Nanowhatnow?

So I wrote a 75,000 word draft of a novel in the month of November, which was National Novel Writing Month (or Nanowrimo, as the inventors of the event have called it). Nanowrimo is a challenge to write 50,000 words, or 1667 words per day, every day, between November 1 through November 30; because I am a full-time writer, I decided to push for 75,000 -- nanoandahalfwrimo. I finished the month with 75,956 words -- 167 single spaced pages of pure first draft.

I've been writing for most of my adult life, and teaching writing for a few years. I didn't think I had anything new to learn about the craft of writing. I was wrong. I learned more about writing during the month of November than I learned in two years of graduate school (where a professor once told me my work was too emotionally intense and needed -- a direct quote -- "more blather").

I learned that sitting in the chair and forcing yourself to write long past the point where you feel inspired can actually work. There were many days when I sat there in front of the blank page with the blinking cursor -- a familiar situation -- wondering, "What the hell do I write now?" -- a familiar question. Instead of succumbing to the idea that I had nothing to say, and that I should go away and think about it until I knew what the next thing to write should be, I forced myself to just write something, anything. And I did.

I learned not to overthink decisions, to just make them, and know that I could change them later. A character who was 28 when I started writing about her on November 3 suddenly aged and became 41 by November 12; another character lost ten years of her life. Other characters appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, just showed up on the page and started speaking and acting. Apparently, if you make your hands move, your brain will follow.

I also learned how much you can write in an hour, as long as you don't go back and reread and try to polish things. I used to think, what's the point, I only have an hour between appointments, I'll skip the office today. Now I know, I can write three pages in an hour. I also know that I can get up an hour earlier in the morning if I have to, that I can stay up an hour later. I remembered what it was like to work hard.

And I learned not to stop during a first draft, not to reread what I'd written the day before, not to try to polish things or make them sound good, just to open the faucet and let it go. If you stop and reread, you become self-conscious, and the minute you become self-conscious, you slow down. The time for self-consciousness is the second draft. And man, am I self-conscious now.

Because this first draft is a mess. Written in no chronological order, just chunks of disconnected scenes floating around a nucleus of an idea; abrupt beginnings and endings to scenes; dialogue that's so on-the-nose it might as well be Kleenex. Paragraphs like this, without line breaks or proper punctuation, where even I can barely tell who's speaking:

Nothing I do is right anymore. She wants to be reassured. When has that ever been his role? Did he ever promise to be the guy who reassures people? He sighs. I never said that. But you indicate that. You indicate it all the time. Abigail, you’re making things up. Don’t negate my reality. He can barely keep his eyes from rolling. See? You’re rolling your eyes at me. I am most certainly not rolling my eyes at you. I am trying to determine what you’re trying to say here, and how I can possibly convince you out of something you’ve decided is real. You could convince me by acting like you like me every once in a while. That’s neither accurate nor fair, he says. I gave you keys to my apartment; isn’t that an indicator of how I feel? I’ve introduced you to my father. I’ve told you, I’ve never had a relationship like this one before, and yet you keep telling me that it’s not enough. I’m starting to feel like I’m the one who can’t do anything right. His father's genes in him, he would have made an excellent lawyer. 

See? A mess. But better a mess than a nothing. Because you can clean up a mess, but you can't do anything to a nothing. 

(That doesn't even make sense, but now that I'm all un-self-conscious from Nanowrimo, I don't care.)

Comments

[Jen Bekman]

You GO girl. (Nice to hear from you.)

xoxo,
Jen

[Bill Scurry]

I experimented with BaNaNaRaMo, wherein we wear blonde wigs and sing "Cruel Summer" over and over and over and over and over and over...

[Satia]

Bill, you crack me up.

Janice, it's about time you joined the cult. And a mess? Gee, now where have I heard that word used to describe a nanovel before? I'll show you mine if you show me yours. LOL!

[Gennette]

Anne Lamott always extols the virtues of shitty first drafts (her words in Bird by Bird). Congratulations. Sounds like November was quite the month for you! Kudos.

[LindaS]

"Don’t negate my reality."

B.r.i.l.l.i.a.n.t.

