I'm in a bit of a bind.
So, I have this novel that I've been working on for the past month and a half. I wrote every day since November 1st, through papers, sicknesses, video game addictions and holidays. I wrote on Thanksgiving. It's the most writing I've ever done in one consecutive stretch and I'm proud of myself for making this personal milestone. To top it all off, I even succeeded at the NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words in thirty days. Not bad, you know?
And then, about a week ago, I hit a point where it felt like I'd reached "the end" for the current story. I'm not done with the characters, of course; there's still a lot left to tell with them. But I keep telling myself that it feels like a new book, that it won't work with the way the current plot is paced. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if that's true, or if I'm not just trying to justify stopping when I did, breaking my streak. It has not escaped my notice that I've been extremely lax in getting any writing done this past week. Supposedly, it was because I was taking a break between the writing and editing process for the current manuscript. I told myself that I deserved some time off.
I guess what will determine whether I'm right about that or not is whether or not I can force myself to start again. This blog post is evidence of that desire; the fact that even though I don't know what to do about my novel situation, I'm still going to show up, as it were, I'm still going to write. I mean, hell, most of the writing I've been doing over the past three months has been this blog... if you look back at the archives, the novel is really only a recent addition to my life and my focus.
But back to the problem at hand: do I keep "the end" where it is right now on the current novel? On the one hand, it "feels" like a good ending to me, with a great line to leave off on, but on the other hand, where will I pick the story back up with these characters? I feel like that's a critical question to ask myself, because if I'm going to continue the conversation and the scene in the next book, does that not indicate that these really just are two pieces of the same story? There's also the fact that I feel it's not really long enough to be considered a true novel (most of the research I did indicates that 80,000 is considered the minimum length for a novel, although some place the number as high as 100,000 and others lower, around 70,000. Anything lower than 70,000, however, doesn't seem to get much attention by "novel" standards. Which would make this a novella, which, in my opinion, does not sound nearly as impressive or sexy. Because, of course, writing is all about what's sexy.
What was I saying?
Oh, right, my current problems. Whether to unwrap the work and press on, to take what was going to be "book two" material and keep it in "book one." The reasons against it? Worries that it won't fit with the current pacing, that the narrative structure will feel strange. On the other hand, do all stories have to fit into the standard arc of "rising action/climax/falling action?" Or can there be deviations, moments of excitement and escalation followed by more even sequences?
This is why I'm writing this particular post: because it's helping me to sort through these questions in my head (and also, I don't feel like quite a failure if I don't actually work on the novel tonight.) And to be honest, as I write out these problems and I think about what I would say if I started "Chapter 1 of Book 2" at this very moment, would I continue from the previous scene? Or would it be six months in the future? And even if it was six months in the future, why would that have to be a separate book entirely? More and more, it feels like my decision to stop when I did was a mistake. I start to wonder if I felt like I had a good scene to end on and I didn't know what else to say that night, so I just said, "okay, done!"
That would make sense to me, to be perfectly honest. I wrote before that it felt very anti-climactic, that it didn't really give me any sense of achievement or accomplishment that I thought I would have felt. I wonder now if that was because I stopped before I should have, that the fact that I still have "so many ideas" for the story does not mean I'm ready for a sequel, but that there is more to tell in the current tale.
I'm going to think on it for a little while longer, because while reflecting on these things has helped organize my thoughts a great deal, I don't think I should just jump right back into it. I want to be sure, before I make that decision. I want to do this thing right.
Most of all, I want to go back to that clean, wonderful experience of writing recklessly for an hour a day and feeling the sense of accomplishment and achievement that comes from living my dream.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Well, At Least I'm Here
Well, this has certainly been a sad state of affairs, hasn't it? All that talk about how I wouldn't let the blog lapse, and here we are, eighteen days into December and I've posted, what, three times?
Shameful.
The truth is... well, I'm not sure what the truth is. I know that I've allowed myself to become terribly distracted by work and other, lesser pursuits than writing over the past couple of days. I've told myself not to stress about this brief lapse, that even the greats don't write every single day of the year and that a break is okay, particularly since it comes between the completion of the first draft and before the beginning of the editing process.
Although, that's something that's been on my mind a lot, as well. I want this to be my next novel. Hell, I very much want this to be my first published novel, and more and more, I find myself worrying as to the length. Is it long enough to be considered a novel? My first work was 88,000 words, but I wonder if I go back now how many of those chapters could very much be considered fluff that really should be cut from the final plot. I remember writing a scene where a character gets attacked by some kind of panther. I think its purpose was to show the lethality of the protagonist, or something. Who knows.
