I'm finding the title of this blog post kind of ironic because I've already started and deleted at least two posts since settling on this topic. So, yeah, I guess it just goes to show you that even writers don't feel like writing at times, doesn't it?
The hardest thing about writing, for me, is pushing through even when I feel like whatever I'm working on isn't working. You see, it's not even external critics that really get to me, it's my own internal critic who doesn't seem to like what I'm writing as my fingers are tapping on the keys. However, when I go back and read, I feel better. I can see the threads of the story, and I know it's there, no matter how much I might have suspected it wasn't. There are times when I have to tear away a lot of the fabric so that I can get at those nice, neat stitches, but that's okay--or, at least, I'm learning to accept that it is. For a long time, I felt like the words had to come out fully formed and, if they weren't perfect they weren't worth saving and I should just get rid of them. Now, I go with the flow because I'm learning that I can always go back and fix what needs fixing.
Writing has long been a hobby of mine, and the way I used to write goes exactly with what the word "hobby" implies. I would go months or years without writing because I would wait for the fever to overtake me, until the need to write was so powerful that I could no longer ignore it. I don't do that anymore. Instead, I write at least five days a week. I sit in a chair, I put my hands over the keyboard, and I make myself type. I'm not sure I ever appreciated before just how much discipline it takes to be a writer. It's hard to fall into the trap of "Oh, I'm just not inspired today. I think I'll go fool around and play The Sims instead." Like most things that we find difficult, it's easy to come up with reasons why we can't do that thing, and writing is no exception.
What I'm coming to understand is this: writing is work. It isn't physically intense work. Why else would so many writers have treadmill desks if not because we writers tend to spend a lot of our time just sitting? But writing is a lot of mental work, and that mental work can be very exhausting. Some days I feel completely drained, like there isn't one drop of creativity left in my body. I find myself wondering if my head is a bottomless pit of ideas, or if it's more like a well that will one day run dry. But then I start writing, the story takes shape, and I have hope that I have at least one more in me, and that, in a nutshell, is why I make myself write when I don't feel like it.
Showing posts with label self-doubt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-doubt. Show all posts
Monday, February 4, 2013
Friday, November 16, 2012
Feature Fridays: Dev is captured
I've had my struggles this NaNoWriMo, but I think I'm really hitting my groove with this novel. Once I started easing up and just let it be what it wanted to be, I started to feel better about it.
When I started thinking about what I wanted to do for NaNo, I knew I wanted to write another Elizabeth Darcy book, and I decided to use the sleeping beauty story as an inspiration. However, I didn't want to do the standard tale of the damsel in distress being rescued by the handsome prince, so I decided to have the princess do the rescuing. Here, in its very rough form, is the scene where Dev is captured.
“Who are you?” Dev ground out, his voice so low he could barely hear it.
“Ah, but we’ll have time for introductions later,” the voice said, each word like a caress. The sound made him want to shudder, but he didn’t have the energy for it. It wasn’t a voice he recognized and, besides that, it was accented, so he knew it wasn’t anyone from his realm or from Jess’s.
“You’re from Moritan.”
“My, aren’t we a clever prince?”
“That would explain why you reek of sheep.”
Another pair of footsteps appeared, and Dev caught his breath as someone struck him across the face. His head snapped back and he bit his tongue forcefully enough to make it bleed. The tenuous hold he had on consciousness began to slip away.
“Enough,” growled the first voice he’d heard. “We need him alive.”
“He’d be just as good to us dead,” a guttural voice responded. Was it the man who’d struck him?
“No, you idiot, he would not. The only way to lure Jessmyn to us is by using him as bait. If he’s dead, she’ll attack, and we’ll never get close enough to get to her.”
“My apologies, greatness.”
Fear bolted through Dev, jolting him so strongly that it woke him from his stupor. All fatigue forgotten, he lashed out at his two attackers, his swings wild. His fist struck something solid, and he heard a grunt and a thud as the guttural-voice man dropped next to him.
