I've just done a dumb thing.
Some dumb things are inspired. Some are courageous even. And then some are just plain out-of-my-league ridiculous. My gut feeling is that signing up at the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) website is going to fall somewhere in the last category. In my romantic, idealistic vision of writing-glory, I am savoring the notion that courageous inspiration is what seized me. But as I reckon with what I've done, I think reckless abandon is more the case.
You see, NaNoWriMo is a zany website encouraging writers to sign up for the ultimate motivational boost - a deadline. And this deadline is the mother of all deadlines: to write a complete 50,000 word novel in 30 days. (And believe me, this can be done. The current best seller, Water for Elephants, is a NaNoWriMo accomplishment.) What makes this challenge even more grappling is that November is the designated month. Which, of course, includes a major holiday revolving around family, travel, food-prepping, visiting, and all kinds of out of the usual scheduling and routine. In other words, it's a deadline goal that will require the most diligent discipline. It will take a commitment of producing, at the least, 1666 words a day. That's six to seven pages!
I honestly don't know what in the world I was thinking.
Even though the website reassures me that a 50,000 word draft within 30 days will be a rough, rough draft looking a lot like, well, as they said, crap (and this was supremely encouraging), the point is two-fold. One, it's the discipline thing; getting a handle on the just-do-it struggle. In fact, while perusing the website forums designed for communal support and guidance, I felt a smug camaraderie. Why, for heaven's sake - procrastination seems to be everybody's issue. And point two, because the daily word count demand is so high, self-editing cannot happen; you just have to keep pounding out the words. What that leaves is pure creative abandon. In other words, because editing and creativity occur in opposite sides of the brain, it's a vehicle that forces an unleashing of creative energy, a method to uncork the stopper. I like the way one of my new writing friends puts it -"just unleash the puppy and see where it goes."
The idea of a self-competitive deadline set within a community of like idiots is rather compelling. It sounds like a fun way to launch myself over a long standing, self-imposed barrier. And the metaphors of unleashing puppies and uncorking plugged up creativity speak to me. I am a hog-tied writer. I want so badly to shake the bottle and blow the cork. So, for about a month I have toyed with NaNoWriMo. I would peek at their site; then I would linger; then I would start mapping out characters and plot lines in my mind; until one day in an abstractly, mindless impulse, I signed in.
And then I did the math.
Now I can talk six to seven pages of words any old day. Why, I can think six to seven pages of words a minute, easy. But to write six pages a day.....well, let me put it this way....to write one, 250 word page of text takes me about an hour. Yes, an hour. So, we're talking six pages? That's right; we're talking six hours. No way on God's green earth. Once I had the math, I went back to the website and found lots of discussion about some kind of 750 word count test. It seems that the average time it takes for these NaNoWriMo participants to write 750 words, which is three pages, is oh, say......around........forty to sixty minutes.
I'm done. Every ounce of smug camaraderie just slid right on down like oil. Now, my plot-line felt stupid; my characters, while I like them, became too complicated and were too many; my confusion about point of view (first person? third person?) loomed like Kilimanjaro. Every potential area for self-doubt loudly and grandly announced itself.
And then I found the NaNoWriMo Rebel forum. Yes, ....writing rebels. Hmmmm.....
It seems there are these NaNoWriMos that, for one work-life reason or another, set a different goal for themselves. Many have been previous participants; some are new. While this group cannot claim the "official" victory title of "Winner" at the end of the month, they are still part of the community, and they still consider themselves winners if they complete their own set goal. They still benefit from the experience; they're just a bit out of the box.
Ahh.....I found my group.
So, I've reset my goal to 22,500 words, which works out to three pages a day. For me, this is both, a disciplined stretch, and a reachable goal. Three pages, every day, is a challenge. This will be work; but it is something that is not beyond my skill (as long as I know I have the luscious liberty to produce, crap). I have one week to re-group. In my panicked, self-defeat mode I jumped around between story-lines and characters so much that I am confused and have no idea which way I'm going. But that's ok. The main thing is, I'm just going to let this puppy off the leash, and see where it goes!
