Don’t you love it when you’re writing a scene in your head, and you overhear some strangers’ conversation, and a word in it becomes a catalyst that accelerates and expands the scene you’re writing?
Oh, yeah.
In Retrospect
I suppose that the best part of finishing writing a novel’s first draft is that my coffee consumption will drop for a few days.
After the Fun
I’m at that point with the first novel in the “Incomplete States” trilogy that I’m almost finished.
Finished is as relative a term as happy. I’m finishing with the fun part of the novel, the writing process. Once the entire trilogy is completed, I’ll need to endure the work processes of having it edited, cover design, and the other accoutrements to publishing it as a finished work. It all reminds me a quote.
“I love being a writer, what I can’t stand is the paperwork.” ~ Peter De Vries
That about sums it up. I love discovering the labyrinths of logic and plot as I stalk characters from the story’s beginning to its end, although it sometimes feel like the characters are stalking me. Yes, there is satisfaction in capturing it all on paper on on a computer; capturing the words help me more fully develop what the characters are seeing and experiencing, and allows a fuller enjoyment.
But the paperwork also includes editing and re-wording, polishing and refining. I’ve learned to enjoy those aspects more, but I’d rather be writing. So ponying up to the computer to finish writing this tome is not that exciting. I know that I’m just finishing a phase of creating a novel and trilogy. More work is required.
Realization that finishing the first draft is nigh reminds me that I don’t have a celebration ritual. I don’t smoke a cigarette or sip a glass of champagne, or throw a party. Other than, “Yea, me!” posts like this, I don’t say anything to anyone in particular. If someone happens to ask, “What have you been doing?”, I might say, “Finished the first draft of a novel this week.” They usually respond, “That’s terrific. What’s it about?” “Well, shit, why don’t you write it and find out?”, I don’t say. I sort of mentally shrug, smile, and present a label. “It’s science fiction.”
I have studied touchdown dances to see if any of those will work. I’m not a demonstrative person, though. I prefer lurking under the surface like a crocodile, only coming out when forced by necessity. Lurking creates less social and emotional entanglements.
Playing with these thoughts more deeply, I conclude writers and other artists, like musicians and actors, might understand my state of mind. I think this because I think they more fully comprehend the process and the unsaid trappings beneath the process. Many people I meet either oversimplify what it takes to write and publish a novel and shrug it off as “No big deal,” unless you’re a name, or they gush too much about what an accomplishment it is. That renders me uneasy. Yes, I recognize the incongruity and paradox inherent in my state. Writers are more likely to just say, “Congratulations! Well done!” And that pleases me most.
What about all of you other writers out there? How do you celebrate — or react, or behave — when you finish the novel’s first draft?
Okay, time to get going and finish this beast. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Messy Creativity
After yesterday’s writing like crazy session, I walked away preoccupied by the random messiness. It’s like, I’m baking a cake and have some of the ingredients, but I’m not sure which ones I have, and what else is needed.
Or, it’s like debugging code without knowing where you’re at in the program.
It’s like walking through a strange room in the dark with little idea about which way to go.
Yes, I’m a pantser when it comes to writing. I’m an organic writer. Unscripted, or semi-scripted. I suppose the outlining writing tribes would tell me, “Outlining can solve your problems.”
That’s perhaps true, but I like my messy creative process. It’s fun to be surprised by a scene’s direction. I have no doubt that writers that outline will say, “Having an outline doesn’t mean that you can’t be surprised by what you write and how a scene turns out.”
Okay, you have me there. I just like the messy process. That’s one possibility. The second is that I’m not patient enough to write an outline. I become too impatient. Likewise, perhaps I’m too undisciplined to use an outline. More likely, it’s all of these things. But I believe that after trying to write outlines first, and suffering, I just stumbled on this messy process, and find it works. In the end, what works is what matters.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Total Sense
After finishing one chapter, I bought a fresh cuppa coffee and began the next chapter. I’m excited. I know what to write, although, again, imagination and characters have taken me into unexpected directions.
Mixed in with my thoughts about writing this novel are a host of other matters to attend. I’ve been procrastinating about them, and worrying about them, even as I urge myself, “Just fucking do it.” And then, without warning, my dream about the cookies, and the job interview (to sell cookies) comes into focus. Understanding blooms. I know what it means, and it surprises me, but also makes me happy.