[Claire]

An excellent reminder to sit down, shut up, and write. I've become such a prima donna in the mornings, shortening the hour and a half at my laptop to 30 minutes spent tinkering with punctuation while the characters wonder what the hell they're supposed to do. Thank you, Janice!

[Ashley]

As always, inspirational. Glad to see you back.

[brian]

i will write for you miss erlbaum

i will call this post "symphony in comments #3"

On some days, when the winds are playful, dancing through tree tops and gently guiding their fallen leaves here and there, a young girl appears. She is not a remarkable girl nor an extravagantly beautiful girl in any particular sort of way. She is, as most would say, a common girl, a very plain girl. Her hands are small and pale. Her fingers are long, but not extraordinarily so, but just long enough. The skin covering the palm side of her hand are wrinkly, like an aged woman's, but without the depth. Looking at her palms, one would be compelled to conjure an image of soft, but long worn, leather. And if one, if one were so inclined, would look upon her face, they would see nothing of great interest. Although symmetrical in a pleasing sort of way, her face was not a face to spark a feeling of love in others. Nor was it a face that could stir a great fleet of ships to cross the seas as one famous face had before. No, her face was plain. Even her smile, though tender, was not warm enough to command the hearts of men.

and now i lost my train of thought

so here's another one that i will call

"don't close the oven door: a communique in abstract foundational dadaism"

Faceless

A young woman arrives at a party as it starts to get to the point, as all great parties do, of delirious intoxication. She lets out a brief expression of resentment, in-between her smiles greeting her welcoming friends, as she absorbs the room.

I'm so glad you made it! Oh my god, I'm so fucked up right now! I'm soooo glad you made it! Oh my god, lets get a drink! You have to get a drink! oh my god, I'm so fucked up! Three of her close friends converge about her, dragging their boyfriends, and launch into loud, drunken exclamations of love for her and that it is imperative that she must drink. She smiles and laughs politely in return and lets herself be pulled to the table, all the while still looking over the crowd of people in the tiny apartment.

He declines a j, a beer, and three shots of various liquor but finally gives in to an incessant, "c'mon, just one bump! A tiny-ass, super-small bump!" Dave hands him a parliament cigarette, filter-side up and filled with coke. "Shits fucking primo, man!" he grabs the cigarette with a clumsy hand and sniffs it up into his nose and tastes bitterness at the back of his throat. Dave lets out a an approving laugh and slaps him on the back again and, in his drug and alcohol fueled state, forgets about him and finds another friend that he insists should "try some shit!"

The young woman has now disappeared from the table where she got her drink and, in her place, are three couples playing drinking games with a deck of cards, loud and jovial. Next to them, at the kitchen are more people and more drinks. They all laugh in unison, faces red and happy. One girl, in a pretty, white blouse, wipes tears from her eyes as she giggles and guffaws. More people are at sitting at the counter in front of the kitchen, and even more around the living room and all on the couches, on the floor, and spilling out through the front door. And there. There she is. Sitting outside on the patio smoking a cigarette. Her friends are with her, but standing up and giggling and talking and laughing, sharing the same high and intoxication that she so seemed not to want to be any part of.

"Aye Foo! Watch out!" someone screams as one of the drunken guests unloads the contents of his stomach onto the shirt of a fellow party-goer, all over the top of the glass dining table and onto the floor.
"Yo, that shit is nasty!" someone else bursts out while other whoop and holler. The party nears that point of climax, but the young woman doesn't give the slightest hint of interest and takes a long, slow drag from her cigarette and exhales softly, letting the smoke rise up out of her mouth, over her nose and eyes, into her hair and finally above her head where it catches and dances with a blowing breeze. Someone runs to get a towel from the bathroom while the man who just vomited continues to do so. The young woman rests her head against the guard rail and flicks her cigarette into a neighbors yard and lights another one. Parliaments, he thinks. She's smoking parliaments.

and this will be known as "fluorescent mundane: a comical look at the serious"

Ally's Star

"look," she said, pointing to the brightest star in the sky. "that's where i come from."

he followed the line that her finger made, past the forest and over the mountains, above the pale-blue crescent moon until finally coming to rest at a small, but bright star.

