NaNoWriMo; Let the Marathon of Words Begin

“Beware the Jabberwock… the jaws that bite, the claws that catch… And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!  He chortled in his joy.”

~ Lewis Carol

Last year at this time, I was a few weeks into a novel, astounded to be there.  It was also the first time I started to read online, beyond the barrier of basic news and entertainment.  That was when I first heard of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month.

What a wonderful concept; a marathon for our mind.  I cannot run twenty-six miles in a day, but I can write fifty-thousand words in a month.

Upon my finish, I don’t expect the printer to spit anything other than a super sloppy copy.  I imagine my ratio will be about one good page for every nine sheets of (shhhh… don’t tell anyone I almost swore on Writer Dad).  At that percentage, the month might leave behind a thirty page outline; one for each day of adventure.

I was gung-ho well before the email which sent me salutations, arriving just sixty seconds after sign up, with seven hundred words of zealous advice.

The cliff notes:

  • We don’t have to know where we’re going, so long as we get up and go.  Not every adventure needs a map, but without a hunger to see beyond the bend, our desires are fire waiting for ash.
  • Editing is for December.  November’s an experiment in pure output; a time to embrace our literary imperfections.  It’s for slipping off our shoes and wiggling our toes.  Perhaps so we can shove our socks inside the mouth of our inner nag.
  • We must inform anyone who will listen about our undertaking.  If they laugh, then we must repeat ourselves in a stronger voice.
  • Don’t even think about thinking of quitting.  Those who listened to our bold declarations will be expecting a finish.
  • Week Two can be hard. Week Three is much better. Week Four will make you want to yodel.

So I’m going to start writing a novel on Saturday, and will continue each day, writing without a map, until I reach my destination on the final day of the month.  I’ll silence my inner critic, declare my diligence, and see the story through until the very end.  Then, I will yodel.

I’ve set up a page for us nano’s to gather.  A tee-pee inside the village for us to pow-wow about our pages, endlessly whine, and fish for compliments.  More than anything else, the month should be merry.   A successful November doesn’t mean we write the great American novel.  It means we enjoy our moments, and end with a draft to diddle in December.

Writer Dad

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Check Your Email…

Wisdom is knowing what to do next; virtue is doing it. 

~David Star Jordan

Happy Monday. 

You should be reading the first few words of a well articulated thought right now; the first few crumbs today, the entire trail taking us all the way until Friday.

 

You are not and will not be following any trail.  At least not yet.

I planned to break a string of ideas into sequential posts, each adding hue to the overall picture of what I’d love to draw from Writer Dad.  

The first post was scheduled for today.

This has been my plan for each of the last five Mondays.

I haven’t even started.

Every week, something else to work on.  Valid excuses, forever in reach.  

It would be easy to swear I did my best, but I didn’t.  The whisper was there, and I did not command his  silence.  You know the voice.  We all have one.  Mine tells me to check my email, or my analytics… or my email (it’s been five minutes after all).

If I massed my misspent minutes, I’d gather more than enough to write the words you should be reading now.

Check your email…

Typically, I’m not a procrastinator.  I do my share, but for me it’s like social drinking.  When I do procrastinate, I give a hundred percent. 

Check your analytics.  It’s been two days….

When I delay, it’s often with purpose.  My novel needs a steady hand and sustained silence to rise to it’s potential.  I couldn’t toggle it and Writer Dad.  I put it off, and will continue to do so, at least until other projects are breathing. 

Check your email…

Procrastination on the looming post was legitimate.  The blog was growing fast, changing week to week; I had to stay patient, while paying attention.

Postponement was prudent, but it’s time to jingle my keys.  

I’ll start today.  You can read the first part here in exactly one week.

Check your reader….

I’m not disappointed it isn’t started.  It’s my nature to sprint before gun splits silence.  

Daisy’s taught me patience.  She’ll follow me anywhere, but sometimes asks that I wait.  

I’m sure the post will be immeasurably better for its month or so of marinade.

Howeverit’s important to be accountable, even if only to ourselves.  

Credibility is important.  When our behavior doesn’t chase our verbiage, then our words are air inside a leaking balloon.  

If I say something, I mean it.  When I write it, I mean it even more.

No excuses.  Next Monday, Writer Dad: My Big Long Post.

Check your email…

Writer Dad

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Deja Vu

“Goals are dreams with deadlines.”

~Diana Scharf Hunt

This morning I sat for my son’s pre-school orientation.

It was the fifth time I’d seen the show.

Last year was the fourth, which is really where this post gets started.

Mia had started Kindergarten a week earlier, and I’d just written her little cupcake of a chapter book.  The only thing I’d laid down besides, was a short story, which I’ve no problem admitting was a spectacular embarrassment to the tongue.

As I sat, trying to remember how things were worded differently the year before, my mind moved to my mental manuscript, and then began to tinker.  