It’s just fascinating how our brains and minds work on so many levels. Been a great day of writing like crazy. Just a little more to do today, and then I’ll call it.
The Writing Dream
I was in a busy, well-lit place that seemed home and office. Dozens of others were present, including my wife. People ) were milling around, talking to one another, examining my possessions – for it’s then that I realized it was my place – and offering desultory comments on my writing and past efforts. One odd-looking man, heavy, with slick, black receding hair and a black mustache and goatee on a bullet-head thrust onto a stout neck, was most outspoken. He mocked my collection of past writing efforts, done in the initial years in lab notebooks, saying things such as, “What is this stuff? What is it?”
I tried ignoring him as my wife talked to me. I was sitting at my computer at a table. Her comments confused me. I sought clarification. She was trying to talk to me about another manuscript of mine, telling me, “No, that other one. You know the one I mean.”
Finally, I stood. Walking over to the odd-looking guy, I said, “Stop talking about my fucking writing. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t say another fucking word.”
He stumbled off, red-faced and shocked.
End of dream.
India Badge
Woo-hoo. Fitbit has awarded me my India badge. According to them, I’ve walked nineteen hundred ninety-seven miles since I began using a Fitbit in mid-January. Fitbit says that’s the length of India, hence the badge’s name.
All those miles add up, one step and one day at a time. Just like all those words when you’re writing a novel.
While
While I looked out the window.
And studied the rainbow.
And thought about rainbows and the myths and science about them.
And admired its beauty.
While sleep was still being chased away.
And thoughts frolicked with dream remnants.
And the day’s planned activities opened in my mind like a hand of cards.
And I thought about making the first cup of coffee.
While I thought about what I was going to do today.
And what I needed to do.
I turned to my computer, and opened my file.
The file of the section of the novel in progress I’m working on.
And I typed.
A hundred words.
Five hundred.
One thousand.
Twelve hundred.
Fifteen hundred.
Then the scene was done.
And I reviewed what I’d written.
And closed the file.
And while I thought about what I’d just written.
And what was to be written.
And what it meant for what was already written.
I went to make my morning coffee.
Risky Business
It’s a risky business,
this writing business,
trying to make stories out of your thoughts.
It’s a risky business,
this writing business,
putting the words in the write way.
You have these images,
these sounds and scenes,
Floating up through your head.
Yeah, and if you’re not fast enough,
not alert enough,
that stuff all fades to dead.
You know, it’s a risky business,
this writing business,
and all that it entails.
But if you keep trying,
and you never stop writing,
They can never say you failed.
The Frustrated Writer
I’m not a fast or organized writer. I have more ideas and concepts than I can keep up with it.
It’s pretty damn frustrating. Just now, working on the novel-in-progress and starting a new section and chapter, I’m struggling to keep up with the writing. Meanwhile, I want this novel done so I can resume writing the rest of the series, and get on with writing other things. Being disorganized, though, I recognize a need to stop to organize.
I don’t want to do that. This is specifically about what volunteers, soldiers, platoons, and squads are in what scenes when things go down, and what happens to each. Who died, lived, went missing, set off the alarm? Who was on-planet, off-planet, on sentry, and on patrol?
Going through this reinforces my admiration and respect for writers like J.R.R. Tolkien, George R.R. Martin and J.K. Rowling and their respective series, or even Andy Weir, with The Martian. Once again, looking for secrets and magic formulas, I recognize, what must be done must be accepted and done. No way around it, except to have less characters. Unless most of my writing process, this is work, but the work has to be done. The conundrum is whether to carve out more time specifically to do this work, or use the writing time. Shortcomings exist for both solutions.
It’s a *shrug* matter. It must be done, just as bricklayers must lay the bricks one by one, and building a house requires each drawing and every nail. I’m petulant and whining, because that’s my personality. I think about the problem, realize there’s an issue, and then complain about it. Once that’s out of me, I put my head down and do what I must do.
For today, I’m going to write like crazy, one more time. Meanwhile, I’ll let my mind stew about my problem, and then address it later.
Procrastination is a good friend of mine.
Michael Seidel, writer 