NaNoWriMo is calling

The latest National Novel Writing Month is upon us in less than a week.  Are you ready?  If you're a pantser (Def: one who perfers to just whip out their imagination at the last moment and let it spew as it will on the pages.  Gross), then you have not even begun to worry.  If, however, you are a planner like me, then there is never enough time.

Don't get me wrong.  I've got a lot of prep work already done; a year's worth, in fact.  I started my project a year ago but did not finish it during last year's NaNoWriMo.  Now before the angry mob reaches for their pitchforks and torches to chase down the cheater let me say this: Ayieeeee!  Actually I've had to re-imagine my idea and most of it has changed or been forced to change due to other changes.  Make sense?  Yeah, I'm hoping it'll be clearer for me too by then.

I'll try to use this blog to keep track of my progress as well as my failings, namely headaches, the bane of my writing right now.  With some determination, I should have most of a novel done and ready to edit by December.

Raccoonville, Monster USA

(My response to Glipho Ex-pats latest writing challenge on Facebook)

I found a typewriter in the fourth room I came to.  I dragged myself inside then checked the hallway behind me.  No blood on the floor.  Good.  My leg had stopped bleeding, mostly, but some blood may have gotten through the shirt I had used for a bandage.  I closed the door and locked it.

The police station was silent now so my labored breathing and boots scraping on the floor sounded louder than it should.  I won't complain.  At least the screaming had stopped.  The monsters had run out of food, live food anyway.  Except me.  And I know they were still looking.  I had to do this quick.  Only I knew how to stop them but there was no way I was getting out alive.  Mankind's only hope was for me to leave a message.

I reached up and tapped a key.  The ink was red.  Blood red.

Parental Guidance Suggested

(My latest response to the Glipho Ex-pats writing challenge on Facebook. 150 words starting with "What just blew up?")


"What just blew up?" Denny asked, pausing the video game.

"Probably your blow-up doll," his friend, Kurt suggested, "Now put the game back on."

"Ha, that's hilarious.  At least mine's a woman.  You got yours from that guy with the leather chaps who's always sitting in his van with the curtains drawn."

"It's all right, you can call him daddy.  All the other guys do."

"I'm serious, I heard something explode.  At first I thought maybe someone let out a righteously wicked fart but I remembered your mom's not home."

"Shut up, ass-wipe.  My mom said she was going out to look for your mom.  I told her try the corners by the bar district.  The guys there aren't too choosy."

"Apparently not.  Didn't your mom live there when you were born, on Skank Street?  I gotta see what that noise was."

"What?  You're just leaving?  How rude."

Spider Fighter

(My response to the latest writing challenge at the Glipho Ex-pats group on Facebook)

"Big spiders down here," Macabwah said.

Percy dropped his pack at the cave entrance.  "That's what you said last time.  All I got for my trouble was a cold and my back covered in bat shit."

"No doubt this time.  Many villagers see them.  You see, Mr. Percy." 

 

Percy could not help but grin.  The african guide's english was improving but he apparently could not get past using only his first name. 

 

He could hear the spiders moving around.  This is my final test, he thought.  My work will be acknowledged and my family's sacrifice rewarded.  Flashes of his wife and daughter dying caught him off guard.  He shook the images off.  Now was not the time.

Percy saw the head of an enormous spider emerge from the shadows.  He unstoppered a vial of green liquid and swallowed it.  He felt his body changing instantly.

"All right, spider.  Bring it on!"  

Writing, Laughing, and Paying the Bills

My first attempt at this essay somehow turned into a short piece of fiction which I had to promptly delete and apologize for not following the rules.  I'm not exactly sure how it happened but that is one of the great mysteries of writing.  Sometimes the work takes control and you get so lost in it that by the time you're done you back away from it like Victor Frankenstein, part fascinated, part horrified.  "What have I done?" you ask yourself, your hand covering your mouth.  Then it's up to you whether to unleash it upon the world or highlight all then delete.  Now that I've vanquished my demon, it's time to make amends.

This mistake, however, spotlights one of the main reasons I write.  You can lose yourself for hours at a time in a whole new world.  And not just any world but one that you created.  Whether it is modern day on Earth or Xorbutt Day on Gemini K26, it is your world.  You decide what happens, what is said, who wins, who loses.  At least, you think you do.  Then again like Frankenstein's monster, your creation comes to life and runs amok, saying things they weren't meant to say and completely throwing your carefully crafted plot into a spiraling cone of fire stoked by the endless reams of carefully researched notes.  How freaking awesome is that?  I continue to write because I'm never certain what I will find once I'm at the mercy of characters.

