Category: writing

Three Months

It’s taken me three months to figure out this story.

Three months, four hundred manuscript pages, and one hundred fifty thousand damn words.

Now I think I have a handle on it. Of course that excites me.

(I also pause to think about the writing process and volume. Is four hundred pages and one hundred K words normal or standard? Is there such a thing? I started on 1 November last year, and here I am, a few days after 1 Feb of the next year (with time off for illness, holidays and good behavior). It’s odd, because it doesn’t seem like I’ve been doing much writing, just a few hours each day of vacuous sitting at the keyboard, but here I am.)

It’s the novel-writing rhythm, innit? Think, burst into flame with the brilliance of a new idea (or insight, aspect, whatev), jump to the medium (notebook and pen, notebook ‘puter, laptop, crayons on construction paper, again, whatever), and write with excitement and intensity until you flounder like a man on the can without any toilet paper (yeah, oh, no). Then think long, hard, and deeply (often while sipping tea or coffee) (or taking walks or doing dishes) until boom, the mini-process begins afresh.

In this case, I had a handle on eight of the ten main characters (after wrestling with one and getting thrown to the mat by them several times), but the other two continued vexing me. Those damn muses — that’s right, I cursed them, I’m not afraid of no muse — weren’t helping. (They seemed, in fact, to be hiding and not answering their phones.)

But once again, after editing and revising (and deeply pondering the distant mountains while draining the last dregs of cold coffee, and watching people walking by, people who seemed happier and more carefree than me) (well, some of them did) (like, that guy doesn’t, and that one), and then walking, driving, shopping, sleeping, reading, and thinking, thinking, thinking, when I took up the writing again, aha, there it is. 

Joy! Eureka! Etc. Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t writing fun?

I did my thing and did my writing, revising, writing, editing, etc., and it all seemed so terrific. I still don’t have it all fully figured out, and proceed cautiously (and hopefully). (But then again, that’s today.) But, yeah, good day of writing like crazy.

Time to turn it off and do something else before it makes me crazy, ya’ know?

 

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Not Necessarily

Is three times a charm? Not necessarily when novel writing.

I’m into draft number three of the current novel in progress (NIP). I call it number three, but I’ve rewritten and rearranged the first five pages about one billion times, and do the same for the first fifty pages at least six million times.

Fast writer, aren’t I?

I suspect those numbers are exaggerations for effect, although it seems like they’re true. I know of some days when I undid when I did he previous day. Makes me think of the novel blues.

I woke up this morning with a gleam in my eye.

Had a masterpiece in my head, I will not tell a lie.

Rushed to the keyboard, to get it all down,

then the muses abandoned me, made me feel like a clown.

Oh, yeah, I have the stumbling through the story, struggling novelist blues.

And if you wrote like me, you’d probably be sufferin’ them too.

Come on, sing along as you write.

As with everything writing, I remain mostly passionate and hopeful, depending upon the hour, day of the week, which way the wind is blowing, and other important portends such as a crow cawing from the top of a tree.

Got my coffee. Time to continue writing like crazy.

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The Acting Dream

This began as a budget dream.

I was sitting before a bank of computer monitors. Someone working for me said I was going over budget by a million dollars. I wasn’t bothered by that (and was actually amused) but it did need addressed. He told me that he noticed that I was using certain sequences of material in my budget and suggested alternative material available online at a Simpsons website.

Finding a keyboard, mouse, and monitor, I found the website. While we looked at it together, the worker told me that he was surprised that I didn’t know about it. Everybody knew about it. I agreed with him, the info on that website would work for me.

Then he told me that Oliver was looking for me. He said Oliver had an outline of something and he thought I’d be perfect for it. Oliver wanted me to sign up for it.

I went off in search of Oliver. Wandering outside, I crossed a broad, campus-like setting. I was dressed in very casual, loose gym clothes. Everyone else that I encountered were dressed in school uniforms. I suspected that I was going to be upbraided for being in these clothes, but I didn’t care. I was comfortable.

It was late afternoon. Most students were finished with classes and ended in the opposite direction, but some were still being lectured. As I made my way toward the main body, several told me that Oliver was looking for me.

Seeing some white tents, I headed for them, thinking that’s probably where Oliver is. As I encountered others, I stopped to talk. Oliver — who reminded me of Oliver Platt — came up. He told me that he had an outline for me, that I’d be perfect for it, and he needed me to sign up for it. I told him, okay, I’ll sign up. That made Oliver really happy.

I went off, heading back toward my office. I wandered a bit, visiting with other people. Someone came up and told me that Oliver was looking for me. They said that he had something new. I said that I’d already seen Oliver and had signed up for his outline, and that I was going to do it for him. They said, no, this is something else that Oliver is doing.

I went off to find Oliver again. More folks who said Oliver was looking for me because he had something for me were encountered. Oliver then came up. I told him that I’d already agreed to sign up for his outline. Yes, Oliver said, but I have a few other new things. One of these other things was something that I’d need to try out for, but I’d be perfect. I was confused about what Oliver wanted until I realized that he wanted me to act in something for him. He clarified and verified that’s what he wanted.

I was hesitant because I had his other project going on, and my own writing projects. Oliver talked me into agreeing, and after some thought, I decided that I could do his projects (which now, it seemed, were three), and that I could also write. This made Oliver extremely happy. He told others that I’d agreed, and that made others happen. Seeing how happy and excited he and the others were made me happy and existed.

The day was getting late. Oliver, me, and two others went home. Oliver told the other two that he wasn’t cooking dinner for them. He’d been doing all the cooking and was tired of doing that. One of the others said that he had a burrito that he could eat. The other said, okay, he’d find something.

I decided I wasn’t worried about eating. I had many more things to do and wanted to go write because I was going to be very busy and didn’t want to waste time.

The dream ended.

 

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