NaNoWriMo website: http://www.nanowrimo.org/
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Last Choice
NOTE: This entry is fiction. It's the result of a writing assignment from the Tolovana Arts Colony writing group I've linked into - an exercise titled "If this were your last day, how would you spend it?"
It is NOT autobiographical. However, as a novice fiction writer I am drilled to "write what I know." So, though I draw from life as I know it, and while this is not a real incident nor are these characters real people, I have to admit if you know my life, some things are, I apologize...so very familiar. I like how a classmate and new friend puts it (citing Joyce Carol Oates) - "I'll tell you my truth, but it will come out as fiction."
At some point, I hope to become skilled enough in fiction that nothing I write is recognizable; except what is universally human. And there we are. All in the same camp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She knew this was her day.
Yes, there'd be more days ahead, but they would become clouded, vaporous. This was her day that she chose for herself, while she still could. Choice had become her most sacred companion. This friendship with self-design had become...how could she explain it? Delicious. Yes; that was it - sumptuous; delectable; sensuous even. This time there was no default; no fall-back plan-B arranged around appeasement, the safe-guarding of others' needs at all costs. This was about pure, unadulterated self-comfort. And it was luscious.
Like the melty, chocolaty, marshmallow-gooey graham cracker mess sticking to her grandchildren's fingers as they leaned into the campfire, setting their smore-ish concoctions ablaze. They were cherubic, those fingers. She wanted to lick them, to keep forever in her mouth the taste of babies, toddler-hood story time, rocking and singing together in the big gold chair, racing through the play-ground monkey-bars playing tag-you're-it, squeezes and giggles and wrap-their-scrawny-little-arms-around-her-neck hugs that stole her breath and heart.
"Mom. How you doin'? Are you warm enough?" Mark reached over and tucked the blanket tighter around her.
He looked at her, his eyes soft, but straight on. He always made sure they connected. Even at times when it would've been easier not to, he did. She looked up at him and once again they smiled at each other deeply, as if to reassure each others' soul; to reassure their own.
"I'm doing great, honey."
She leaned back in her chair digging her toes deeper into the sand and gazed up at the Dipper. Earlier Venus had been the show, had hung brilliant and solitary, dancing for the longest time between light and dark; between indigo and tangerine, sky and horizon, chasing the sun, changing partners, but now, rollicking among the crystalline chorus-line - a part of an incandescent anthem. She understood this Venus-dance; she was coming to know this song. She took a deep breath and inhaled the notes.
And there they were: the campfire; the sea; the sand; her children and grandchildren, their voices as aroma penetrating her senses clean through to her cells. Their laughter now, around the campfire - a love potion.
"Mom, remember the time...," Leigh was laughing so hard she couldn't finish. Her luxurious doe-eyes, those eyes that seemed to behold and reflect wisdom, that could shimmer mischief, that could ooze love right back onto itself, were now crinkled in tears and whimsy. Leigh was pulling her youngest son, Samuel, onto her lap, wrapping her arms around him and burying her laughter into the nape of Samuel's neck.
She could smell that neck with Leigh.
"You guys were so mean," said Scott. "Giving me head-swishies in the toilet. I was a little kid! Freakin' scared me to death."
He drooped his eyes, pouted his lips way out and despite his tattoos and dangling cigarette, managed to look every inch the innocent. But he couldn't stifle glee; couldn't hinge a mirth rescued from flames, re-born from angst, and throwing his head back he cackled from such a deep and lavish place that everyone around the campfire was captured with him; even the little ones joined in, their giggles like harmonized tinkling bells. His laugh was contagious, just like his spirit.
"Aww; come on little brother...we weren't really mean. That's just, you know, sibling protocol," said Mark, his laugh deep and long, like a sigh that had waited a long time, and now reveled in its release and goodness. He saluted Scott with his beer.
Scott raised his, which sent all the grown-ups into motion.