I removed the notebook and pen I happened to have in my lap (a staple now, but a  whim that day) and started to scribble the prologue to what would, later that evening, become the first few pages of my novel.

I’ve been thinking about the novel a lot.  Mostly because that’s what I do when I’m in no way touching it.

It’s true, I’m embarrassed to admit, but I haven’t worked on it in…. oh… about seven weeks.

Since I started Writer Dad, that’s the direction my fingers have danced.

I was in the middle of the third draft, and just kind of left it middling.  I’m tempted to put it aside, so I can write something breezy, which the novel is anything but.  

There are parts that are really good, and parts that are really bad.  

The problem is, I can only sporadically tell them apart.

The book has too many ideas in too little space, and I don’t quite know how to bend them around. 

It was my first attempt at fiction, and I’ve learned a lot since.  

There’s a marvelous gem, but it’s deep in the mine, and I’m unsure if I’m ready to dig.

Sitting in the orientation, realizing that a year had passed since I first put pen to paper for potential, it was clear that I cannot let that world born inside my head, rotate too far from its natural orbit. 

There’s something else too; a steroid to these feelings.

Rita’s getting published.  

That’s BIG time.

There’s been a lot of discussion about her encounter with the publisher.  

I’ll say this.

Imagine we’re holding a bag of five dollar popcorn, watching that scene in the restaurant play out on the screen.  The appropriate music swells the background, and everything’s twinkling and pretty.  

When Rita said, “Oh, I almost forgot to give you this,” then slips the woman her manuscript, we’d feel like applauding.

She handed her words to the right person.  But if they’d been lousy, Rita never would’ve had a deal. 

The lesson here isn’t that publishers can be hornswaggled.  

It’s that when the right person sees the right manuscript, a deal is made.

Which means it’s time for me to get to work.

Writer Dad

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No, No, No! I said, “I Didn’t Want to be a Chooch.”

My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits with my net income. 

~Errol Flynn

This is an exciting time in life; my family on the brink of a shift.

Most of it’s wonderful, but like any move from blue ribbon to better, there’s little reward without any stairs to climb.  

Sweet isn’t near as sweet if you’ve never known sour.

Some of the vinegar in the emigration to full time writer, is this long middling, when the idea of being a chooch frequently worms its way between my ears, lays eggs, then wiggles down my spine to settle where I sit. 

Psst… Writer Dad.

Sigh.  Yes, incessant voice inside my head?

Most readers don’t know random Italian slang.  You only got yours because you read the forward to Mario Puzo’s, “Fortunate Pilgrim.” (Not that you actually read the book.)

Oh, incessant voice.  Good point.

A chooch, according to Italians, is someone who allows their family to fully indulge in their eccentricities, even though they don’t lay a single crumb on the table. 

I’d rather have teeth breaking through the skin on the side of my face. 

I love writing.  It’s harder than breathing, but easier than doing the dishes. 

If I can carve out a living for myself, and my loved ones, by letting my fingers dance across these keys, then I’ll bow down and count myself as one of the lucky ones.  But I can’t stand the idea of pouring over piles of syllables, belaboring every single page and paragraph of a novel that might take another year, and designing rhymes that no one will ever enunciate, when there’s a stack of bills that need to be paid (and quickly). 

If I’m a writer, than my responsibility is to not only produce content that makes me smile, my family proud, and audience happy, but that also puts food in our tummies and fattens the college fund. 

I don’t want to be the guy who goes to his garage with three drunk buddies and plays off key oldies, mouthing off about one day getting a gig, while his family’s inside passing a tub of popcorn and saying, “Where’s Daddy

I want to write. 

I want to write chapter books for my children, and a love story for my wife; something funny and tragic for my mom, and maybe a western for my dad.  Perhaps I’ll pen something dark and quiet, cynical and sweet for my sister. 

I can’t wait to write a book on raising children or running a pre-school, and I’ve got an awesome idea for a sci-fi novel.  I’ll probably start on it as soon as I’m finished with the book being written right now. 

I don’t need a Costco sticker covering up the last letter in the title of my tome, but my time must amount to something. 

I just can’t stand the thought of being a chooch.

Writer Dad

Disclaimer: Daisy does not endorse this post. I have read it to her three times. One had this really hilarious ending that was far better than this one. But I digress. Daisy doesn’t think that I could ever be a Chooch, and poses a strong objection to the word, especially when used in relation to myself.

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back tomorrow.

If you liked that, you’ll probably love, “Here’s a Macbook, Go Make a Million,” “Sink or Swim,” or “Your Baby’s Born in the Rough Draft. You Raise it in the Rewrite.”

Your Baby’s Born in the Rough Draft. You raise it in the Rewrite.

“Murder your Darlings.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Writing is easy.  Really.  It’s just tap tap tapping on the keyboard, or scribbling your thoughts inside a notebook, as the ideas rain around you.  

