NaNoWriMo Revisited: Clips from the Real Thing

I've been getting some requests lately to share the 50,000-word novel I drafted in November, and while I'm sure everyone thinks I'm just putting them off (maybe I am), I really do want my words to be read eventually.  However, I feel like revealing your newborn projects to too wide an audience can be dangerous, hence why I've only given the manuscript to two people for feedback so far.

I do appreciate that a number of people -- including some of my lovely family and friends who read this blog -- would like to see proof this thing exists.  And I'm excited to share a few pieces, so I've asked those two aforementioned friends to give me a couple of their favorite passages.  Over the next couple weeks or so I'm going to take those excerpts, polish them up where necessary, and post them here for your consumption.

I hesitate to characterize this as a "young adult novel."  It just so happens to be about a young adult.

Click on the jump below to read it.  As always, feedback is welcome!  Thanks to Tyson for picking this one :)

Bad Poetry

Over the holidays a friend gave me a little cardboard box full of pretty little notebooks.  This sounds like a gift, but really it was just part of the reward I reaped for keeping him company while he cleaned out 10 years' worth of papers stuffed into his desk.  Occasionally he'd find something he hadn't used in several years and offer it to me.

The notebooks are unlined and pretty small -- about 1/4 of a standard sheet of paper -- so my first thought was, these are perfect for poetry!  Now, poetry always came naturally to me when I was younger, but it hasn't for at least 10 years or so.  I'm certain this event coincides with the point when I realized all the poetry I was writing was terrible.

Who knows if I still write bad poetry now, though, because I just stopped doing it.  Just about every other form of writing comes easily and reads well, so I figured I should just give up on writing poetry and lyrics.  However, receiving that box of little notebooks got me thinking: just like I give myself permission to write just about anything in my daily writing practice, maybe I should give myself permission to write bad poetry, too.  So that's what I'm doing: writing bad poetry in these little notebooks.  So far I've written about unrequited desires and fleeting fantasies and musings on the land of my birth, since most bad poetry tends to be about these things.

The thing is, a lot of good poetry is about that, too.  And if I never let myself write poetry because it's not coming out sounding perfect or right or even tolerable, I'll never come out on the other side.  Scrawling out a novel rather haphazardly seems to have been pretty well-received, so I'm going to try writing down some vaguely poetic lines in hopes of finding something good eventually.

And, to honor that sentiment, I'm putting something below the cut that I wrote in the car on the way up to Vermont the other day.  Leave something in the comments if you've ever hesitated to do something because you thought it wouldn't be good.

Breaks.

Lately I've been wondering about my creative process, wondering if breaks are a necessary gear keeping the process spinning or whether breaks are just that, a break in character.  A skip, a foible.  Between Christmas and New Year's I took an honest and true break.  Though I carried my notebook to Pennsylvania for Christmas, its pages remained largely undisturbed for the length of the trip.

But now I'm typing this with my laptop on the kitchen counter, reheating the last of the Christmas leftovers, and really telling myself -- it's over.  Break's over.

While I was home from work (lucky us, our office closes between Christmas and New Year's) I stayed up late, mostly slept late, drank champagne and played board games, spent whole days in my pajamas watching movies and playing World of Warcraft.  Occasionally I'd feel a twinge and think, "I should be working on my novel," but then I'd realize I'd let writerfriends take it away, force this break.

By Sunday, though, the last Sunday before returning to the office, I was finished.  Even on Saturday I had an inclination to start planning a zine, got out a sketchpad and some old stuff and laid in my writing room, back on the floor and eyes glued to the ceiling fan.  So much of the creative process can be laying on the floor surrounded by papers and books.

But on Sunday I was full-on done with breaks.  I twisted an incense burner out of tin foil and struck out to the basement to sort through some of the boxes down there, thinking I might find inspiration in purging, sorting, making plans for the space after I empty it of clutter.  I watched Angels in America and relished the way it put my soul through a wringer, lost myself in it as an artist and a human.  I started writing again in earnest, returned to my daily practice.  I had a significant personal revelation.

My question is, did my break pave the way for all this?  Did it prepare me to work again on my novel after I receive it back full of red pen?  Did it leave my heart open for new ideas, new inspiration, did it give me new eyes? Or was it just a delay, a hiccup, a missed opportunity to immerse myself in a project?

We have such a need to create, but I'm feeling oddly guiltless about taking some time away from "real" things, "productive" things.  Accomplishments.  I'm feeling like the past week left me open to realize even after taking so much time out for myself, I still voluntarily return to my words.  I miss them, need them.  I can take a break from them, go on vacation, and know full well I'll be more than happy to come back.