My next reason for why I write I'm sure will ruffle feathers and cause a great deal of backlash but I'm here to be honest.  As Joker said in The Dark Knight, "When you're good at something, never do it for free.".  I've tried many things in my life to discover what talents I may have.  I can't sing, can't paint, can't build (aside from my super Lego collection, building things has been an art of frustration).  But writing?  Now that I can do.  So far I have not been paid much for my efforts, but considering my efforts have been subpar, I'd say it's about right.  Now don't get me wrong.  I've written a lot.  My issue is with finishing things, novels, mainly.  I've done many short stories and a few screenplays but my hopes lie with writing novels.  It's what I feel I was meant to do.  And when I do start finishing them on a regular basis, I hope to be paid for them.  There has always been a sort of recoil for writers when the talk of money comes around but I don't see why.  I write for money.  I love writing and will always do it, but I also have plans of making a living at it.  I don't see how creativity and cash can't go together.

I've tried writing for free.  I've filled journals but they've never really drawn me in.  I'm not a very introspective guy and it shows in my writing which leads me to my next reason for why I write.  I began writing just for myself.  My first story was an episode of Battlestar Galactica, the original one, thank you.  Yes, I'm that old.  Back in the days before the internet and satellite TV, everyone had to wait a week for the next episode of their favorite show to come on.  For a kid, a week was the same as 'FOREVER!'.  So while I waited, I wrote my own episode complete with sound effects and plenty of Starbuck yelling, "Yee-haw!".  I remember liking it.  But more importantly I remember the other kids liking it, too.  I discovered I got more joy out of others reading the story than I did.  After that, anything I wrote I did with an audience in mind.  My goal was clear: to entertain.  I still hold that to be my number one goal in writing.  I write to make people laugh, or cringe, lose themselves in another world.  I want them to read so they pee their pants, or turn the lights on for safety, or look at the clock and shout, "Oh, shit!  I'm going to be late!"  I've tried coming up with tales rife with moral fiber and life lessons.  They always fall flat and I know the reason.  They are not something I would choose to read, so why would I try to write them?  I read for entertainment.  I prefer genre novels such as fantasy, dystopian, horror, to anything mainstream.  It is just how I am wired so that when I write, I'm hoping to light that spark in someone else.

I write because I can.  Too many people ignore their talents and it is a shame.  I've talked with many people who are retired or about to retire and most of them talk about work like a fond memory and even think about just getting a part-time job for something to do.  It boggles my mind.  I just don't get it.  This is why I write.  I want writing to be my ONLY job.  Sure insurance will be tough going, as usual, but there is no other way I can think of that I would want to make a living.  As with these retirees, they have nothing but time now.  They should be using their talents and pursuing dreams that they've delayed or put on hold.  Write that book, paint that mural, sing, damn it, sing!

Why do I write?  Not because I have to.  I think I would survive if I was forced to stop.  But what kind of life would that be?  I don't write to teach.  My wisdom runs about as deep as a puddle in a parking lot.  I write because I want to entertain.  I want to take people from this world and put them in mine and nudge at them saying, "Hey, hey, watch this.  You're gonna love it."

And hopefully they will.  If you laughed at all reading this, then my job is done.    

Perserverence Beats Up Newbie

I couldn't do it.  I refused to let my story go after putting in so much work.  I'm still not quite halfway finished but I can see the sky beginning to lighten in my writing world.  The dawn of completion is coming, I just know it.

The desire to quit this version will not be wasted, however.  After some consideration, I found how I could use the new ideas for a better book 2 of this trilogy.  So in a way this was all pretty helpful.

Now the only thing I have to contend with is a YA market that appears to be in flux as far as the poopularity of genres.  I've read several articles saying how reality is making a comeback in teen fiction and fantasy, especially dystopian and zombie, are on the decline.  It doesn't make me too worried, however.  I wouldn't consider this story to be either of those (though zombie may be thrown in the way of the writer).  Mine is more of an urban sci-fi story.  It is based in the modern day but with a slight, secretive twist, kind of like the movie, Jumper.  But even if this genre is declining, I believe that as long as it is an intriguing story, it will do well.

OK, enough ruminating.  Back to work.

Running Naked Off The Cliff

I hate to say to myself, 'I told you so', but here I go again.  I stopped working on my latest novel for a week and now I can't get my mind to recognize it anymore.  I've re-read the first 150 pages and there's a lot I like, but it doesn't inspire further ideas or excitement about the scenes I already have planned out.  I have to keep referencing back to my character sheets because I don't recall certain details of them anymore.  The worst part?  I just don't care.

I know the apathy towards my story happens every time I take too long a break.  I've heard many writers say the same thing, that once they stop tending that fire it peters out and no amount of coaxing will bring it back.  Some breaks are unavoidable, most are unintentional.  I kept writing during this last one, just not about my novel.  I wrote a short story and a few flash writing challenges.  But then when I returned to my novel I found it pale and listless.

But all is not lost.  I still like the core premise of the story, a teen derives psychic like abilities from an unexpected source, but I want to handle it differently.  I want less school involved and more action.  I'll work that out this week after giving the main character another thorough once over.  The main character's ability hinges on helping or magnifying others' abilities so I want to focus on who this leads to her assuming a leadership role even though it is the last thing she wants.  She doesn't want to be responsible for others.  She has to learn that most people just need a little help to achieve greatness and if she can, she should be there for them.