Quickie Progress Report

In my last post I told you about my experience of trying to write a novel in one month. Did I end up with one? Not even a shitty first draft. It was more like I jotted down 1500 words' worth of notes every day for a month. Not a waste of time. But definitely not a novel. If anything, it taught me that I don't have a coherent idea for one.

NaNoWriMo books that have gone on to be published (according to About.com's Fiction Writing column): Sarah Gruen's "Flying Changes," Rebecca Agiewich's "Breakup Babe," Dave Wilson's "The Mote in Andrea's Eye," and Gayle Brandeis's "Self Storage."

For more information, click here: www.nanowrimo.org.

Writing Marathon

I've taken the idea of the National Novel Writing Month for my own. Since June 8th, I've been writing at least 1500 words a day of a novel that I've been wanting to write for at least six years. As of today I have 16,064 words, which averages 2000 words a day. So I'm a little ahead of schedule. I was really stuck yesterday--I still managed to get 1500 words out, but just barely. I kept looking up things on the Internet because there are so many facts I have to check. I can see why John Grisham needs all the researchers that I read he employs in order to be as prolific as he is. It's extremely time-consuming. Finally I just had to write some descriptions and let it go. Today I was back to primarily dialogue.

Is it working? I am getting down some ideas that have been percolating in my mind and I've gone in some directions I hadn't planned ahead of time. The truth is, I didn't have much planned before I started writing. So this is really a rough draft. But that's what it's meant to be, nothing more. I've discovered that I can crank out the words, but I still don't know if I can shape them into something worth reading. But, first things first.

I got some books out of the library that are along similar lines as my novel. I also got out a lot of possible resource books. Twenty books in all! I've designated a corner of our living room as a reading nook. All the books are stacked behind my favorite armchair. Along with piles of papers and other books. My favorite pens are there, too, as well as a lot of scrap paper. (Do I have scrap paper!) The only problem I can foresee is that I'm going to have limited time to write over the next week, because my grandson is coming to visit. Maybe I can get some input from him about how my novel should go, even if he is only eight!

The main result of all this industry is that fiction is no longer the scary form I thought it was. I had myself convinced that I can't write fiction, that my strong suit was essays and that's it. But the truth is, I'd never really tried to write fiction except for when I was young enough not to be afraid of things of it. (Which means I was maybe between eight and twelve.) I still don't know if I can write fiction, but at least I'm giving it a try, finally. Another result has been that I can't read anything now without comparing my writing with the author I'm reading and trying to glean tips from it. I suppose I should have been reading like that all along, but I think it took this boost of writing activity to make me see that.

Just a few thoughts about the process. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

First Day

I don't think there's anything magical about the changing of the years. Dates after all, are what we use to mark the passage time. Sometimes it's helpful and sometimes it's merely depressing. With every day that goes by, I'm reminded that I have not yet "arrived," by which I mean some kind of recognition that my life counted for something. But maybe we never "arrive" till the day we die. Maybe we never "arrive" until our work here is finished.

Hallmark thought, I know. And it doesn't really help us figure out what our work is. I have an idea about that: I think our work is everything that we do in this life. Is it right to label just one thing as our "work" and then assume that as long as we do well in that one thing, we are successful? We've all heard of geniuses in their fields who were failures as spouses and parents and friends. No one expects us to be perfect in all that we do, but isn't it just as important to do our best in all areas of our lives and not just in our "work"? I'm reminded of a minister who put off doing things with his children because he had to do "God's work." What did he think being a parent was if not also God's work?

I happen to believe in God; it's a fact about me that can't be changed. But not everyone sees life in the terms I outlined above. So what? Don't we all seek some kind of recognition that we existed and that we mattered? This is mainly an existential matter, not a religious one. I don't know how many writers hope that their writing will leave behind some kind of evidence that they once existed, but I would guess that it's most of us, if we're honest. One reason I write this blog is to offer some kind of proof that I exist. Not a very permanent proof, I agree, given the nature of the Internet. But it's a start.