Art in a Vacuum

A few years ago, when I was completing my final semester of college, I got the opportunity to visit the Fore River Shipyard in Quincy, Massachusetts.  This was not only the site of the world's largest crane (since dismantled), it was also where part of The Departed was filmed and probably one of the most exciting places I've ever been.  Even though we weren't allowed, a few of us snuck off to explore and take pictures over our lunch break.  The photos from that day -- though taken quickly with a point and shoot digital camera and without a thought to framing, composition, subject matter, or general good technique -- later became part of one of my favorite creative projects.

After returning from my trip, I took those pictures to my photography professor and lamented the fact that I hadn't gotten a chance to do any "real" photography there, hadn't had time or equipment to produce "real art."  She told me I had a lot of absolute gems on that roll and I should keep going, find more locations to photograph, apply for a grant to make gigantic prints of my shipyard photos.

In the end I got the grant, took more photos, and produced a handmade artist's book to display my work.  I may be more proud of that final product than anything else I did that year.

I've often said I miss existing in a community of artists.  In college, creative people tend to flock together.  I remember fine arts, graphic design, music, theatre majors all having their own exclusive cliques.  Outside their academic work, their style of dress and social activities and parties set them apart from everyone else.  They lived and breathed their craft.

Many of us don't retain that after college.  I feel like those of us with BFAs are especially prone to end up in interesting places that don't quite line up with what's on our diploma.  We didn't go to school to be actuaries or rocket scientists or high school French teachers.  Our university's career center didn't know quite what to do with us, so if we didn't move to New York City or apply for teaching positions or start an MFA program, we made our own path in life.

I'm actually pleased with my day job, where I do a lot of writing and solve challenging problems and keep some pretty great company.  But I am definitely out of that creative element much of the time.  People are actually impressed to learn I have several six foot tall paintings in my basement that I painted myself.  They told me I was crazy to try to write 50,000 words toward a novel in one month.  At one time, either of these things might have been considered commonplace and even expected by my peers.

So as I work on editing and rewriting this novel, I have to remember what my painting professor said so many times it became cliche: you don't create art in a vacuum.  Without that creative community, I never would have pursued my Reclamation project.  I would have taken some neat pictures at an abandoned shipyard and left it at that, and people would have been impressed.  But I had a mentor who saw potential in the project and challenged me to keep going with it, flesh it out into a mature project.

My next step is to take advantage of the little creative community I have within my friends and lay out the fast, sketchy work I've done so far.  Lot's of people might say I wrote my plot beginning to end, so I wrote a novel.  I didn't.  Not yet.  I took the first hasty roll of film.  Now I have to think about why I was attracted to those scenes, take some notes, and plan my next shoot.  And to do that, I need to bring it to someone who's never seen it before and say "hey, look what I did, do you think it will go anywhere?"  Because talking about our art is a key part of understanding it, processing it, finding deeper meaning and new directions with it.  And having people working alongside us and helping critique our work in progress is a luxury we shouldn't give up once we're past taking classes.

Characters

Though I haven't gone into it in depth in this blog, I define myself by the breadth of my creative experiences. I enjoy spending time with creative people of all breeds and have explored a lot of artistic avenues on my own. Sometimes this makes me fear trying to do everything and never really getting good at anything, but it also gives me plenty of room for comparison when I need a new perspective.

A day or two after I intended but still more or less on target, I've started to tackle this manuscript. At first I felt so resistant to reading it at all. I found any excuse not to break open the thick folder, didn't even want to look at my 291-page manuscript.

But eventually I settled in and devoted a bit of my Saturday to it, burning a sweet-smelling candle and listening to Tim Buckley with my cat and papers on the couch. Eventually notes started to come out like I was giving stage directions, telling my characters to spit words out like they were too bitter to keep in their mouths anymore. I hope that means the characters will eventually feel more three-dimensional, like I can feel them in the room with me as I tell them how I want them to be.

This is going to be a long process though. They're only on their first read-through of the script, the set is still being built, there definitely aren't any real props yet. The characters are still sort of a mystery. Months from now, they will feel like real people existing in a little world inside our own.

Incidentally, after I'd finished finding the copy engaging and quick to read, after I'd marked up a good 40 pages before the end of my CD, I found myself hating everything about it. The flat characters and the plot that was unbelievable, immature at best. Then the worry started sneaking in, the suspicion that it was really just unsalvageable.