“Subdue him,” the first voice ordered, and now Dev realized it was a woman.
His flailing took on a new desperation as two more pairs of feet approached. Who would want to harm Jessmyn? As far as he knew, her realm was on good terms with Moritan. Moreover, it was not at all like King Mallaric to commit an act of such dishonorable subterfuge, and Dev knew Mallaric valued honor above all else. No, if Mallaric felt any ill will toward King Amin and Queen Farah, he would make it plain.
Desperate, Dev tried shouting, but his voice failed once again. The other two assailants descended upon him and, though he fought savagely, using his fists, feet, and teeth, he was simply too weak to beat them off. They pinned him to the floor and he sucked in great gulps of air that seemed only to make him breathe more deeply, as if what flowed in wasn’t sufficient to feed his lungs. The black borders of his vision filled more rapidly and he was lost, his lips unconsciously forming Jessmyn’s name.
When I started thinking about what I wanted to do for NaNo, I knew I wanted to write another Elizabeth Darcy book, and I decided to use the sleeping beauty story as an inspiration. However, I didn't want to do the standard tale of the damsel in distress being rescued by the handsome prince, so I decided to have the princess do the rescuing. Here, in its very rough form, is the scene where Dev is captured.
*****
Opening his eyes required a lot of effort, and he put the last of his remaining energy into it, managing to open them enough to see a narrow slice of the room before him. A cloaked and hooded figure knelt before him, and at first he thought he was hallucinating, because the face looked so strange, like that of a scarecrow. His confused brain tried to make sense of what he was seeing, and he finally realized that the other person wore a mask, which might explain why he or she didn’t seem to be all that bothered by the smoke.
“Who are you?” Dev ground out, his voice so low he could barely hear it.
“Ah, but we’ll have time for introductions later,” the voice said, each word like a caress. The sound made him want to shudder, but he didn’t have the energy for it. It wasn’t a voice he recognized and, besides that, it was accented, so he knew it wasn’t anyone from his realm or from Jess’s.
“You’re from Moritan.”
“My, aren’t we a clever prince?”
“That would explain why you reek of sheep.”
Another pair of footsteps appeared, and Dev caught his breath as someone struck him across the face. His head snapped back and he bit his tongue forcefully enough to make it bleed. The tenuous hold he had on consciousness began to slip away.
“Enough,” growled the first voice he’d heard. “We need him alive.”
“He’d be just as good to us dead,” a guttural voice responded. Was it the man who’d struck him?
“No, you idiot, he would not. The only way to lure Jessmyn to us is by using him as bait. If he’s dead, she’ll attack, and we’ll never get close enough to get to her.”
“My apologies, greatness.”
Fear bolted through Dev, jolting him so strongly that it woke him from his stupor. All fatigue forgotten, he lashed out at his two attackers, his swings wild. His fist struck something solid, and he heard a grunt and a thud as the guttural-voice man dropped next to him.
“Subdue him,” the first voice ordered, and now Dev realized it was a woman.
His flailing took on a new desperation as two more pairs of feet approached. Who would want to harm Jessmyn? As far as he knew, her realm was on good terms with Moritan. Moreover, it was not at all like King Mallaric to commit an act of such dishonorable subterfuge, and Dev knew Mallaric valued honor above all else. No, if Mallaric felt any ill will toward King Amin and Queen Farah, he would make it plain.
Desperate, Dev tried shouting, but his voice failed once again. The other two assailants descended upon him and, though he fought savagely, using his fists, feet, and teeth, he was simply too weak to beat them off. They pinned him to the floor and he sucked in great gulps of air that seemed only to make him breathe more deeply, as if what flowed in wasn’t sufficient to feed his lungs. The black borders of his vision filled more rapidly and he was lost, his lips unconsciously forming Jessmyn’s name.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Monday Musings: My characters have a life of their own
This NaNoWriMo, I'm noticing the same phenomenon I noticed during last year's NaNoWriMo: my vision for what the story would look like and the way the story began to take shape aren't necessarily the same thing. This is something I think most writers can identify with. Usually, I don't consciously realize a story would work better if I did it a bit differently. For me, it tends to be more unconscious. I'll write something, read it, and think, "Oh, that does make more sense, doesn't it?"