"There?" he asked, somewhat incredulously. "thats where you used to live?"

"yup," she replied. "my whole family is still there. I mean, my real family."

"oh." he tentatively answered. "who are the people that you live with now, then?"

"oh, they're just some nice people that took me in."
"you mean, they're not your real parents?"
"oh, no. My real parents are much different."
"oh."

brian kept staring at the star that ally had pointed to. He was trying to see ally's real family on that star, what they looked like, what they were like. He imagined them getting ready to eat dinner, Ally's mom preparing the evening's meal, Ally's dad calling ally's sister and brother to the table. He imagined them all sitting together getting ready to eat when he noticed an empty chair. That would be Ally's chair, brian thought.

"Why aren't you with them then?"
"it's a long story. And plus, I haven't figured it out yet."
"oh."
"i'll tell you when i do, though. I think it's because i have something very important to do here. Otherwise, I wouldn't have left."
"oh."

brian wasn't yet bright enough to follow the logical path that ally's last statement had presented. he didn't question the concept that it was ally's choice to leave her home, but just accepted it as fact.

"maybe i can come visit your real family one day," brian said.
"yeah, maybe you could. that would be nice."

"it could be real fu--"
"BRIAN!!!" someone shouted.

"i think thats my sister," brian said as he turned to look down the hill. "i better go home."

brian sat up from the grassy patch he and ally were sitting on. they could see the whole town from where they were.

"are you going to go home too?" brian asked.
"i don't want to." ally answered.
"oh."

brian squat down on his haunches, getting to near eye-level with ally again, taking another look at ally's star. They heard brian's sister calling his name again, but this time, brian didn't move. eventually he sat back down and said nothign. ally sat idly pulling on the grass beside her, making small little piles of grass by her legs. by the time brian's sister had reached them, ally had pulled up all the grass around her.

"hey kids," sarah said.
"hi sarah" they both replied.
"didn't you hear me calling you, brian?"
"yup" brian replied, "i heard you"
"then why didn't you come?"
"oh, no reason"

ally giggled at brian's response.

"ok, come children. You too, ally, you should be go home too. it's getting late"
"its ok." ally responded, "they don't care"
sarah frowned. ally was such a precocious child. it bothered sarah how ally was growing up.
"yah, well, come with us then, ok ally? i'll fix you guys some dinner and then i'll take you home later. or maybe we can even call and ask your parents if you could sleep over."

"they're not her real parents" brian piped in.
ally gave a look to brian
"i mean, well, she has better parents elsewhere."

Sarah gave a half-smile.

"come on, lets go home"

[brian]

one more for the road?

"This is How it Begins"

i hate short stories.
she writes
it must be in response to my comment.
you know, that little shit that rides under my name.
"i hate short stories"
she writes.
i assume that it's directed to me,
because I'm vain like that

It makes me blink for moment
and then I'm back checkin on my mail
cause shit's important;
gotta know when I get my new D60
gotta know when I can go shootin in the canyons

play with that light that falls on the earth
pretend to be able to master it
to paint pixels with (G)ods brush
and lie saying, "I made this."

collaging together a narrative
using anothers Design
or
Accident

String them together to paint a moving picture
A Short Story
The one's that I'm sure She'll hate.

[brian]

this is a story i was writing at work to my friend, helen.
lol.
i only wrote three paragraphs, then stopped.

************************************************************************************************************************************

Because I Don't Want to Work Right Now

chapter1

"You are dead to me"

The Queen, Helen of Sigh, exited her chambers while her words hung in the air.
Like some sort of exotic, airborne-disease, the tone on which her words traveled upon afflicted all those in her court with a sickening dread that threatened to free itself from their bowels. Never had her court heard such a caustic remark from her. Something must have happened.
Something awful

"My Queen!" Ariana cried out.
"My Queen! Mercy, Please! I Beg of you!"
Ariana raced after her queen with her head bowed low, hurrying quickly enough to catch her queen's trailing train at the edge of her vision.
"My Queen! Please!"
Arianna bowed even lower when she noticed that Queen Helen had stopped and was now turning around to gaze down upon her.
She felt the icy stare of her majesty's eyes upon the top of her head and immediately felt insignificant and unworthy.