"Here's to us," said Leigh, raising her wine glass.
"To us," they chorused.
Yes, she thought, to us.
There were a lot choices they had all made through the years. Choices that made them who they were. Some choices came from places that drove them; drove them to survive; to just make it through. Some came from recoil; some were scripted; and some, yes by God, some were freely decided - rationally, deliberately, selected in grace.
Her daughter-in-law leaned over and whispered to her,
"This is so fun. I'm glad you planned it."
"Yes. Me too, sweetie."
She felt her scarf start to slip off her head, felt the chill actually, and reached up to adjust herself against the night. Her fingers brushed the scar in her naked scalp, but she refused their usual impulse to linger. She knew its line by heart. No need. Not now. No.
The fire popped. Its glow warming the remaining strands of night. They were all there, around the campfire - warming the night with her.
"Gramma?"
"Yes, darlin'."
"My fingers sticky."
She looked at them.
"Ohhhh, yes they are!" she said, as she cupped Samuel's hand, licking his fingers, savoring the gooey messiness of love, sending him into squeals of laughter as he wriggled away.
"Nah, nah. Can't catch me Gramma!"
"Oh yes I can! You better run, Samuel. Gramma's gonna catch you and eat those tasty little fingers right up!"
And she leapt out of her chair, chasing Samuel beside the dune.
Yes. While there was still a dusky campfire light.
Yes. While the sea hummed; while the sky glittered.
Yes.
To us.
Yes.
It is NOT autobiographical. However, as a novice fiction writer I am drilled to "write what I know." So, though I draw from life as I know it, and while this is not a real incident nor are these characters real people, I have to admit if you know my life, some things are, I apologize...so very familiar. I like how a classmate and new friend puts it (citing Joyce Carol Oates) - "I'll tell you my truth, but it will come out as fiction."
At some point, I hope to become skilled enough in fiction that nothing I write is recognizable; except what is universally human. And there we are. All in the same camp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She knew this was her day.
Yes, there'd be more days ahead, but they would become clouded, vaporous. This was her day that she chose for herself, while she still could. Choice had become her most sacred companion. This friendship with self-design had become...how could she explain it? Delicious. Yes; that was it - sumptuous; delectable; sensuous even. This time there was no default; no fall-back plan-B arranged around appeasement, the safe-guarding of others' needs at all costs. This was about pure, unadulterated self-comfort. And it was luscious.
Like the melty, chocolaty, marshmallow-gooey graham cracker mess sticking to her grandchildren's fingers as they leaned into the campfire, setting their smore-ish concoctions ablaze. They were cherubic, those fingers. She wanted to lick them, to keep forever in her mouth the taste of babies, toddler-hood story time, rocking and singing together in the big gold chair, racing through the play-ground monkey-bars playing tag-you're-it, squeezes and giggles and wrap-their-scrawny-little-arms-around-her-neck hugs that stole her breath and heart.
"Mom. How you doin'? Are you warm enough?" Mark reached over and tucked the blanket tighter around her.
He looked at her, his eyes soft, but straight on. He always made sure they connected. Even at times when it would've been easier not to, he did. She looked up at him and once again they smiled at each other deeply, as if to reassure each others' soul; to reassure their own.
"I'm doing great, honey."
She leaned back in her chair digging her toes deeper into the sand and gazed up at the Dipper. Earlier Venus had been the show, had hung brilliant and solitary, dancing for the longest time between light and dark; between indigo and tangerine, sky and horizon, chasing the sun, changing partners, but now, rollicking among the crystalline chorus-line - a part of an incandescent anthem. She understood this Venus-dance; she was coming to know this song. She took a deep breath and inhaled the notes.
And there they were: the campfire; the sea; the sand; her children and grandchildren, their voices as aroma penetrating her senses clean through to her cells. Their laughter now, around the campfire - a love potion.