I think a big part of my anxiety over this project comes from the fact that The Eye of the Beholder has been a lot more successful than I'd imagined it would be. I'm thrilled I've found an audience, and I am very grateful for my readers. However, I'm also aware that having this audience may lead to expectations. When I wrote just for myself without ever knowing if anyone else would really read it, I didn't worry too much about the turns my stories took. I just let my characters do their thing while taking me along for the ride. But now I'm afraid that if I deviate a lot from the style I used in The Eye, I may let my readers down.
I didn't feel this same level of anxiety with Contributor or with Phoning It In, because they were different. I'm interested in a lot of genres, and I knew some of my readers might like one genre in which I write but not another, and that's perfectly understandable. It also frees me from having to worry about expectations, because I've already set up the expectation that what's coming is going to be different from what's already out there.
However, Asleep is meant to be my second in the Fairytale Collection, and it's shaping up to be a different book from The Eye. The Eye was my take, but it was still pretty much a straight up retelling of the beauty and the beast story. My inspiration for Asleep is the sleeping beauty story, but the tale I'm telling is far, far different from the Disney version. There are elements I've straight up left out--the fairies--and elements that I've inverted--the princess being the rescuer while the prince is the rescuee. So, while Asleep is also inspired by a fairytale, it doesn't stick as closely to the fairytale as The Eye did.
The major difference between this year and last is this: I'm having trouble letting go. When Contributor started to turn out a lot differently than I'd anticipated, I went with it and was happy with the result. I'm more nervous about Asleep because I've got something out there for it to be measured against. At the end of the day, I need to be faithful to the characters and the way the story wants to progress. I think any writer will say that if you fight this and try to make the story fit your original vision, the end result will be something that's not worth reading.
I'm gaining a new perspective on being an author with at least one published book. When I first plunged into the world of publishing, I worried what my readers would think when they compared my work to that of other authors. Now, I worry more about what my readers will think when they compare my previous novels to my newer ones.
I think a big part of my anxiety over this project comes from the fact that The Eye of the Beholder has been a lot more successful than I'd imagined it would be. I'm thrilled I've found an audience, and I am very grateful for my readers. However, I'm also aware that having this audience may lead to expectations. When I wrote just for myself without ever knowing if anyone else would really read it, I didn't worry too much about the turns my stories took. I just let my characters do their thing while taking me along for the ride. But now I'm afraid that if I deviate a lot from the style I used in The Eye, I may let my readers down.
I didn't feel this same level of anxiety with Contributor or with Phoning It In, because they were different. I'm interested in a lot of genres, and I knew some of my readers might like one genre in which I write but not another, and that's perfectly understandable. It also frees me from having to worry about expectations, because I've already set up the expectation that what's coming is going to be different from what's already out there.
However, Asleep is meant to be my second in the Fairytale Collection, and it's shaping up to be a different book from The Eye. The Eye was my take, but it was still pretty much a straight up retelling of the beauty and the beast story. My inspiration for Asleep is the sleeping beauty story, but the tale I'm telling is far, far different from the Disney version. There are elements I've straight up left out--the fairies--and elements that I've inverted--the princess being the rescuer while the prince is the rescuee. So, while Asleep is also inspired by a fairytale, it doesn't stick as closely to the fairytale as The Eye did.
The major difference between this year and last is this: I'm having trouble letting go. When Contributor started to turn out a lot differently than I'd anticipated, I went with it and was happy with the result. I'm more nervous about Asleep because I've got something out there for it to be measured against. At the end of the day, I need to be faithful to the characters and the way the story wants to progress. I think any writer will say that if you fight this and try to make the story fit your original vision, the end result will be something that's not worth reading.