The concern is not that I don't have any more ideas. I do have ideas. I want to write another book about these characters. The problem is that right now, it feels like the pacing is such that this story is done and that if I keep going, it really should be a sequel instead of a continuation. Unless maybe I decided to break up the novel into two distinct "books" within the actual work? It's weird hard to explain; I keep feeling like I've told the story that needs to be told for the first book, but then I also feel like if this story isn't long enough to be a "novel," and I have more story to tell with these characters, it should be obvious, right? I don't know.
Then I wonder if perhaps I'm silly for fretting about this because when I go back and edit, I'm sure that, at least in the initial drafting phase, there will be all kinds of things to add and clarify and explain which will probably increase the length. I don't know. I'm sure that a lot of the reason why I feel antsy is because it's been a good, what, three days since I wrote much of anything and I haven't written any fiction since Monday, even then this is supposed to be a break.
And of course, I'm already thinking about other things, new projects, whether I decide to reopen work on the current novel and keep writing, or start in on a separate sequel, or revisit my old novel (probably not going to happen) or try to do something else entirely.
I don't know. What I do know is that I miss the simplicity and elegance of writing a story for an hour each night, every night. It was very nice to simply sit down, write for a while, marvel at my progress and then go about my business. Although I suppose I could just go do that again, I mean, it's not like there's anything stopping me except for the fact that I told myself it's a good idea to put some space between the writing and the editing parts.
I read that somewhere in a book, I think.
Shameful.
The truth is... well, I'm not sure what the truth is. I know that I've allowed myself to become terribly distracted by work and other, lesser pursuits than writing over the past couple of days. I've told myself not to stress about this brief lapse, that even the greats don't write every single day of the year and that a break is okay, particularly since it comes between the completion of the first draft and before the beginning of the editing process.
Although, that's something that's been on my mind a lot, as well. I want this to be my next novel. Hell, I very much want this to be my first published novel, and more and more, I find myself worrying as to the length. Is it long enough to be considered a novel? My first work was 88,000 words, but I wonder if I go back now how many of those chapters could very much be considered fluff that really should be cut from the final plot. I remember writing a scene where a character gets attacked by some kind of panther. I think its purpose was to show the lethality of the protagonist, or something. Who knows.
The concern is not that I don't have any more ideas. I do have ideas. I want to write another book about these characters. The problem is that right now, it feels like the pacing is such that this story is done and that if I keep going, it really should be a sequel instead of a continuation. Unless maybe I decided to break up the novel into two distinct "books" within the actual work? It's weird hard to explain; I keep feeling like I've told the story that needs to be told for the first book, but then I also feel like if this story isn't long enough to be a "novel," and I have more story to tell with these characters, it should be obvious, right? I don't know.
Then I wonder if perhaps I'm silly for fretting about this because when I go back and edit, I'm sure that, at least in the initial drafting phase, there will be all kinds of things to add and clarify and explain which will probably increase the length. I don't know. I'm sure that a lot of the reason why I feel antsy is because it's been a good, what, three days since I wrote much of anything and I haven't written any fiction since Monday, even then this is supposed to be a break.
And of course, I'm already thinking about other things, new projects, whether I decide to reopen work on the current novel and keep writing, or start in on a separate sequel, or revisit my old novel (probably not going to happen) or try to do something else entirely.
I don't know. What I do know is that I miss the simplicity and elegance of writing a story for an hour each night, every night. It was very nice to simply sit down, write for a while, marvel at my progress and then go about my business. Although I suppose I could just go do that again, I mean, it's not like there's anything stopping me except for the fact that I told myself it's a good idea to put some space between the writing and the editing parts.
I read that somewhere in a book, I think.
Monday, December 14, 2009
A Reflection Upon Reaching "The End"
If you happen to keep up with my Twitter feed (and I'm arrogant enough to assume that everybody does), you know that for the past few days, I've been saying that I think my current novel is drawing to its conclusion. I've noticed the past few nights that I've had less and less story to tell, haven't been able to really just throw myself into the work and write with abandon the way that I did before.
At first, I thought this was because I had begun to realize that NaNoWriMo is over and that now, I have a sense of the amount of work behind me, I was less willing to just let myself fall into the work, let myself write without fear of failure. But more and more, I think that it's not because NaNoWriMo has come and gone, but because I've been approaching the end of the story not with elation, but with trepidation.
It seems weird, that I actually finished the story last night, and there wasn't this sense of satisfaction or completion, only a vague sense of emptiness, a feeling that I had lost something. At first, I thought it just meant that I wasn't quite done with the story, that maybe there was more to the epilogue than I had written. But when I sat down to write tonight, I realized that I had nothing to add, nothing more to say at this point. The story felt done.