At first, the random shavings of thought don’t have to make a whole lot of sense, as long as you’re getting them down.  It’s the rewriting that’s really difficult. 

That’s when you must murder your darlings

It’s in the rewrite when you have to stare at your work, and get your self love and self hate to hold hands and play a bit of hopscotch.  That’s when you have to decide what’s important and what needs to be dragged to the trash and wiped from the hard drive. 

Right now, I’m crawling my way through a rather tedious section of the novel.  It goes on and on and on some more while doing absolutely nothing to drive the story.  Back in the first draft (when I had no idea where I was going, or even why I was writing) I fell in love with this middle class family.  

Apparently, I also fell in love with every single movement of their day. 

I especially liked this section that followed the family along as they did some shopping on the day after Christmas.  Apparently, I liked it so much, I proceeded to vomit my affection all over the keyboard. 

They wake up, they go shopping, they go to lunch, then they drive around for a while before finally going back home, having themselves a fashion show with their new purchases, and eating dinner.  Nothing relevant happens until dinner, and if that sounds boring… well, then thanks for believing in me.  The actual text reads with the amount of excitement normally found in a chess game played by mail.

Now, imagine that scene stretched to three-thousand words, and you’ll get an idea what the chapter’s like.

The funny part is, I loved the chapter before I wrote it.  I loved it in my head before I fell to sleep, and I loved it the next day in black and white.  But I am loathing it something fierce in the rewrite. 

I read it over yesterday. 

Twice. 

Normally, I like to steal a glance at myself whenever I’m passing a mirror.  Not yesterday, I was too ashamed.  

Thirty pages and nothing happens that’s necessary for the reader to know.  That’s like promising to take your kids to Disneyland but telling them you have to drive through Arizona first.  

Get to the point, Writer Dad.

Okay.  

The section now reads:  ”They went to lunch.  Later, at dinner…” 

Much better, right? 

Writer Dad

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Have a great day.

Shocking

Even when I’m old and wrinkled, lying in bed wanting to do nothing but eat candy and complain about everything, I’ll still consider one of the biggest surprises of my life as the one that happened nearly one year ago:

The shocking discovery that I was writing a book.

Writing a novel wasn’t in my schedule.  In fact, a year ago, I barely wrote down my shopping list.  Last year, with little reason and less warning, I started to write.  The first thing I tapped out was a short story about…well that doesn’t matter.  It was terrible; a real embarrassment to the tongue.  It was about fifty pages long; maybe ten were good.  Of the ten that were good, about three were great.  

Two of those were amazing.  

I remember thinking that, though the story was hideous on every conceivable level, there was some fuse tangled up in the filthy little mess that I wanted to spark. 

So I did. 

I lit it and let it burn for three and a half months, all the way until it detonated in the last week of December.  My short story had grown into a five-hundred page behemoth.  Wow, I thought.  Now what am I going to do with all this?

Back in October, when I first realized that the first short story that I’d ever written was slowly morphing into the first novel I was ever going to write, it was the oddest epiphany, and one I’ll never forget. 

I never planned on becoming a writer, but then there it was in front of me like a color you can’t argue with.  

I took a break in January and wrote a handful of children’s stories, reading them to the children during daylight and to Daisy by the stars.  They were fast, fun, and the total opposite of what I’d been doing.

In February, I picked up the novel and cleaned up the language.  I tend to be wordy.  It’s probably my biggest weakness as a writer, other than having a tendency for truly terrible analogies (I mean terrible, like – I should probably just wipe my hard drive now before I die and someone discovers them and then also dies, but from laughing at my idiocy – terrible).  I added a couple of terrific elements to the draft while trimming it by a neat hundred pages.  I finished the second draft on the last day of March and expected to begin the third on the first day of May.

It’s July and I’m just getting started. 

Instead of starting to rewrite as soon as the April fell from the calendar, I did something I hadn’t yet done.  

I read my book. 

Reading and writing are not the same exercise.  I needed to read my document – straight through, without stopping every two minutes to tinker.

Did I like what I read? 

Sure, some of it.  Some of it I hated, and some of it I thought was immature in an almost staggering way. 

Some of it, though, I thought was fantastic.  

Since I wrote the book on accident, I’d never given thought to an outline, so I’ve spent the last couple of months taking notes and gathering ideas.  I started writing a couple of weeks ago and it feels amazing.  

There’s an old Greek fable about a ship that sails off to War.  The ship is gone for so long that by the time it returns, every sail and board have been replaced.  Is the ship that returns to Greece the same ship that left?  If it has the same frame, designed by the same engineer, and is sailed by the same captain, then I would have to say that it is indeed the same ship.  

The second draft added to the story.  The third cleaned it up.  This one tears it apart sentence by sentence, then strings them back together. 

I can’t wait to see what it looks like when it’s all finished.

Writer Dad

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