I'm gaining a new perspective on being an author with at least one published book. When I first plunged into the world of publishing, I worried what my readers would think when they compared my work to that of other authors. Now, I worry more about what my readers will think when they compare my previous novels to my newer ones.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Feature Fridays: Taking a flying leap
I'm making serious headway with Asleep, having hit the 25k mark today. While I'm officially halfway done with NaNoWriMo, it will take more than 50k words to wrap up this story.
When it comes to the writing itself, there are portions I'm loving and other portions that rouse the vicious self-doubt monster. There's nothing worse than trying to keep yourself going when that mocking little voice in your head says, "This stinks! You think you're a writer?"
At any rate, I'm avoiding reading the bulk of the work because my NaNoWriMo motto can basically be boiled down to this: Just Keep Going. No matter what happens, no matter how many typos I know I've made, no matter how much I hate the particular section I'm writing, Just Keep Going.
As with last week, this is completely raw, so there are likely some typos and random weirdness that may make little sense. Consider yourself forewarned! ;)
As the world went black, Jess’s face once more appeared to him, but this time she was around ten years old, and her eyes flashed in challenge. Tanvir lurked nearby, but he’d already been disqualified from this particular challenge, due to his age.
“Your age must have two digits; otherwise, you’re too much of a baby to participate,” Jess told him loftily. “Shall I explain that to you?”
“I know what two digits means!” Tanvir squeaked, his seven-year-old voice high with indignation.
“Watch and learn, children,” Dev’s cocky, twelve-year-old self called out.
“Dev, I don’t know if this is a good idea. That tree is really high, and if you jump—” Tanvir protested.
“Keep your lessons to yourself,” Dev instructed, rolling his eyes. “I’m not your tutor, so you won’t score any bonus points with me for cleverness.”
“Well, you’re certainly good at earning high marks for stupidity,” Tanvir snapped back.
“Or are you just trying to conceal the fact that your brother is more courageous than you?” Jess challenged.
“You’re both stupid, and I’ll have no part of this.” Tanvir stamped his foot and ran off, heading back toward the castle.
“If you’re going to do it, best do it now, before your brother has a chance to tattle,” Jess said.
“Right you are.”
Extending his arms in the air, fingers pointed, as he’d once seen an acrobat do, Dev launched himself from the branch on which he’d perched, feelings a rush of exhilaration as he flew through the air. His confidence was high, his fingers steady. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d catch the next branch, and so it came as a very rude surprise when only the tips of his fingers smacked into the branch, and he felt his hands clawing futilely at the air.
As he plummeted toward the earth, he heard Jess’s scream of horror and he couldn’t help but smile at the knowledge that he had managed to ruffle the seemingly unflappable princess. His body striking the ground wiped the smile right off his face. Fortunately for him, he landed rear first, which cushioned the impact. Still, he fell back, his head striking the ground, causing his teeth to snap together. Blood and grit filled his mouth and he felt dizzy.
“Dev! Dev! Are you okay?” Jess cried, suddenly appearing at his side.
Disoriented, he looked up at her and gave her a smile, some blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you an angel?” he asked, before he lost consciousness.
There was no forgetting the aftermath of that little episode. It had caused some tension between King Amin and King Adar, both of whom knew they had impetuous and sometimes foolhardy children, but who both, in their distress, wanted to blame the other. Dev had earned a sever concussion for his trouble, and he spent days in bed while he recovered, his head pounding, vision swimming all the while. The boredom was almost more of a torment than the physical pain. Eventually, his mother’s fears that he had permanently addled his brain were laid to rest, but there was no repairing the chip to the tooth on the top right side of his mouth. As it was right next to his front tooth, it became a prominent part of his smile. The truth was, he would have leapt from that branch again, because he had never forgotten how lovely Jess looked as she hovered over him, fearful for his well-being.
When it comes to the writing itself, there are portions I'm loving and other portions that rouse the vicious self-doubt monster. There's nothing worse than trying to keep yourself going when that mocking little voice in your head says, "This stinks! You think you're a writer?"
