Current word count: 18,608
Current mood: Slightly indifferent.
Currently listening to: U2's How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb (again).
So there's this website. Maybe you've heard of it. It's called Wordle. And the idea is this: you paste a bunch of text from something you've written (i.e. a blog, a letter, or perhaps a novel) into Wordle's nifty little box, then click GO. Then Wordle does its thing, scanning your text for words that pop up frequently, and it creates a cool little random word collage based on the source text. I heard about it from the guys at NaNoWriMo, who encouraged us to try it out with our novels. Here's mine, using Chapter Three of my novel as the source.
Now, you'll notice that some words are larger than others. These are the words that figure most predominantly in the text. The largest word in my Wordle: "like." This is due, naturally, to my unabashed fondness for simile.
So here's your homework assignment: Write a sizable paragraph about yourself. Whatever you want. Personal history, likes and dislikes, favorite band, favorite color, favorite book, names of pets, all that whatnot. Then create a Wordle out of it and post it as a comment either here or on my facebook page.
I wonder what kind of Wordle this blog will make. Hmmmmm.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
What it's all about.
Current word count: 17,571
Current mood: Tired, but happy.
Currently listening to while writing: KT Tunstall's Drastic Fantastic, KT Tunstall's Acoustic Extravaganza.
It occurred to me a couple of days ago that I've been using this forum to write primarily about the process of writing this book, but very little about the book itself. Well, that's hardly fair.
The genesis of the book I'm currently writing started with a dream I had about eight years ago. We were living in the DC area at the time, and I woke up one morning fresh from an incredible dream in which I saw a singular vision. A girl, dressed in a tattered white nightgown, emerging from the woods, looking vacant, weary and haunted. And she was walking straight towards me. And that was it. But I awoke from the dream having some subconscious understanding that this girl had been kidnapped, stolen from her hometown and friends and loved ones nine years earlier. I didn't know why, but it was specifically nine years. Not five, not eight, not ten. Nine. And she was emerging from these woods after nine years of hell, having somehow escaped from her captivity. I knew that she was about to embark on a long journey of healing, reuniting with her community and rediscovering how to live. I knew that this story was not about what happened to her in captivity (although it would deal with that somewhat), but about what happens after. About the effect her return has on her and on the community in which she grew up. Even in my groggy state, I knew that this dream was not simply a metaphor for something else. It's happened only two or three times in my life, but it has happened, that I've awakened from a dream like this, knowing without a shred of doubt that this dream is the foundation for a book, and nothing else.
Right away, even while lying there in bed, I had the basic outline of the story, many of the characters, the central themes, even a title. The Painted Lady. I didn't know exactly what the title meant or how it pertained to the story but I began to have an idea. In the eight years since, I've revisited the idea numerous times, each time fleshing the story out more and more and giving more depth to the characters and their actions. And each time the idea came back to me, I knew that I wasn't ready to write it. I knew I would have to mature quite a bit, as a person and, particularly, as a writer. That's not to say that I'm an incredibly mature person and/or writer now, nor to say that I've got the book entirely figured out. In fact, much of it is coming to me and taking shape as I go. And I'm sure quite a bit of the writing to come will surprise me. But I'm staying true to the original outline that came to me with that dream eight years ago.
When people ask me what the book I'm writing is about, I give them a sentence or two describing the basic concept. But I almost always add: It's about healing.
More to come . . .
Current mood: Tired, but happy.
Currently listening to while writing: KT Tunstall's Drastic Fantastic, KT Tunstall's Acoustic Extravaganza.
It occurred to me a couple of days ago that I've been using this forum to write primarily about the process of writing this book, but very little about the book itself. Well, that's hardly fair.
The genesis of the book I'm currently writing started with a dream I had about eight years ago. We were living in the DC area at the time, and I woke up one morning fresh from an incredible dream in which I saw a singular vision. A girl, dressed in a tattered white nightgown, emerging from the woods, looking vacant, weary and haunted. And she was walking straight towards me. And that was it. But I awoke from the dream having some subconscious understanding that this girl had been kidnapped, stolen from her hometown and friends and loved ones nine years earlier. I didn't know why, but it was specifically nine years. Not five, not eight, not ten. Nine. And she was emerging from these woods after nine years of hell, having somehow escaped from her captivity. I knew that she was about to embark on a long journey of healing, reuniting with her community and rediscovering how to live. I knew that this story was not about what happened to her in captivity (although it would deal with that somewhat), but about what happens after. About the effect her return has on her and on the community in which she grew up. Even in my groggy state, I knew that this dream was not simply a metaphor for something else. It's happened only two or three times in my life, but it has happened, that I've awakened from a dream like this, knowing without a shred of doubt that this dream is the foundation for a book, and nothing else.
Right away, even while lying there in bed, I had the basic outline of the story, many of the characters, the central themes, even a title. The Painted Lady. I didn't know exactly what the title meant or how it pertained to the story but I began to have an idea. In the eight years since, I've revisited the idea numerous times, each time fleshing the story out more and more and giving more depth to the characters and their actions. And each time the idea came back to me, I knew that I wasn't ready to write it. I knew I would have to mature quite a bit, as a person and, particularly, as a writer. That's not to say that I'm an incredibly mature person and/or writer now, nor to say that I've got the book entirely figured out. In fact, much of it is coming to me and taking shape as I go. And I'm sure quite a bit of the writing to come will surprise me. But I'm staying true to the original outline that came to me with that dream eight years ago.