Going back, though, why can't this feel like I'm preparing for a play or a concert? Why can't my plot and characters be revealed in layers over the course of months? Why should I be embarrassed to show my friends a draft and ask for suggestions when I know everyone knows it's undeveloped? It's like showing my brown underpainting, my storyboard, my initial sketches. Certainly no masterpiece yet, and no way to know where it will end up when it's done.

Taking a cue from NaNoWriMo itself, when I was motivated by the fact that I'd told so many people I was writing 50,000 words in a month, I've set another deadline. I've told some friends I'll give this thing to them by Christmas, and I intend to do just that. No matter how much editing I have done. Because you can't start working on your character before you've read the script, and you can't prepare for the concert without attending your first rehearsal. At some point, everyone's work looks like a vague sketch or a bad sightread, right?

Oh, AND.

I meant to point out in that last post that I won despite only making the daily goal for 11 out of the 30 days. At the same time, my highest daily word count was 4820, so I didn't exactly have to cram either. For me it was all about perseverance and keeping a rhythm even when I knew I hadn't met the previous day's quota -- something I learned from my daily writing practice long before November.

Here's a chart showing how I did (note how it predicted I'd fall 5,000 words short according to my pace). You can also view it on the NaNoWriMo site for more info on what all the columns mean.

After NaNoWriMo...

I thought I'd have a lot to say after NaNoWriMo was over, but I find myself at a bit of a loss. I crossed the finish line at 50,020 words with about five hours to spare in the month of November. Like most things I do, I consider that pretty much adequate. No lofty 100,000 words, but I sure didn't fall short either. I even wrote out my whole story, so there's no serious slogging left to do. All I have now is 291 pages of manuscript, which I sneakily printed out at work today (double sided -- don't worry), and a drawer full of pens. Hopefully I'll be able to move through the draft and get the first rewrite done by Christmas.

One thing is sure, though: after a month-long vacation, my perfectionist streak has returned with a vengeance. Despite banishing it from my sight for a few days to cleanse my palate, I keep thinking about my story -- descriptions, timelines, what the ground feels like beneath my characters' feet. I feel like after telling everyone about my novel and then spending all this time on it I have something weighty to prove. I have to prove myself able to write a novel that's better than anything you've ever read.

While I do think perfectionism is the mother of quality work, in large doses it can be crippling. It can be a reason never to finish my novel or show it to anyone. So I think I'm just going to do what editing I can by Christmas, then -- eeeek! Horror of horrors! -- show it to my most trusted writer friends for feedback no matter what. Of course they'll know it's bad. But it's a draft, so in theory of course they'll know it's supposed to be bad. No one writes a masterpiece in the first draft. It needs to be written and rewritten until it's just right. This is just the bones. Just the bones. And if I don't start showing works in progress to people, if I don't start seeing my work for what it is and appreciating it in all stages of the process, I'm never going to kill that voice inside saying I should be embarrassed by everything I create. Every song I sing, every picture I take, every story I write.

In the end, I think that's the biggest lesson I've learned by writing 50,000 words in 30 days. No one can accomplish that while expecting perfection of themselves. I don't know if anyone can write the first draft of a novel at all while expecting perfection of themselves. And for a month, I suspended my need for everything to be well-considered and perfect and just wrote. Not in my journal, either, but in a document I want to reach the public eye someday. Doing that was a new experience for me, and one I hope to continue. I also hope to have some better reflections on the experience at some point, but for now I'm just quietly basking in my own sense of self-satisfaction.

Missing Writing Marathons

NaNoWriMo is getting both harder and easier: too much thinking, too little writing, too much doubt, but then realizing I only have 12,400 words left as I write this. Compared to how far I've come, that's really nothing. Plus, tonight's 2,000 words came easily, which is always encouraging.

The thing is, a person can't accomplish something like this alone. As someone who once believed (and still sometimes believes) all my strength and potential came from within, I feel like this is a valuable lesson. Not only have I learned I can actually do anything I put my mind to (although I secretly knew that already), I've learned I need conversation, inspiration, encouragement.

Not all encouraging words are the same with seven days left in the challenge, either. The time has passed for "we'll be proud of you no matter what." At this point I need someone to kick my ass a little bit, tell me "hey, you set a goal and you are totally capable of achieving it. You've come too far for me to watch you fall short now."

Or, best of all, "let's sit down and write together." What I wouldn't give for a writing marathon with my best friend before this is all over. Throwing words down on the page recklessly. Reading aloud every 15 minutes and impressing each other, ourselves. I feel like that's the relationship I need right now. I miss the communal creativity, discovering pieces of each other, spouting off topics and running with them, looking back satisfied at how many pages we'd filled. It's been years since I did something like this, either because I wasn't writing enough or because I didn't have anyone nearby to write with.