"Mom, remember the time...," Leigh was laughing so hard she couldn't finish. Her luxurious doe-eyes, those eyes that seemed to behold and reflect wisdom, that could shimmer mischief, that could ooze love right back onto itself, were now crinkled in tears and whimsy. Leigh was pulling her youngest son, Samuel, onto her lap, wrapping her arms around him and burying her laughter into the nape of Samuel's neck.
She could smell that neck with Leigh.
"You guys were so mean," said Scott. "Giving me head-swishies in the toilet. I was a little kid! Freakin' scared me to death."
He drooped his eyes, pouted his lips way out and despite his tattoos and dangling cigarette, managed to look every inch the innocent. But he couldn't stifle glee; couldn't hinge a mirth rescued from flames, re-born from angst, and throwing his head back he cackled from such a deep and lavish place that everyone around the campfire was captured with him; even the little ones joined in, their giggles like harmonized tinkling bells. His laugh was contagious, just like his spirit.
"Aww; come on little brother...we weren't really mean. That's just, you know, sibling protocol," said Mark, his laugh deep and long, like a sigh that had waited a long time, and now reveled in its release and goodness. He saluted Scott with his beer.
Scott raised his, which sent all the grown-ups into motion.
"Here's to us," said Leigh, raising her wine glass.
"To us," they chorused.
Yes, she thought, to us.
There were a lot choices they had all made through the years. Choices that made them who they were. Some choices came from places that drove them; drove them to survive; to just make it through. Some came from recoil; some were scripted; and some, yes by God, some were freely decided - rationally, deliberately, selected in grace.
Her daughter-in-law leaned over and whispered to her,
"This is so fun. I'm glad you planned it."
"Yes. Me too, sweetie."
She felt her scarf start to slip off her head, felt the chill actually, and reached up to adjust herself against the night. Her fingers brushed the scar in her naked scalp, but she refused their usual impulse to linger. She knew its line by heart. No need. Not now. No.
The fire popped. Its glow warming the remaining strands of night. They were all there, around the campfire - warming the night with her.
"Gramma?"
"Yes, darlin'."
"My fingers sticky."
She looked at them.
"Ohhhh, yes they are!" she said, as she cupped Samuel's hand, licking his fingers, savoring the gooey messiness of love, sending him into squeals of laughter as he wriggled away.
"Nah, nah. Can't catch me Gramma!"
"Oh yes I can! You better run, Samuel. Gramma's gonna catch you and eat those tasty little fingers right up!"
And she leapt out of her chair, chasing Samuel beside the dune.
Yes. While there was still a dusky campfire light.
Yes. While the sea hummed; while the sky glittered.
Yes.
To us.
Yes.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Finding the Sweet Spot
I have a favorite spot in my kitchen, an area where I end up. It's the place where I saute, where I watch the evening news, where I gaze out the window, where I often stand and eat my meals. I call it the sweet spot.
This summer two of my dearest friends (I call them "the girls") came out from New Jersey to visit. They gave me a writing journal - a purple-ish, floral, ribbon-tied book with an elegant pen. I dubbed it "Musings from the Sweet Spot," and propped it within easy reach on the counter between my radio and wine rack. But I haven't had any particular musings to jot down while occupying that space. I tend to hear my muse as I walk the beach -
.....until the other day.
Lately I have been re-figuring my days, trying to get a sense of how to shape my daily life since my job(s) have been gradually pared down from three to one, from three-quarter-time to half-time, to quarter-time, to no time. The summer economy at the coast has whittled away my employment; has shaken loose my self-created structure - my sense of order and purpose to each day. I have enough post-divorce support to manage for a while, I am not panic-struck, but I am uncomfortable with this "non-productive" freedom. I find myself needing to qualify; to quantify; to fill this space responsibly.
So, at the Sweet Spot I am contemplating - how should I re-do my resume....I need to start net-working....gotta make sure I keep up with the local bi-monthly classifieds....how's this gonna work, Carol.....
.....when I hear Love, in the tenderest tone say, "You have been spurning Me."