When people ask me what the book I'm writing is about, I give them a sentence or two describing the basic concept. But I almost always add: It's about healing.
More to come . . .
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Letting myself suck.
Current word count: 13,412
Current mood: Encouraged, and determined.
Currently listening to while writing: Mudcrutch, The National's Boxer.
One of the most persistent, nagging opponents I've encountered in my many various attempts to write a novel in years past has been the unshakable urge to be perfect. This urge is not uncommon. It is a human urge, particularly prevalent in those parts of us where our passions lie. For me, this urge surfaces most often, and most viciously, where my creative talents (i.e. writing, music, art, etc.) are concerned. And this makes sense to me. We nurture our talents, we water them, we feed them, we watch them grow. To us, they are uniquely ours. They breathe in us and exhale through us, producing expressions of life that are vibrantly alive, and they could not have existed without us. This is humbling and empowering and frightening. And if you're like me, you want to do justice to the beautiful images and words and ideas that have graciously chosen you (!) to inhabit and be brought into this world by. So a crazy notion like writing a 50,000 word novel in 30 short days forces one to wrestle that tenacious artistic perfectionism to the ground and hogtie it into submission.
My first time around, this was a near-impossible proposition. All I wanted to do was nourish and protect each precious word, one after another. This kept me moving at a snail's pace, and more often than not bred contempt and frustration between me and my novel. This time, it's proving easier, for two reasons.
1. I've done it before.
2. I am learning, slowly, that I MUST allow myself to suck. Not only for the sake of meeting my insane NaNoWriMo goal, although that is paramount right now, but also for the sake of my writing.
Ultimately, I believe, I will be a much better writer if I simply churn out the words, permit them to tumble out, get the ideas down on paper and, yes, let them suck. Let whole sentences, entire paragraphs, heck, even entire CHAPTERS be mediocre, if not flat-out terrible. This has been more than a little difficult for me throughout my life. And it ain't easy now. Letting myself suck is one of the hardest lessons I've ever had to learn, in writing, and in life. But I firmly believe it's up there among the best life lessons I can take with me.
More to come. Cheers.
Current mood: Encouraged, and determined.
Currently listening to while writing: Mudcrutch, The National's Boxer.
One of the most persistent, nagging opponents I've encountered in my many various attempts to write a novel in years past has been the unshakable urge to be perfect. This urge is not uncommon. It is a human urge, particularly prevalent in those parts of us where our passions lie. For me, this urge surfaces most often, and most viciously, where my creative talents (i.e. writing, music, art, etc.) are concerned. And this makes sense to me. We nurture our talents, we water them, we feed them, we watch them grow. To us, they are uniquely ours. They breathe in us and exhale through us, producing expressions of life that are vibrantly alive, and they could not have existed without us. This is humbling and empowering and frightening. And if you're like me, you want to do justice to the beautiful images and words and ideas that have graciously chosen you (!) to inhabit and be brought into this world by. So a crazy notion like writing a 50,000 word novel in 30 short days forces one to wrestle that tenacious artistic perfectionism to the ground and hogtie it into submission.
My first time around, this was a near-impossible proposition. All I wanted to do was nourish and protect each precious word, one after another. This kept me moving at a snail's pace, and more often than not bred contempt and frustration between me and my novel. This time, it's proving easier, for two reasons.
1. I've done it before.
2. I am learning, slowly, that I MUST allow myself to suck. Not only for the sake of meeting my insane NaNoWriMo goal, although that is paramount right now, but also for the sake of my writing.
Ultimately, I believe, I will be a much better writer if I simply churn out the words, permit them to tumble out, get the ideas down on paper and, yes, let them suck. Let whole sentences, entire paragraphs, heck, even entire CHAPTERS be mediocre, if not flat-out terrible. This has been more than a little difficult for me throughout my life. And it ain't easy now. Letting myself suck is one of the hardest lessons I've ever had to learn, in writing, and in life. But I firmly believe it's up there among the best life lessons I can take with me.
More to come. Cheers.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
This will be brief. Maybe.
Did you know that if you enter any equation into the search box in Google, that you'll get the answer? Type 2 + 2. Click Search. DING. It's four, baby!
Now maybe the rest of creation knows about this, but as of two days ago, it was news to me. It's called Google Calculator, just one of the many things that make Google so dang googly. It's one of those tiny, slightly life-altering discoveries, like a sand dollar on the beach, still intact, or an arrowhead found while walking through a field, or a five dollar bill in a pair of jeans you haven't worn in months.
So I've been using Google Calculator to calculate what my word count goal is from day to day. If I'm going to meet my goal of 50,000 words in thirty days, then (as I've said before) I'll have to average 1,667 words per day. I don't know about you, but once I get past about two or three days, I just can't do that kind of math in my head. So I must do what all good writers do. Outsource my math needs. Today's word count goal, according to that great googly abacus known as Google Calculator, was 8,335. I am pleased to say that my current word count is 8,367, which means I can go to sleep tonight with a clear writer's conscience.
Speaking of sleep, I need some. I opened this morning, which meant getting up shortly after 3 am, which meant no morning blog followed by a hefty chunk of time spent working on the book. Instead I just had to come home, bypass the traditional nap, push through the post-open fatigue (which is much, MUCH worse than post-close fatigue) and bang out some words. Took a break about halfway through (approx. 7,700 words or so) and headed out with the wife and kids for a couple of hours of window shopping, puppy-looking-at, tea-drinking, and free-massage-chair-sitting at the local mall. Came back, ate a burrito, hit the writing again. Done.