At any rate, I'm avoiding reading the bulk of the work because my NaNoWriMo motto can basically be boiled down to this: Just Keep Going. No matter what happens, no matter how many typos I know I've made, no matter how much I hate the particular section I'm writing, Just Keep Going.
As with last week, this is completely raw, so there are likely some typos and random weirdness that may make little sense. Consider yourself forewarned! ;)
*****
As the world went black, Jess’s face once more appeared to him, but this time she was around ten years old, and her eyes flashed in challenge. Tanvir lurked nearby, but he’d already been disqualified from this particular challenge, due to his age.
“Your age must have two digits; otherwise, you’re too much of a baby to participate,” Jess told him loftily. “Shall I explain that to you?”
“I know what two digits means!” Tanvir squeaked, his seven-year-old voice high with indignation.
“Watch and learn, children,” Dev’s cocky, twelve-year-old self called out.
“Dev, I don’t know if this is a good idea. That tree is really high, and if you jump—” Tanvir protested.
“Keep your lessons to yourself,” Dev instructed, rolling his eyes. “I’m not your tutor, so you won’t score any bonus points with me for cleverness.”
“Well, you’re certainly good at earning high marks for stupidity,” Tanvir snapped back.
“Or are you just trying to conceal the fact that your brother is more courageous than you?” Jess challenged.
“You’re both stupid, and I’ll have no part of this.” Tanvir stamped his foot and ran off, heading back toward the castle.
“If you’re going to do it, best do it now, before your brother has a chance to tattle,” Jess said.
“Right you are.”
Extending his arms in the air, fingers pointed, as he’d once seen an acrobat do, Dev launched himself from the branch on which he’d perched, feelings a rush of exhilaration as he flew through the air. His confidence was high, his fingers steady. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d catch the next branch, and so it came as a very rude surprise when only the tips of his fingers smacked into the branch, and he felt his hands clawing futilely at the air.
As he plummeted toward the earth, he heard Jess’s scream of horror and he couldn’t help but smile at the knowledge that he had managed to ruffle the seemingly unflappable princess. His body striking the ground wiped the smile right off his face. Fortunately for him, he landed rear first, which cushioned the impact. Still, he fell back, his head striking the ground, causing his teeth to snap together. Blood and grit filled his mouth and he felt dizzy.
“Dev! Dev! Are you okay?” Jess cried, suddenly appearing at his side.
Disoriented, he looked up at her and gave her a smile, some blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you an angel?” he asked, before he lost consciousness.
There was no forgetting the aftermath of that little episode. It had caused some tension between King Amin and King Adar, both of whom knew they had impetuous and sometimes foolhardy children, but who both, in their distress, wanted to blame the other. Dev had earned a sever concussion for his trouble, and he spent days in bed while he recovered, his head pounding, vision swimming all the while. The boredom was almost more of a torment than the physical pain. Eventually, his mother’s fears that he had permanently addled his brain were laid to rest, but there was no repairing the chip to the tooth on the top right side of his mouth. As it was right next to his front tooth, it became a prominent part of his smile. The truth was, he would have leapt from that branch again, because he had never forgotten how lovely Jess looked as she hovered over him, fearful for his well-being.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Insecurity, thy name is Nicole
There's now a fair bit of distance between myself and an extremely productive NaNoWriMo. I clocked in at just over 50,000 words at around the 18th of November, and then I took a bit of a break. I've been back at it for most of this month, however, and am now up to 77,326, as of today. My intent is to cut the final product down to about 70-75k words, but I want to just finish it and then start going at it with a scalpel (or a hatchet, as may be the case).
Working toward the finish has made me realize something: I tend to get really insecure about my endings. I don't know why I never really thought of it before but, as I look back on my writing, I realize that endings always stress me out--maybe even more than beginnings. On the one hand, things are easier here than they are in the middle, because all of the action is moving along swiftly and the words usually flow. On the other hand, there's the stress of trying to tie all of the threads together, trying to keep the pacing on an even keel, and trying to write a killer of an ending. As this book is intended to be the first in a trilogy, I need to have a good hook in place for my ending as I naturally want to interest people in reading the next installment.