And I am struck - with awe at the gentleness; dumbfounded by the statement; curious of the meaning. I know this voice; instantly. I know this Lover; this One who woos me in the sunsets; cradles me in the soft sand, enfolding me in dunes like a warm blanket. I know this One, and I cry out - "Spurning You? Oh, I am so sorry! How have I been spurning You?"
Now, it's hard to explain how a nanosecond can contain chapters of meaning; how instantaneously scenes flash into cognitive view, connect to deep desires, and make sense. Some call it revelation. For there it all was - in Love's reply:
....."I love meeting you in The Writing; I love to hear your voice."
And there it was - in the flash of unspoken desires, oh how I wish I could write; how I wish I could live at the beach; how I wish I could find my voice. There it was in a burst of recall - the support of family, the affirmation from friends, most recently from writer Mike Burgess, "Carol, if you keep hearing you're a horse, then it's time to get the saddle." There it was in an explosion of purport - the years of journaling, the closed employment doors, the available house, the financial means, the beach spread before me like an avenue to my heart. In a gasp I knew - knew why I ached for my core; knew that I had shoved it away; knew that my core was a chamber designed for communion, to be written in the language of Love.
Oh, yes; I have spurned You. I have treated this gift of space and time too casually. I have tried to minimize Your voice, though You have yearned powerfully within me. You have ached for me; ached for me to express; ached for me to write. And I have been aching for You.
And there it all was....
....my Core; uncovered at the Sweet Spot.
This summer two of my dearest friends (I call them "the girls") came out from New Jersey to visit. They gave me a writing journal - a purple-ish, floral, ribbon-tied book with an elegant pen. I dubbed it "Musings from the Sweet Spot," and propped it within easy reach on the counter between my radio and wine rack. But I haven't had any particular musings to jot down while occupying that space. I tend to hear my muse as I walk the beach -
.....until the other day.
Lately I have been re-figuring my days, trying to get a sense of how to shape my daily life since my job(s) have been gradually pared down from three to one, from three-quarter-time to half-time, to quarter-time, to no time. The summer economy at the coast has whittled away my employment; has shaken loose my self-created structure - my sense of order and purpose to each day. I have enough post-divorce support to manage for a while, I am not panic-struck, but I am uncomfortable with this "non-productive" freedom. I find myself needing to qualify; to quantify; to fill this space responsibly.
So, at the Sweet Spot I am contemplating - how should I re-do my resume....I need to start net-working....gotta make sure I keep up with the local bi-monthly classifieds....how's this gonna work, Carol.....
.....when I hear Love, in the tenderest tone say, "You have been spurning Me."
And I am struck - with awe at the gentleness; dumbfounded by the statement; curious of the meaning. I know this voice; instantly. I know this Lover; this One who woos me in the sunsets; cradles me in the soft sand, enfolding me in dunes like a warm blanket. I know this One, and I cry out - "Spurning You? Oh, I am so sorry! How have I been spurning You?"
Now, it's hard to explain how a nanosecond can contain chapters of meaning; how instantaneously scenes flash into cognitive view, connect to deep desires, and make sense. Some call it revelation. For there it all was - in Love's reply:
....."I love meeting you in The Writing; I love to hear your voice."
And there it was - in the flash of unspoken desires, oh how I wish I could write; how I wish I could live at the beach; how I wish I could find my voice. There it was in a burst of recall - the support of family, the affirmation from friends, most recently from writer Mike Burgess, "Carol, if you keep hearing you're a horse, then it's time to get the saddle." There it was in an explosion of purport - the years of journaling, the closed employment doors, the available house, the financial means, the beach spread before me like an avenue to my heart. In a gasp I knew - knew why I ached for my core; knew that I had shoved it away; knew that my core was a chamber designed for communion, to be written in the language of Love.
Oh, yes; I have spurned You. I have treated this gift of space and time too casually. I have tried to minimize Your voice, though You have yearned powerfully within me. You have ached for me; ached for me to express; ached for me to write. And I have been aching for You.
And there it all was....
....my Core; uncovered at the Sweet Spot.
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