Bed soon. Cheers.
Now maybe the rest of creation knows about this, but as of two days ago, it was news to me. It's called Google Calculator, just one of the many things that make Google so dang googly. It's one of those tiny, slightly life-altering discoveries, like a sand dollar on the beach, still intact, or an arrowhead found while walking through a field, or a five dollar bill in a pair of jeans you haven't worn in months.
So I've been using Google Calculator to calculate what my word count goal is from day to day. If I'm going to meet my goal of 50,000 words in thirty days, then (as I've said before) I'll have to average 1,667 words per day. I don't know about you, but once I get past about two or three days, I just can't do that kind of math in my head. So I must do what all good writers do. Outsource my math needs. Today's word count goal, according to that great googly abacus known as Google Calculator, was 8,335. I am pleased to say that my current word count is 8,367, which means I can go to sleep tonight with a clear writer's conscience.
Speaking of sleep, I need some. I opened this morning, which meant getting up shortly after 3 am, which meant no morning blog followed by a hefty chunk of time spent working on the book. Instead I just had to come home, bypass the traditional nap, push through the post-open fatigue (which is much, MUCH worse than post-close fatigue) and bang out some words. Took a break about halfway through (approx. 7,700 words or so) and headed out with the wife and kids for a couple of hours of window shopping, puppy-looking-at, tea-drinking, and free-massage-chair-sitting at the local mall. Came back, ate a burrito, hit the writing again. Done.
Bed soon. Cheers.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Away I go.
Stats for Day Four:
Current word count: 3,700
Currently listening to: The Swell Season's Strict Joy, U2's How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb.
So I came home from work last night pretty wiped out and brainfried. Decided the best thing to do would be to call off writing for the night and just chill out with the Missus. Besides, I have a day off today, so I'll be able to (hopefully) churn out a hefty amount of wordage.
The centerpiece of our chilling last night was Away We Go, the latest film by Sam Mendes, co-written by one of my favorite writers, Dave Eggers.
(A quick side note about our library. I found Away We Go there yesterday morning, along with just about every major new DVD release. This library, seriously, is amazing. It's practically a Blockbuster.)
So back to the movie. This is easily one of the best films I've seen in quite some time. Eggers co-wrote the screenplay with his wife, novelist Vendela Vida, and their writing is fresh, funny, insightful and, when you least except it, completely moving. John Krasinski (The Office) and Maya Rudolph (SNL) are both perfect as a young couple in their mid-30's living in relative poverty in Colorado. She's expecting, so the two begin toying with the idea of starting anew, as a family, somewhere else. They figure they should live somewhere where they can be connected to someone they know, so they make a list of various locations (Phoenix, Tucson, Montreal, Miami) based on who they know and where they live. Thus begins their odyssey, which is part road movie, part relationship drama, part balls-out comedy. (I'm not kidding, there are some BIG laughs in this movie. I mean deep, cleansing, belly laughs.) Their journey leads to some of the best supporting characters you're likely to see in a film for a while. Alison Janney as a crazy former boss of Rudolph's, who gets some of the movie's choicest lines, Maggie Gyllenhaal as Krasinski's friend "L.N." (Ellen), who lives with her neo-hippie husband and two children in a "Continuum" home, in which they avoid "The Three S's" (Separation, Sugar and Strollers), and Catherine O'Hara and Jeff Daniels as Krasinski's ridiculously immature parents.
But enough about the movie. This is a blog about writing a novel. However, I suppose the film did serve a purpose, rather indirectly, in regards to the whole novel-writing thing. It managed to encourage me to really plumb the depths of my characters, to peer inside them and get to know them, to give them heart, humor, warmth, even some serious issues. To set them free to be themselves. To not simply root my story in plot, which is temporal, but to ground it in the humanity of my characters, who will live forever on the page.
Many words to be written today, so away I go. See you on the other side.
Current word count: 3,700
Currently listening to: The Swell Season's Strict Joy, U2's How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb.
So I came home from work last night pretty wiped out and brainfried. Decided the best thing to do would be to call off writing for the night and just chill out with the Missus. Besides, I have a day off today, so I'll be able to (hopefully) churn out a hefty amount of wordage.
The centerpiece of our chilling last night was Away We Go, the latest film by Sam Mendes, co-written by one of my favorite writers, Dave Eggers.
(A quick side note about our library. I found Away We Go there yesterday morning, along with just about every major new DVD release. This library, seriously, is amazing. It's practically a Blockbuster.)
So back to the movie. This is easily one of the best films I've seen in quite some time. Eggers co-wrote the screenplay with his wife, novelist Vendela Vida, and their writing is fresh, funny, insightful and, when you least except it, completely moving. John Krasinski (The Office) and Maya Rudolph (SNL) are both perfect as a young couple in their mid-30's living in relative poverty in Colorado. She's expecting, so the two begin toying with the idea of starting anew, as a family, somewhere else. They figure they should live somewhere where they can be connected to someone they know, so they make a list of various locations (Phoenix, Tucson, Montreal, Miami) based on who they know and where they live. Thus begins their odyssey, which is part road movie, part relationship drama, part balls-out comedy. (I'm not kidding, there are some BIG laughs in this movie. I mean deep, cleansing, belly laughs.) Their journey leads to some of the best supporting characters you're likely to see in a film for a while. Alison Janney as a crazy former boss of Rudolph's, who gets some of the movie's choicest lines, Maggie Gyllenhaal as Krasinski's friend "L.N." (Ellen), who lives with her neo-hippie husband and two children in a "Continuum" home, in which they avoid "The Three S's" (Separation, Sugar and Strollers), and Catherine O'Hara and Jeff Daniels as Krasinski's ridiculously immature parents.