Well, not done, because this is only a first draft and I know that there's still a great deal of work ahead of me. And of course, I've got a lot of ideas for a sequel that I didn't include, because then the pacing would have been totally thrown off. So it's not like this is the end, or even that this is the only story I'm ever going to write. NaNoWriMo showed me how to make the effort to right a lot, to write every day. It's up to me, now, to take that knowledge and apply it, to not allow myself to slip back into the lax and easy life of "oh, I don't feel like writing tonight, I'll do it tomorrow." That's one thing that I cannot allow to happen, even if this story is done. Even if there's no novel writing for a while as I let the current project simmer for a bit before I begin the editting process, that can't be an excuse to skip out on what has become my daily ritual, my daily requirement from myself. Maybe that means going back to blogging every day, which is something I told myself I would do anyway. Maybe it means working on some short stories for a while.
But going back to my original point, on being done and the feeling of completion. It's been a long, long time since I reached "the end" in novel writing; I wrote my first novel when I was sixteen and the sequel to that has been an ongoing thing that's still incomplete. I've tried to think back to how I felt as I wrote the last line on that first work; did I know it was the end as I wrote it? Or did I feel then as I do now, that I feel empty instead of complete? That I feel like although I have this story, this work that I can be proud of, that I can soon show the world, part of me will never be able to recover that earlier time of wonder and joy as I wrote with reckless abandon?
I actually asked my mom about this, before I sat down to write this blog post, to reflect on how I feel. She told me that she understands, because she said it's a lot like being a parent. You put in all this work, you make sure you've done all that you can, and... then it's over. Your job is done and it's up to your child (or your book, in my case) to go on to have his or her or its own experiences.
It's a very poignant moment. I mean, I've always hated reaching the last page in a favorite story, because it means my time with the characters that I know and love has come to an end. But I guess for some reason I never imagined that the same would be true for the writer as well; I guess I imagined that the fact that those characters live on in his or her head means that the writer is never truly removed from the creations. But I've begun to realize that this is false, and that the writer feels just as much disconnect and detachment when he or she reaches the end.
I mentioned before that I tried to think about what I experienced the first time I reached the end, if I felt fulfilled, if I felt something wonderful and life affirming. I think that perhaps maybe I did, because I was younger then (although I do not pretend to be an old veteran at 22) and more inexperienced, and I did not know then all of the things that I know now. I think perhaps I wrote then because I wanted the reward for the effort, the gold star that is being able to say truthfully "that I've written a book."
That hasn't been my motivation for this work. I write now not for want of reward or recognition or praise, but because it is in my nature to do this thing, because the years I stayed away from my craft were some of the darkest moments of my life and I can only truly feel at peace with myself when I am creating.
I think that, perhaps, though I do not have the urge to bust out a bottle of wine or smoke a cigar in celebration, I nevertheless do feel pleased with myself and with my achievement. Because for the last month and a half, I've written every single day, through sickness, intoxication, sleep deprivation, being overworked. I've forced myself to find time to write in the early hours of the morning, in brief slivers of time between here and there, and even on days when I really, really didn't want to make the effort, when it was easier to just be lazy.
I did what I aspired to do, and I have a new novel to show for it. And that makes me very, very happy.
At first, I thought this was because I had begun to realize that NaNoWriMo is over and that now, I have a sense of the amount of work behind me, I was less willing to just let myself fall into the work, let myself write without fear of failure. But more and more, I think that it's not because NaNoWriMo has come and gone, but because I've been approaching the end of the story not with elation, but with trepidation.
It seems weird, that I actually finished the story last night, and there wasn't this sense of satisfaction or completion, only a vague sense of emptiness, a feeling that I had lost something. At first, I thought it just meant that I wasn't quite done with the story, that maybe there was more to the epilogue than I had written. But when I sat down to write tonight, I realized that I had nothing to add, nothing more to say at this point. The story felt done.
Well, not done, because this is only a first draft and I know that there's still a great deal of work ahead of me. And of course, I've got a lot of ideas for a sequel that I didn't include, because then the pacing would have been totally thrown off. So it's not like this is the end, or even that this is the only story I'm ever going to write. NaNoWriMo showed me how to make the effort to right a lot, to write every day. It's up to me, now, to take that knowledge and apply it, to not allow myself to slip back into the lax and easy life of "oh, I don't feel like writing tonight, I'll do it tomorrow." That's one thing that I cannot allow to happen, even if this story is done. Even if there's no novel writing for a while as I let the current project simmer for a bit before I begin the editting process, that can't be an excuse to skip out on what has become my daily ritual, my daily requirement from myself. Maybe that means going back to blogging every day, which is something I told myself I would do anyway. Maybe it means working on some short stories for a while.