Today was kind of rough going because I am back in the mode of worrying. The closer I get to the ending, the more I stress about the idea that I'm hurrying things along. I'm not doing this intentionally, of course, but I just can't seem to shake the conviction that my newest chapters somehow feel rushed. I think this may have something to do with the fact that the story took a much different turn than expected, so I have a lot of balls up in the air and I don't want to drop any of them. Whatever the cause, today was one of those writing days where I felt like I needed to reach into my brain and forcibly extract the narrative--never a very fun thing. Whenever this happens, I tend to worry incessantly that the writing sounds stilted or forced and I never, ever want my writing to feel like that.
I'm not sure that someone can understand how all-consuming writing can be unless they also write. I think about my writing constantly, and I do mean constantly. I think about it while I'm driving, while I'm grocery shopping, while I'm brushing my teeth. Sometimes I walk around the house muttering to myself about it, which prompts my two-year-old to say, "What do you say, Mama?" I'm still not sure how to respond to that one. "Sorry, kiddo, your mom is a crazy wreck who is obsessing endlessly" seems like it might be just a bit out of his grasp.
But when you are in the midst of writing something, particularly something about which you feel very strongly, you live, breathe, and eat it. I have to figure out how the plot will unspool, decide what's motivating each characters, dream up scenes, etc. It's really pretty astonishing how much writing goes on inside my head before anything even hits the paper.
Once I'm finished with this manuscript, I'm going to give Scrivener a try. I was really pleased to get a discount on it, thanks to my NaNoWriMo completion and, though I've only taken a pretty cursory glance at it, I'm pretty excited about it. I particularly like the bulletin board feature because it makes me think that I might be able to write a bunch of sticky notes so that I can get the information in a trustier place than my good ol' brain, which has an unfortunate tendency to erase those massively awesome scenes I dreamed up just hours ago. Maybe once I do that, I'll stop walking around the house talking to myself and worrying my two-year-old, who already seems concerned that I may need extensive psychotherapy. Maybe, but I kinda doubt it.
***
She knew Letizia was
right. If she wanted to make it, she was
going to have to learn how to lock her emotions in tiny boxes and hide the keys
where no one could find them. In short,
she was going to have become a master at dissembling, just like her master.
Working toward the finish has made me realize something: I tend to get really insecure about my endings. I don't know why I never really thought of it before but, as I look back on my writing, I realize that endings always stress me out--maybe even more than beginnings. On the one hand, things are easier here than they are in the middle, because all of the action is moving along swiftly and the words usually flow. On the other hand, there's the stress of trying to tie all of the threads together, trying to keep the pacing on an even keel, and trying to write a killer of an ending. As this book is intended to be the first in a trilogy, I need to have a good hook in place for my ending as I naturally want to interest people in reading the next installment.
Today was kind of rough going because I am back in the mode of worrying. The closer I get to the ending, the more I stress about the idea that I'm hurrying things along. I'm not doing this intentionally, of course, but I just can't seem to shake the conviction that my newest chapters somehow feel rushed. I think this may have something to do with the fact that the story took a much different turn than expected, so I have a lot of balls up in the air and I don't want to drop any of them. Whatever the cause, today was one of those writing days where I felt like I needed to reach into my brain and forcibly extract the narrative--never a very fun thing. Whenever this happens, I tend to worry incessantly that the writing sounds stilted or forced and I never, ever want my writing to feel like that.
I'm not sure that someone can understand how all-consuming writing can be unless they also write. I think about my writing constantly, and I do mean constantly. I think about it while I'm driving, while I'm grocery shopping, while I'm brushing my teeth. Sometimes I walk around the house muttering to myself about it, which prompts my two-year-old to say, "What do you say, Mama?" I'm still not sure how to respond to that one. "Sorry, kiddo, your mom is a crazy wreck who is obsessing endlessly" seems like it might be just a bit out of his grasp.