But enough about the movie. This is a blog about writing a novel. However, I suppose the film did serve a purpose, rather indirectly, in regards to the whole novel-writing thing. It managed to encourage me to really plumb the depths of my characters, to peer inside them and get to know them, to give them heart, humor, warmth, even some serious issues. To set them free to be themselves. To not simply root my story in plot, which is temporal, but to ground it in the humanity of my characters, who will live forever on the page.
Many words to be written today, so away I go. See you on the other side.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Grisham and the third day.
Stats for Day Three:
Current word count: 3,386
Current mood: Cautiously Optimistic
So John Grisham's new book comes out today. The second book the man has published this year. The difference this time is that his latest volume, Ford County, is no mere legal thriller, but a collection of short stories he's been nursing for about twenty years. The book even received a favorable review in that bastion of literary taste, The New York Times.
Grisham is one of those writers people either seem to love or loathe. There's not much middle ground. His fans, and they are legion, rush out to buy each new novel in hardback the week it's released, quickly propelling it to the top of most bestseller lists. His detractors, numerous in their own right, poo-poo Grisham's work, as well as anything that may not be considered "serious" fiction.
As for me, I'm one of the rare few, I think, who goes both ways. The majority of my reading time is spent consuming books of a certain caliber, novels and non-fiction that educate, stretch, challenge, inspire. I most often seek out books with prose that will leap of the page and slap me in the face. Writing that knocks the wind from me, compelling me to set the book down for a moment or two and regain my composure. However, about once a year, for a period of about two or three months or so, I find myself inspired to take a respite from so-called "serious" fiction and go on a Grisham bender (Tom Clancy gets some face time, too). And no, Grisham's not a great writer. At least not in the vein of Updike, or Joyce, or Nabokov, or even a young, contemporary wunderkind like Jhumpa Lahiri or Nicole Krauss. But I think there's no denying that he's a great storyteller. The prose can be clunky at times, but it moves. It grabs you and takes you along with it, sometimes even in spite of yourself.
What's more, Grisham has an undeniably admirable work ethic. After listening to various interviews with him, I've come to appreciate what the man has to say about the craft of writing. He's prolific, but not cheap. For instance, he invests months in the book's outline alone. His view, and I agree, is "if you cheat on the outline, the book suffers." His detailed, comprehensive outlines are, I believe, the chief reason he can turn out a solid legal thriller in six months. Plus, he seems to have no delusions about who he is. By his own admission, he's not a great literary writer. He knows he's not winning a Pulitzer any time soon. But he's okay with that, okay with his multi-million dollar niche in contemporary American fiction. It's a little embarrassing to say, but Grisham has done more than almost any other writer to inspire me to simply knuckle down and write.
Speaking of which, since the time of my last post, the tide has turned somewhat. My last entry had me staring down the barrel of a deficit of over 1,100 words and, I must admit, feeling a little more than intimidated. But yesterday morning before work, I was able to crank out about 2,000 words. Then after work, I slogged through the typical post-shift fatigue and managed to bang out nearly another thousand words. So this morning I approach the day feeling pretty good, yet painfully aware that I need to tread carefully. How easy it would be for me to get cocky and comfortable and let time get away from me.
What's comforting is the knowledge that, after I begin and manage to put down about 300-500 words, the writing becomes addictive, and stopping becomes next to impossible. So, with that, I'm off to the races.
Oh, and by the way, I wanted to share with you my official NaNoWrimo home page, which keeps track of my current word count and features some info about my novel, including a rough excerpt from the first chapter. Cheers.
Current word count: 3,386
Current mood: Cautiously Optimistic
So John Grisham's new book comes out today. The second book the man has published this year. The difference this time is that his latest volume, Ford County, is no mere legal thriller, but a collection of short stories he's been nursing for about twenty years. The book even received a favorable review in that bastion of literary taste, The New York Times.
Grisham is one of those writers people either seem to love or loathe. There's not much middle ground. His fans, and they are legion, rush out to buy each new novel in hardback the week it's released, quickly propelling it to the top of most bestseller lists. His detractors, numerous in their own right, poo-poo Grisham's work, as well as anything that may not be considered "serious" fiction.
As for me, I'm one of the rare few, I think, who goes both ways. The majority of my reading time is spent consuming books of a certain caliber, novels and non-fiction that educate, stretch, challenge, inspire. I most often seek out books with prose that will leap of the page and slap me in the face. Writing that knocks the wind from me, compelling me to set the book down for a moment or two and regain my composure. However, about once a year, for a period of about two or three months or so, I find myself inspired to take a respite from so-called "serious" fiction and go on a Grisham bender (Tom Clancy gets some face time, too). And no, Grisham's not a great writer. At least not in the vein of Updike, or Joyce, or Nabokov, or even a young, contemporary wunderkind like Jhumpa Lahiri or Nicole Krauss. But I think there's no denying that he's a great storyteller. The prose can be clunky at times, but it moves. It grabs you and takes you along with it, sometimes even in spite of yourself.