"Arianna"
"Yes, My Queen"
"What is it that you have to say"

"My Queen," Arianna's voice was a feeble whisper. "I beg of you! It was my fault. Please show clemency"
"Clemency?" the Queen asked.
"Yes, my highness"
Queen Helen stared at the lowered head of her servant, her green eye's flickering bright against her smooth white skin, like emeralds against warm marble.
"Arianna," Queen Helen sighed, the venom in her voice being replaced by what Arianna perceived to be exhaustion.
"Go from me. I love you dearly, but what I have commnaded will not be undone."
"But your Majest--"
"Arianna!"
Arianna squeaked in terror as her majesty's voice echoed through the Grand Hall.
The echoes of footstops had stopped, as if knowing to recede themselves before Queen Helen's voice.
"Now Leave me."
"Yes, your highness," Arianna obliged, crawling backwards, taking the upmost care not to turn her back to the Queen.

Helen watched as her servant, on hands and knees, made herself go back from whence she came.
Helen loved her dearly, but what transpired could not be forgiven. A soft whisper of frustration had escaped from her lips and Queen Helen furrowed her brow for a moment.
What is to be done? Treason must be punished and the fool deserved death.

i dont want to work right now
chapter two

Aris had erred ponderously, like a god creating his servants then faulting by giving them the power of choice.
Aris, too, had given his error a choice. he had banked on the hopes that his men would follow him and turn on Queen Helen and that Arianna would be his liaison to King Brian . He could not have forseen the consequences and knew now how presumptious of him it was to underestimate Queen Helen and the devotion given to her by her people. Aris had been rash and was now in great danger. He did not yet have the President-King (lol) Brian's support and presumably, after this great disaster, may be in danger from him as well.

chapter two point one

With heavy hands, Aris loaded up his horse. Anywhere in or near the Queendom of the Great Helen of Sigh was much too dangerous for him. Aware of Queen Helen's cunning, Aris had little time to prepare. Her soldiers were surely on the lookout for him and now, without his men, Aris was extremely vulnerable. He grabbed his leather pouch, stuffed with bread and dried, salted meat, and slung it around his narrow shoulders, adjusted it, and mounted his horse.

It took about an hours ride to reach the forest that bordered the Queendom's eastern front. During the ride, Aris furiously recounted the spiraling declination of events that had led him to such a wretched place. He had lost over four thousand men in the span of thirty-six hours, a number and feat that had marveled and terrified him. He had been able to turn one of the lower ranking colonels of Queen Helen's 4th regimental army, but was given faulty information when the colonel said that he commanded the loyalty of his men over their loyalty to the Queen. The coup, designed with his most cleverest of ideas, was discovered before he had a chance to put it into action and now, most surely, King Brian would have heard of what had transpired and would also be looking for his head. Between both Queen Helen's and King Brian's assassins, Aris was not long to resign from this world.

Aris traveled for a week straight feeling as if his journey were mere vanity, which, to some extent, it was. He only stopped to rest his horse and give him feed, which he now was coming to a desperate low. His horse had been pushed to the point of exhaustion and would not last much longer. As for himself, he tried to eat the food that he had brought with him, but the purpose of the journey, as well as knowing what would soon be upon him, had stolen his appetite. Aris estimated that he could only have about a twenty-four hour headstart in front of King Brian's men and only half that of Queen Helen's. With a heavy heart, Aris accepted his fate and, when he reached a densely packed area of the forest, dismounted his horse and set him free. As he watched his horse slowly walk away, Aris let out an absurd laugh. So, this is how dejected I am, he thought. What a fool I have been.

He set up a small fire and ate the last bits of food he had with him, but the dry bread only cut his gums and the meat was flavorless. He thought about Arianna and what would become of her. He should have taken her away, at least, in that way, they may have died together.

The night was cold and the wind of misfortune had begun to blow when Aris heard a noise in the distance. Damned persistent bastards, Aris thought.