But going back to my original point, on being done and the feeling of completion. It's been a long, long time since I reached "the end" in novel writing; I wrote my first novel when I was sixteen and the sequel to that has been an ongoing thing that's still incomplete. I've tried to think back to how I felt as I wrote the last line on that first work; did I know it was the end as I wrote it? Or did I feel then as I do now, that I feel empty instead of complete? That I feel like although I have this story, this work that I can be proud of, that I can soon show the world, part of me will never be able to recover that earlier time of wonder and joy as I wrote with reckless abandon?
I actually asked my mom about this, before I sat down to write this blog post, to reflect on how I feel. She told me that she understands, because she said it's a lot like being a parent. You put in all this work, you make sure you've done all that you can, and... then it's over. Your job is done and it's up to your child (or your book, in my case) to go on to have his or her or its own experiences.
It's a very poignant moment. I mean, I've always hated reaching the last page in a favorite story, because it means my time with the characters that I know and love has come to an end. But I guess for some reason I never imagined that the same would be true for the writer as well; I guess I imagined that the fact that those characters live on in his or her head means that the writer is never truly removed from the creations. But I've begun to realize that this is false, and that the writer feels just as much disconnect and detachment when he or she reaches the end.
I mentioned before that I tried to think about what I experienced the first time I reached the end, if I felt fulfilled, if I felt something wonderful and life affirming. I think that perhaps maybe I did, because I was younger then (although I do not pretend to be an old veteran at 22) and more inexperienced, and I did not know then all of the things that I know now. I think perhaps I wrote then because I wanted the reward for the effort, the gold star that is being able to say truthfully "that I've written a book."
That hasn't been my motivation for this work. I write now not for want of reward or recognition or praise, but because it is in my nature to do this thing, because the years I stayed away from my craft were some of the darkest moments of my life and I can only truly feel at peace with myself when I am creating.
I think that, perhaps, though I do not have the urge to bust out a bottle of wine or smoke a cigar in celebration, I nevertheless do feel pleased with myself and with my achievement. Because for the last month and a half, I've written every single day, through sickness, intoxication, sleep deprivation, being overworked. I've forced myself to find time to write in the early hours of the morning, in brief slivers of time between here and there, and even on days when I really, really didn't want to make the effort, when it was easier to just be lazy.
I did what I aspired to do, and I have a new novel to show for it. And that makes me very, very happy.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Things You Only Think About When Your House is on Fire
A few notes. First of all, I do feel very badly that I haven't had any time to write in my blog over the past few weeks, especially when I promised that I would. Ultimately, however, it came down to the fact that I had a ton of things that I needed to be working on, and I was already spending about an hour a night writing my novel, which, of course, meant an hour spent writing things that were not my various essays.
But now those essays are done, finals are upon us, which means that for a Creative Writing major like me, the semester is nearly over. Which means more time to write things that are not essays, and hopefully more time to blog about the things that I'm thinking about. Because I don't know about you, but I like doing this. I was going back though the archive a few nights ago, trying to figure out which blog entries to include for my portfolio, and for a while, I just sat there and read my own stuff. It's probably horribly narcissistic to do that, read your own work, but I found myself greatly inspired as I read my thoughts at the beginning of November, when NaNoWriMo was still just one great big source of ambition and anxiety. Or the thoughts of me in mid-October, still getting over a breakup and wondering why the hell it would be a good idea to try to write a novel in thirty days, in the busiest month of the year.
We lose those thoughts if we don't take steps to preserve them. We lose the day to day details, the minutia, the things we thought about last week. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes, I find myself wondering what was going through my head when I sat down to write three months ago. I feel like I've come a long way in a short time, and at times, it seems to be happening too fast for me to even catch my breath. And that's why I'm glad that I have this record, why I will continue to work on keeping this blog updated. Because it's nice to look back and see my own personal little narrative, written not as some epic tale or idealized chronicle, but as the day to day experiences of the real me.
Now, there's one other thing I wanted to do with tonight's entry. While I was at the Essay Reading Night (congratulations to all the winners, by the way), I was asked if I would share my own essay here on my blog. So I've decided to do that, because I was asked, and I always like to be accommodating, but also because I'm actually rather proud of this piece and I think it deserves to be shared. So if you're interested in hearing about what happened during the Great House Fire of 2007, keep reading after the jump. If not, well, um... I guess I'll see you tomorrow.