What's more, Grisham has an undeniably admirable work ethic. After listening to various interviews with him, I've come to appreciate what the man has to say about the craft of writing. He's prolific, but not cheap. For instance, he invests months in the book's outline alone. His view, and I agree, is "if you cheat on the outline, the book suffers." His detailed, comprehensive outlines are, I believe, the chief reason he can turn out a solid legal thriller in six months. Plus, he seems to have no delusions about who he is. By his own admission, he's not a great literary writer. He knows he's not winning a Pulitzer any time soon. But he's okay with that, okay with his multi-million dollar niche in contemporary American fiction. It's a little embarrassing to say, but Grisham has done more than almost any other writer to inspire me to simply knuckle down and write.
Speaking of which, since the time of my last post, the tide has turned somewhat. My last entry had me staring down the barrel of a deficit of over 1,100 words and, I must admit, feeling a little more than intimidated. But yesterday morning before work, I was able to crank out about 2,000 words. Then after work, I slogged through the typical post-shift fatigue and managed to bang out nearly another thousand words. So this morning I approach the day feeling pretty good, yet painfully aware that I need to tread carefully. How easy it would be for me to get cocky and comfortable and let time get away from me.
What's comforting is the knowledge that, after I begin and manage to put down about 300-500 words, the writing becomes addictive, and stopping becomes next to impossible. So, with that, I'm off to the races.
Oh, and by the way, I wanted to share with you my official NaNoWrimo home page, which keeps track of my current word count and features some info about my novel, including a rough excerpt from the first chapter. Cheers.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Day One. The Aftermath.
So I went to bed before 10 pm last night for the first time since the 90's. OK, maybe not the 90's. But close. The reasons for this were threefold.
Fold #1: Falling back an hour kicked my tush. The clock said 9:30 pm but what it MEANT was 10:30.
Fold #2: Only six hours of sleep the night before. I had gone to bed at 1:15ish (or 12:15ish after the time change), and was up at 6:15ish in an attempt to cram some quality writing time in before I had to leave for work. Then I worked from noon to 8:30, which didn't help matters much.
Fold #3: I figured since I didn't get much accomplished after work, I'd just give it up for the day, get a solid night's sleep, and get up early to crank out some wordage.
So here I am. It's a few minutes before 7, I have my steaming cup of tea beside me, and I'm looking out the window at a gorgeous sunrise. And I have no desire to work on my book. Well, a little desire. But not much.
As for Day One, well, I only ended up with a meager 522 words. If one is to be a successful participant in NaNoWriMo, one must rack up a daily average of at least 1,667 words. So I'm starting out Day Two with a deficit of over 1,100 words. Ouch.
On the bright side, if memory serves me correctly, I began last year's NaNoWriMo in much the same way, with a pitiful word count the first couple of days. Plus I spent the majority of November always a little behind where I needed to be. But I made it. Of course, it was stressful and nail-biting and frustrating to be perpetually nipping at the heels of my goal, so I vowed to charge out of the gate next time with a hefty word count and a nice, strong lead. Ha.
Part of my problem is I want to revise as I go. This is strongly discouraged for the NaNoWriMo participant, for obvious reasons. But I'll save my thoughts on revision for another time. I suppose I'd better stop racking up a nice word count here, in this rather comfortable writing environment, and get back to the harsh, frozen tundra of trying to write a novel in 30 days. Cheers.
Fold #1: Falling back an hour kicked my tush. The clock said 9:30 pm but what it MEANT was 10:30.
Fold #2: Only six hours of sleep the night before. I had gone to bed at 1:15ish (or 12:15ish after the time change), and was up at 6:15ish in an attempt to cram some quality writing time in before I had to leave for work. Then I worked from noon to 8:30, which didn't help matters much.
Fold #3: I figured since I didn't get much accomplished after work, I'd just give it up for the day, get a solid night's sleep, and get up early to crank out some wordage.
So here I am. It's a few minutes before 7, I have my steaming cup of tea beside me, and I'm looking out the window at a gorgeous sunrise. And I have no desire to work on my book. Well, a little desire. But not much.
As for Day One, well, I only ended up with a meager 522 words. If one is to be a successful participant in NaNoWriMo, one must rack up a daily average of at least 1,667 words. So I'm starting out Day Two with a deficit of over 1,100 words. Ouch.
On the bright side, if memory serves me correctly, I began last year's NaNoWriMo in much the same way, with a pitiful word count the first couple of days. Plus I spent the majority of November always a little behind where I needed to be. But I made it. Of course, it was stressful and nail-biting and frustrating to be perpetually nipping at the heels of my goal, so I vowed to charge out of the gate next time with a hefty word count and a nice, strong lead. Ha.
Part of my problem is I want to revise as I go. This is strongly discouraged for the NaNoWriMo participant, for obvious reasons. But I'll save my thoughts on revision for another time. I suppose I'd better stop racking up a nice word count here, in this rather comfortable writing environment, and get back to the harsh, frozen tundra of trying to write a novel in 30 days. Cheers.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The First Line.
A good novel needs several things. Words, for starters. Words typically help. Then those words need to tell some kind of story, hopefully one worth reading. They need to get together to somehow create some good characters too, and then go on to make those characters do interesting things. They need to set a stage, dress it, light it, do the wardrobe, hair and makeup, etc., not to mention all that stuff we learned back in middle school English class like setting, theme, proper punctuation, subject/predicate/verb agreement, all that crap.
But among the most important elements a novel must possess, in my humble opinion, is a good first line.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
"Call me Ishmael."