But when you are in the midst of writing something, particularly something about which you feel very strongly, you live, breathe, and eat it. I have to figure out how the plot will unspool, decide what's motivating each characters, dream up scenes, etc. It's really pretty astonishing how much writing goes on inside my head before anything even hits the paper.
Once I'm finished with this manuscript, I'm going to give Scrivener a try. I was really pleased to get a discount on it, thanks to my NaNoWriMo completion and, though I've only taken a pretty cursory glance at it, I'm pretty excited about it. I particularly like the bulletin board feature because it makes me think that I might be able to write a bunch of sticky notes so that I can get the information in a trustier place than my good ol' brain, which has an unfortunate tendency to erase those massively awesome scenes I dreamed up just hours ago. Maybe once I do that, I'll stop walking around the house talking to myself and worrying my two-year-old, who already seems concerned that I may need extensive psychotherapy. Maybe, but I kinda doubt it.
***
“Any idea what Javier is up to?” Letizia
asked her at lunch.
“Javier?” Dara asked.
Letizia scowled at her. “The project, Dara. Do you have any idea what Javier is working
on?”
“Oh, that. Uh, no, I hadn’t really thought to look...”
“Do you know how many mistakes you’ve
made?” Letizia asked, and Dara knew her master wasn’t referring simply to her
lapses of attention during shift. “You
cannot afford to keep on going like this.
It’s a miracle you’ve made it this far.
You must have more dumb luck than any other person I’ve ever met.”
Face burning, Dara ducked her head so
that she wouldn’t have to look at Letizia’s accusing eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry.
I’ll look today.”
“You need to learn how to
compartmentalize.”
Monday, December 5, 2011
I Want My NaNoWriMo Back!
Yes, folks, I do actually want it back, and I'll tell you why very succinctly: when I'm doing NaNoWriMo, there is no time for crippling self-doubt, there is only time for word count. Once NaNoWriMo ends, however, and the fever wears off, it's once again possible to become neurotic about all manner of things.
I can't stop thinking about that The Economist article that sneered at NaNoWriMo, implying that all NaNo novels are trash that "true" writing demands that the author "bleed". Well, folks at The Economist, let me tell you: I could use a transfusion right about now because there's a heady mix of blood, sweat, and tears dripping all over my manuscript.
Still, I guess I could look at this as a good thing, right? After all, if I were entirely convinced of my own brilliance, I would think my novel was perfect as is. The truth is, though, that I can always find something to change, no matter how "finished" my manuscript may be. While there are those magical moments during which I am very happy with what I've typed, they are far outnumbered by those moments where I agonize over every word, where I keep returning to the same sentence over and over because It's. Just. Not. Right.
Now, I'll come right out and admit that I am a perfectionist, which means I hold myself to a ridiculously high standard. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. While I'm glad that I always want to do my best, and that I strive to improve myself, I'm also terrible at cutting myself any sort of slack.
Tonight, my temptation was to just keep on going, even though I began to feel like I was beating my head against a brick wall repeatedly. Instead, I made myself put it down and step away. If I had nothing but time to write, maybe I would be easier on myself (that's a big, fat maybe, folks) but since I have to try to cram my writing in whenever I can, I get a bit stressed. I'm sure many other would-be writers can relate. You sit down, ready to put words on the screen or on paper, and then real life interrupts and you're forced to walk away. Then, when you can finally return, you rack your brain, searching for that brilliant sentence you had composed in your head or that great plot twist you were about to use and...nothing. Big, fat nothing. Your carefully planned out, exquisite words are gone and lost forever. It's maddening.
At any rate, the revisions are coming along rather well. I've had to totally scrap some chapters and rework them and, tonight, I wrote an entirely new chapter 18. Since I ended NaNoWriMo at the beginning of chapter 25, I'd say I'm making pretty good progress. I've also beefed up my word count by several thousand. I'm at a pivotal point now. I still have quite a bit of story to tell, but I'll soon need to think about wrapping it up. ABNA approaches, my friends, and I still want to allow myself at least a couple of weeks to go over the "finished" product, so I'm aiming to write my ending by the end of December.
