it. I do read a lot of great, influential novels; I have just finished Donna Tartt's "The Goldfinch" and it really impacted me. Her authorial voice is so steady and assured that it makes me wonder if I can accomplish the same thing.

In addition to my reading pleasures, I've also grown more certain about applying to MFA programs. Every night, I dream about some aspect of it – the challenging coursework or the admissions process. I can't escape it. I am meant to write.

What I am meant to write though is what confuses me. Sometimes I think in magical realism terms; other times, I am preoccupied with the impact of history. For instance, I had a dream one night where I led a group project on writing a novel based on the Cold War and nationalism. Unfortunately, I woke up before getting into the grit of it.

All these dreams I've been having and novels I've been reading may be hinting for my return to writing stories. Maybe I'm not prepared to write a novel for the month of November.

But hey, I should try, right?