Now I'm not going to kid myself and say that the first line of my newest project could even lick the boots of those famous zingers, let alone claim a seat in the pantheon of great first lines of world literature. But it's important for me to get it right, and to feel like my first line does what all great first lines must do.
What All Great First Lines Must Do:
1. Hook the reader. Call you Ishmael? You got it, dude. That may not even be your real name for all I know, but dang if that's not what I'm gonna call you. Oh and I can't forget you, Chuckie D. I just can't wait to find out about this whole best-and-worst-of-times thing.
2. Set the tone for the entire book. Oh, Jane, you're so right. That IS a truth universally acknowledged. You're so witty and insightful. And so is the next sentence. And the next. And the next.
3. There is no third thing.
For me, if I don't have that first line - or at least some shadow of a first line - in place, the book's not going anywhere. The first line is like the key to a car. You can sit inside that thing, admire the fine leather upholstery, twiddle the knobs, lean the seat back and get comfy, but without the key, you aren't going very far.
As for this particular first line, I've had some variation of it or other rattling around in my brain for the past eight years or so. Even now, I'm not certain that the version I've written will be the one that ultimately makes the cut, but as things stand right now, I think it works. I like to envision myself perusing the shelves at Barnes and Noble. The covers of some books will undoubtedly speak to me, despite that all-too-familiar judging-books-by-their-covers thing. So I'll pick up a few, flip them open to the first page and read that ever-significant first line. If it doesn't get me, then forget it. The book doesn't stand a chance. But I think that, upon picking up a copy of my book, if I read this first line, I think I'd keep reading. Then it's up to the first two paragraphs to reel me in.
So, does my first line do the things all great first lines must do?
You tell me.
"The way I heard it, it was the Thompson boys who saw her first."
But among the most important elements a novel must possess, in my humble opinion, is a good first line.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
"Call me Ishmael."
Now I'm not going to kid myself and say that the first line of my newest project could even lick the boots of those famous zingers, let alone claim a seat in the pantheon of great first lines of world literature. But it's important for me to get it right, and to feel like my first line does what all great first lines must do.
What All Great First Lines Must Do:
1. Hook the reader. Call you Ishmael? You got it, dude. That may not even be your real name for all I know, but dang if that's not what I'm gonna call you. Oh and I can't forget you, Chuckie D. I just can't wait to find out about this whole best-and-worst-of-times thing.
2. Set the tone for the entire book. Oh, Jane, you're so right. That IS a truth universally acknowledged. You're so witty and insightful. And so is the next sentence. And the next. And the next.
3. There is no third thing.
For me, if I don't have that first line - or at least some shadow of a first line - in place, the book's not going anywhere. The first line is like the key to a car. You can sit inside that thing, admire the fine leather upholstery, twiddle the knobs, lean the seat back and get comfy, but without the key, you aren't going very far.
As for this particular first line, I've had some variation of it or other rattling around in my brain for the past eight years or so. Even now, I'm not certain that the version I've written will be the one that ultimately makes the cut, but as things stand right now, I think it works. I like to envision myself perusing the shelves at Barnes and Noble. The covers of some books will undoubtedly speak to me, despite that all-too-familiar judging-books-by-their-covers thing. So I'll pick up a few, flip them open to the first page and read that ever-significant first line. If it doesn't get me, then forget it. The book doesn't stand a chance. But I think that, upon picking up a copy of my book, if I read this first line, I think I'd keep reading. Then it's up to the first two paragraphs to reel me in.
So, does my first line do the things all great first lines must do?
You tell me.
"The way I heard it, it was the Thompson boys who saw her first."
Saturday, October 31, 2009
And so it begins . . . again.
So here it is, nearly midnight at the end of another day. Only this day marks the day I was born, some 35 years ago. I'm tempted to just stay up and play the End-Of-Daylight-Savings card, but my body doesn't give a rip about daylight savings. It KNOWS what time it is. And my kids' bodies know too. They'll be up at six, thinking it's seven. So I'll keep this fairly brief.
I heard someone say once that one day I just wouldn't care so much about birthdays, that I wouldn't want to get any older or have any desire for the hubbub and confetti and showers of affection that once accompanied the annual celebration of my emergence from the womb. And I remember thinking something to the effect of: "that person is smoking crack. And not just any crack. The really, really good crack." But, naturally, that person was right. Don't remember who that person was. If I do, I'll track them down and punch them in the face.
By the way, the point of all this is: I'm writing a novel.
In just a few short minutes, it will officially be November 1st, 2009. Which means I'm about to be the busiest recluse you'd ever want to not meet. November 1st marks the start of National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo). NaNoWriMo is a pretty spectacular event that occurs each November. The idea is simple. Thousands of aspiring novelists like myself hunch over their keyboards, bug-eyed and salivating, typing furiously in pursuit of one common goal: to complete a 50,000 word (or longer) novel in just 30 days. It's not a contest. There are no winners or losers. It exists simply to motivate new writers who have always wanted to finish a novel but have never had any clue how to do so.