So this month I learned (again) how important it is to reach out in times of creative need. I need to reach out now, somehow, if only just a little bit during this holiday weekend. I need to maintain my creative momentum, and that's not always something we can do alone.

We'll see how these last few days go. Either way, I'm looking forward to posting the final verdict on December 1. It should be an exciting race to the finish line!

NaNoWriMo: Crossing the Halfway Point

So here I am, more than halfway through the month and -- miracle of miracles -- also more than halfway to 50,000 words. There is a chance I might just do this. I've told my friends and family about it, I've even put celebrating the end right up there with celebrating my birthday (actually, it's the same party).

Week Two was hard. I mean it, it was a serious challenge. Just shy of 20,000 words I hit a point where I realized my characters were just rough conglomerations of different traits. They needed to become real, live people in the story. I needed to learn more about them. So I forced myself to keep writing, 1,000 words at a time, to figure out what made these folks tick.

I think I'm getting it. Crossing the 25K mark was a huge milestone not just in terms of being more than halfway there, but in terms of being able to sit down and write and see 1,000 words go down on the page with hardly any trouble at all.

I also took a little vacation from my story: saw friends, played games, etc. On Saturday I realized I'd sort of abandoned my real life. Not good. So we'll see how living in two worlds works out for me. On Monday when I was getting ready for work I actually noticed dark circles under my eyes, a clear sign of age or sleeplessness or both. Consistently skimping on sleep just isn't as easy as it used to be. I can remember staying up until all hours working on school projects or spending time with friends. Now that tired feeling during the day just doesn't seem worth it. Either that or I end up falling asleep on the floor at 11:00 on a Friday night. Not my proudest moment, but it's all leading up to one of my proudest moments for sure: crossing the NaNoWriMo finish line.

While I may not be able to stay awake past 11:00 on a Friday night, I do possess a certain "failure is not an option," do-or-die streak that keeps me going on projects like this. Sleepiness or no, server upgrades and fundraising season at the office or no, this novel's going to get written. It'll get written in the car on the way to/from Thanksgiving in PA (yes, I have a power inverter to plug into the cigarette lighter). It'll get it written at 8:00 on a Saturday morning after I've only just been roused from my friends' floor at 2:00 a.m.

It'll get written in the time before work that I used to reserve for showering and making my hair look presentable (i.e. not slept on). Don't ask about that one. Really.

At any rate, I'm still plugging away at this thing and I'm still on track to succeed, if only just barely. So here's to the rest of November!

NaNoWriMo at one week

It hasn't always been easy, but I've managed to stay in the game thus far. I am proud to say I wrapped up NaNoWriMo week 1 with 14,110 words (more than my goal of 13,000 by the end of the weekend).

So, a little recap:

Before it all began, I felt good. I sat down with a close friend and talked over the practical points of my plot with him. I watched Across the Universe. I dug into the first day with all the "fun" parts. I figured out immediately that writing a plot about a character usually means writing it out of order, gradually fitting the pieces together. I took the Myers-Briggs test for my main character and wrote about her flaws.

During the first few days I feel behind on my word count. Perfectionism and overthinking slowed me down until Wednesday or Thursday, when I broke into a place where I could write freely, like I do for my daily writing practice. During this time I also wondered how to keep up my daily practice while writing my novel. I feel like the novel suffers when it becomes everything I'm thinking and writing about. After all, the little observations make it real. The funny experience I had in a cab last week makes it real.

I've promised myself I'll start a new zine project when my current notebook is full down to the last page, and this has kept me going with my daily writing. This weekend I discovered a new NaNo incentive in this: at the end of 30 days, I will really have something. I'll have the bare bones of a real live novel, something I can sink my editing teeth into. And that's when the real writing starts. I love editing far more than writing from scratch much of the time, love watching my mind work through problems and produce a final draft I never could have imagined from the outset.

Thinking about that -- the final product and what it means for me -- provides a light at the end of the tunnel. Writing 1700 words of fiction per day has gotten easier. Hell, I wrote over 7000 words this weekend. But sustaining that pace will require more than nimble wrists and kernels of plot ideas. It's going to take some big-time perseverance. But I've told my family and friends I will do this, can do this, and I've promised myself a draft of a novel by the end of the month. So I'm really just going to do it.

Here's to literary abandon! I'll try to keep up at least weekly updates here, and I'm currently chatting about my progress on Twitter (check the mini-blog in the sidebar).