I also just want to take a moment to recognize the friends and family members who are reading the manuscript and helping make it better. I am more grateful for your contributions than I can say.
And now, a bit of an excerpt!
***
I’m not sure anyone deserves to be treated that way.
I can't stop thinking about that The Economist article that sneered at NaNoWriMo, implying that all NaNo novels are trash that "true" writing demands that the author "bleed". Well, folks at The Economist, let me tell you: I could use a transfusion right about now because there's a heady mix of blood, sweat, and tears dripping all over my manuscript.
Still, I guess I could look at this as a good thing, right? After all, if I were entirely convinced of my own brilliance, I would think my novel was perfect as is. The truth is, though, that I can always find something to change, no matter how "finished" my manuscript may be. While there are those magical moments during which I am very happy with what I've typed, they are far outnumbered by those moments where I agonize over every word, where I keep returning to the same sentence over and over because It's. Just. Not. Right.
Now, I'll come right out and admit that I am a perfectionist, which means I hold myself to a ridiculously high standard. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. While I'm glad that I always want to do my best, and that I strive to improve myself, I'm also terrible at cutting myself any sort of slack.
Tonight, my temptation was to just keep on going, even though I began to feel like I was beating my head against a brick wall repeatedly. Instead, I made myself put it down and step away. If I had nothing but time to write, maybe I would be easier on myself (that's a big, fat maybe, folks) but since I have to try to cram my writing in whenever I can, I get a bit stressed. I'm sure many other would-be writers can relate. You sit down, ready to put words on the screen or on paper, and then real life interrupts and you're forced to walk away. Then, when you can finally return, you rack your brain, searching for that brilliant sentence you had composed in your head or that great plot twist you were about to use and...nothing. Big, fat nothing. Your carefully planned out, exquisite words are gone and lost forever. It's maddening.
At any rate, the revisions are coming along rather well. I've had to totally scrap some chapters and rework them and, tonight, I wrote an entirely new chapter 18. Since I ended NaNoWriMo at the beginning of chapter 25, I'd say I'm making pretty good progress. I've also beefed up my word count by several thousand. I'm at a pivotal point now. I still have quite a bit of story to tell, but I'll soon need to think about wrapping it up. ABNA approaches, my friends, and I still want to allow myself at least a couple of weeks to go over the "finished" product, so I'm aiming to write my ending by the end of December.
I also just want to take a moment to recognize the friends and family members who are reading the manuscript and helping make it better. I am more grateful for your contributions than I can say.
And now, a bit of an excerpt!
***
“After
a great deal of discussion, the Senior Engineers and I have come to a decision
as to who is to accompany us to our meeting with Agricorp,” Andersen
announced. His hands behind his back in
a rather military posture, he began to stroll slowly around the room.
“Mr. LeTour,” he said, coming to a stop
right next to Ryan. He was so close that
Dara was certain his posture was deliberate, calculated to intimidate. It appeared to be working. Though Ryan kept
his face straight, he blanched. “I will
state up front that I found your performance extremely disappointing. Your ideas were mediocre, your research
unsatisfactory. I don’t know how to
account for your lapse in performance but, let me assure you, this will be your
last. Any further misstep will result in
your immediate termination from the program.
Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan said, his voice
strained. Andersen smiled a slow, tight
smile, and Dara felt her stomach turn.
He’s
actually enjoying this! she realized.
He’s enjoying humiliating Ryan in
front of the rest of us.
As Andersen turned his back and moved away
from Ryan, Chen shot a look of such vile disgust at his apprentice that Dara
had to look away. Though Ryan was
without redeeming qualities, as far as she could see, she still found it
difficult to see him the subject of so public a flogging.
I’m not sure anyone deserves to be treated that way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)