As some of you may recall, this won't be my first time. Last November was my first foray into the psychotic, caffeine-soaked world of NaNoWriMo. I started out with a very vague idea which had some promise. It was to be a novel (working title: Weight) about a high-school wrestler coming of age in rural Nebraska. I kind of liked the idea, and I thought it was perfect for NaNoWriMo. It was a new enough concept, which meant that I had no idea where it was headed, so I didn't care about writing non-stop, with no time to edit. I figured if it sucked, I'd chuck it. No big deal. So I wrote furiously every day, for hours on end. In the process, I briefly alienated my beautiful, supportive wife and forgot the names of my two children. I became surly and scraggly and twitchy. My back pulled a Quasimoto and my hands shriveled into twin writer's claws. OK, so it wasn't quite that bad. In fact, it was quite a jolly good time. Mostly. Long story short, when November 30 rolled around, I had done it. I had crossed the threshold of 50,000 words.
But my book sucked. Well, it didn't suck per se. Actually, there were some really nice passages in there, some places where the writing really sang and resonated with me, and for a while there the book seemed as though it could become something that readers like myself might actually want to read. But the novel ultimately lacked focus and direction. It meandered all over the place. Plus it was becoming far too big and clunky and autobiographical, which meant that I had violated one of my own unwritten rules: to keep myself out of the dang thing as much as possible. But writing feverishly with no time for revision will do that to you.
Soon after NaNoWriMo ended, I discovered that a couple of months later a contest for aspiring writers was taking place: The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. This contest has only been around for a couple of years, and its purpose is to award some aspiring novelist out there with a $26,000 publishing contract and the opportunity to become the published author he or she has always dreamed of becoming. Basically, it's American Idol for books. I thought: here's my chance. I can take this big, unwieldy, embarrassingly personal book and craft it into something that will surely go in there and kick all the other little unpublished novels' skinny little tails. But I was so drained from NaNoWriMo that I decided to treat myself to a week off. Just a week to relax, work like a normal person, remember the names of my children. Then I would crack my knuckles, hunch my back and dive in for two and a half months of solid writing and revision. So I took a week off. Then I took another week off. And another. And at the start of every new week I just couldn't bring myself to face the monster again. (Note: In case you believe otherwise, let me assure you: names of novels matter. I had decided to call my book Weight, and that's exactly what it had become.) It was now late December and the submissions for the contest would have to be in during the first week of February. And I still had a ton of work to do.
Fast-forward to mid-January. I'm tired, burnt-out, and frustrated, and my novel is now longer, more autobiographical, and even more unwieldy than before. So I found myself literally on the verge of total breakdown. And that's when the tide suddenly turned. I remember it vividly. I was standing in line at the library, and there, staring me straight in the face, was the book that had won the same contest the previous year. It was a gritty, hard-boiled, Dennis Lehane-esque mystery entitled Fresh Kills. And I thought: I can do that. All I need is a plot. Something fun that I can bang out in two weeks. A short novel that moves. Fast-paced, interesting, good dialogue, and a story. So I prayed. I literally cried out to God for an idea. And two hours later, I had one. It was a Hitchockian thriller called The Inheritance, about a man who goes to his aging mobster father's mansion to kill him. It had all the elements I had been looking for. And my wife liked it. So I sat up until the wee hours typing out a quick outline. The next day, I started writing. And I loved it. The story moved, the dialogue was sharp and interesting, the characters mysterious and complex. There was even some heart to the thing. Thirteen days later, it was finished. I had actually finished a novel. Finally. I submitted it to the contest and made it through the first two rounds, then got the axe. Truth be told, I wasn't that surprised or even disappointed. I liked the book, but I had to face the facts. It wasn't wholly original, and I had written it in less than two weeks. What the experience did for me was confirm, at least for myself, that I was in fact a writer. And a pretty good one at that. In other words, I proved I could do it. Next year I would be back and I'd be back like gangbusters.
It's now 12:10 am. Next year has arrived.
So the plan is this. I'm going to start writing my new book tomorrow morning, and I want to take you along with me. This blog is going to exist, hopefully, to let you in on the writing process, and to give me a place to vent about it all. Honestly, I probably won't be writing too much here since I'll be consumed with writing the book, but I'll do my best. Plus, I plan to post excerpts, maybe even whole chapters of the book here as I go, so you can see how the novel takes shape in its rawest, unrevised state. And no, it's not either of my two previous ideas from last year. It's an idea I've carried around like a fragile little dove in my heart for the past eight years or so. It came to me in a dream, actually, and when I woke up from the dream I knew I had a fully formed book idea, one that could really become something. I won't give much of anything away yet, but I will say that a couple of real-life events have taken place (Elizabeth Smart and Jaycee Dugard, to be specific) in the years since that dream, which echo the central event of the novel. This makes me nervous, as I don't want to come off as a hack who's simply ripping off headlines. But I can't fight the sense that I just HAVE to write this book.
It is now 12:21 am. Or really 11:21 pm. Either way, I'm wasted. Tomorrow morning approacheth much too swiftly. Here's hoping you'll join me as I temporarily go completely mad. Cheers.
I heard someone say once that one day I just wouldn't care so much about birthdays, that I wouldn't want to get any older or have any desire for the hubbub and confetti and showers of affection that once accompanied the annual celebration of my emergence from the womb. And I remember thinking something to the effect of: "that person is smoking crack. And not just any crack. The really, really good crack." But, naturally, that person was right. Don't remember who that person was. If I do, I'll track them down and punch them in the face.
By the way, the point of all this is: I'm writing a novel.
In just a few short minutes, it will officially be November 1st, 2009. Which means I'm about to be the busiest recluse you'd ever want to not meet. November 1st marks the start of National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo). NaNoWriMo is a pretty spectacular event that occurs each November. The idea is simple. Thousands of aspiring novelists like myself hunch over their keyboards, bug-eyed and salivating, typing furiously in pursuit of one common goal: to complete a 50,000 word (or longer) novel in just 30 days. It's not a contest. There are no winners or losers. It exists simply to motivate new writers who have always wanted to finish a novel but have never had any clue how to do so.
As some of you may recall, this won't be my first time. Last November was my first foray into the psychotic, caffeine-soaked world of NaNoWriMo. I started out with a very vague idea which had some promise. It was to be a novel (working title: Weight) about a high-school wrestler coming of age in rural Nebraska. I kind of liked the idea, and I thought it was perfect for NaNoWriMo. It was a new enough concept, which meant that I had no idea where it was headed, so I didn't care about writing non-stop, with no time to edit. I figured if it sucked, I'd chuck it. No big deal. So I wrote furiously every day, for hours on end. In the process, I briefly alienated my beautiful, supportive wife and forgot the names of my two children. I became surly and scraggly and twitchy. My back pulled a Quasimoto and my hands shriveled into twin writer's claws. OK, so it wasn't quite that bad. In fact, it was quite a jolly good time. Mostly. Long story short, when November 30 rolled around, I had done it. I had crossed the threshold of 50,000 words.
But my book sucked. Well, it didn't suck per se. Actually, there were some really nice passages in there, some places where the writing really sang and resonated with me, and for a while there the book seemed as though it could become something that readers like myself might actually want to read. But the novel ultimately lacked focus and direction. It meandered all over the place. Plus it was becoming far too big and clunky and autobiographical, which meant that I had violated one of my own unwritten rules: to keep myself out of the dang thing as much as possible. But writing feverishly with no time for revision will do that to you.
Soon after NaNoWriMo ended, I discovered that a couple of months later a contest for aspiring writers was taking place: The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. This contest has only been around for a couple of years, and its purpose is to award some aspiring novelist out there with a $26,000 publishing contract and the opportunity to become the published author he or she has always dreamed of becoming. Basically, it's American Idol for books. I thought: here's my chance. I can take this big, unwieldy, embarrassingly personal book and craft it into something that will surely go in there and kick all the other little unpublished novels' skinny little tails. But I was so drained from NaNoWriMo that I decided to treat myself to a week off. Just a week to relax, work like a normal person, remember the names of my children. Then I would crack my knuckles, hunch my back and dive in for two and a half months of solid writing and revision. So I took a week off. Then I took another week off. And another. And at the start of every new week I just couldn't bring myself to face the monster again. (Note: In case you believe otherwise, let me assure you: names of novels matter. I had decided to call my book Weight, and that's exactly what it had become.) It was now late December and the submissions for the contest would have to be in during the first week of February. And I still had a ton of work to do.
Fast-forward to mid-January. I'm tired, burnt-out, and frustrated, and my novel is now longer, more autobiographical, and even more unwieldy than before. So I found myself literally on the verge of total breakdown. And that's when the tide suddenly turned. I remember it vividly. I was standing in line at the library, and there, staring me straight in the face, was the book that had won the same contest the previous year. It was a gritty, hard-boiled, Dennis Lehane-esque mystery entitled Fresh Kills. And I thought: I can do that. All I need is a plot. Something fun that I can bang out in two weeks. A short novel that moves. Fast-paced, interesting, good dialogue, and a story. So I prayed. I literally cried out to God for an idea. And two hours later, I had one. It was a Hitchockian thriller called The Inheritance, about a man who goes to his aging mobster father's mansion to kill him. It had all the elements I had been looking for. And my wife liked it. So I sat up until the wee hours typing out a quick outline. The next day, I started writing. And I loved it. The story moved, the dialogue was sharp and interesting, the characters mysterious and complex. There was even some heart to the thing. Thirteen days later, it was finished. I had actually finished a novel. Finally. I submitted it to the contest and made it through the first two rounds, then got the axe. Truth be told, I wasn't that surprised or even disappointed. I liked the book, but I had to face the facts. It wasn't wholly original, and I had written it in less than two weeks. What the experience did for me was confirm, at least for myself, that I was in fact a writer. And a pretty good one at that. In other words, I proved I could do it. Next year I would be back and I'd be back like gangbusters.
It's now 12:10 am. Next year has arrived.
So the plan is this. I'm going to start writing my new book tomorrow morning, and I want to take you along with me. This blog is going to exist, hopefully, to let you in on the writing process, and to give me a place to vent about it all. Honestly, I probably won't be writing too much here since I'll be consumed with writing the book, but I'll do my best. Plus, I plan to post excerpts, maybe even whole chapters of the book here as I go, so you can see how the novel takes shape in its rawest, unrevised state. And no, it's not either of my two previous ideas from last year. It's an idea I've carried around like a fragile little dove in my heart for the past eight years or so. It came to me in a dream, actually, and when I woke up from the dream I knew I had a fully formed book idea, one that could really become something. I won't give much of anything away yet, but I will say that a couple of real-life events have taken place (Elizabeth Smart and Jaycee Dugard, to be specific) in the years since that dream, which echo the central event of the novel. This makes me nervous, as I don't want to come off as a hack who's simply ripping off headlines. But I can't fight the sense that I just HAVE to write this book.
It is now 12:21 am. Or really 11:21 pm. Either way, I'm wasted. Tomorrow morning approacheth much too swiftly. Here's hoping you'll join me as I temporarily go completely mad. Cheers.
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