But now those essays are done, finals are upon us, which means that for a Creative Writing major like me, the semester is nearly over. Which means more time to write things that are not essays, and hopefully more time to blog about the things that I'm thinking about. Because I don't know about you, but I like doing this. I was going back though the archive a few nights ago, trying to figure out which blog entries to include for my portfolio, and for a while, I just sat there and read my own stuff. It's probably horribly narcissistic to do that, read your own work, but I found myself greatly inspired as I read my thoughts at the beginning of November, when NaNoWriMo was still just one great big source of ambition and anxiety. Or the thoughts of me in mid-October, still getting over a breakup and wondering why the hell it would be a good idea to try to write a novel in thirty days, in the busiest month of the year.
We lose those thoughts if we don't take steps to preserve them. We lose the day to day details, the minutia, the things we thought about last week. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes, I find myself wondering what was going through my head when I sat down to write three months ago. I feel like I've come a long way in a short time, and at times, it seems to be happening too fast for me to even catch my breath. And that's why I'm glad that I have this record, why I will continue to work on keeping this blog updated. Because it's nice to look back and see my own personal little narrative, written not as some epic tale or idealized chronicle, but as the day to day experiences of the real me.
Now, there's one other thing I wanted to do with tonight's entry. While I was at the Essay Reading Night (congratulations to all the winners, by the way), I was asked if I would share my own essay here on my blog. So I've decided to do that, because I was asked, and I always like to be accommodating, but also because I'm actually rather proud of this piece and I think it deserves to be shared. So if you're interested in hearing about what happened during the Great House Fire of 2007, keep reading after the jump. If not, well, um... I guess I'll see you tomorrow.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Project Procastination
Despite all my promises to not leave this space unattended, the Mirror has been silent and still for almost a week now. Um. Whoops?
The truth is that this has been the last week, the final push before all the cards have to be laid down, all bets have to been, the dice are thrown, and all those other tired gambling metaphors. Ultimately, it became a question of which projects matter and which ones are just interesting, and I decided that the little time I did have for "none-essay writing" writing would be better spent getting that novel finished. It's still not done, by the way, that project I've been working on and talking about for the last month. But it's getting close, I think and I'm eager to reach the conclusion and... well, maybe eager isn't quite the proper word. I would like very much to be done, yes, but part of me is also terrified that I won't be able to ignore all the mistakes I made with the first draft once it's time to revise. Right now, I'm forcing myself to keep plunging forward, ignoring what I'm sure are a host of errors that are to be expected as I discover more about my world and my characters.
The weird thing, however? Despite the fact that I've really only been working on the novel, in order to give myself as much time as possible to get my projects done, the truth is I haven't made much progress on any of them. I've had this entire week and I've whittled it away worrying and stressing and not working, and, rather ironically I might add, delaying work on those projects by distracting myself with other things like the novel. I'm honestly surprised that I didn't use this blog as an excuse to spend more time not writing my essays.
It feels like a physical pressure on my chest. I know that, one way or another, for better or worse, this feeling won't persist. I know that I'll knuckle down and just freaking do the work that needs to get done. But I guess for some strange reason, part of me is looking ahead and would rather feel intimidated than motivated. I don't know why that is. Burn out, maybe. Perhaps just a little bit of laziness, some good old procrastination.
Writing out my thoughts about it all has helped somewhat, though I'm sure this is not making for particularly interesting reading. My apologies. I will endeavor to return to a more engaging style of posting, perhaps after my massive "to-do" list has been whittled down appropriately.
I'm pretty sure that means another few days without posting in the blog. Unless I feel the need to stall, in which case, um, see you tomorrow, I guess?
The truth is that this has been the last week, the final push before all the cards have to be laid down, all bets have to been, the dice are thrown, and all those other tired gambling metaphors. Ultimately, it became a question of which projects matter and which ones are just interesting, and I decided that the little time I did have for "none-essay writing" writing would be better spent getting that novel finished. It's still not done, by the way, that project I've been working on and talking about for the last month. But it's getting close, I think and I'm eager to reach the conclusion and... well, maybe eager isn't quite the proper word. I would like very much to be done, yes, but part of me is also terrified that I won't be able to ignore all the mistakes I made with the first draft once it's time to revise. Right now, I'm forcing myself to keep plunging forward, ignoring what I'm sure are a host of errors that are to be expected as I discover more about my world and my characters.
The weird thing, however? Despite the fact that I've really only been working on the novel, in order to give myself as much time as possible to get my projects done, the truth is I haven't made much progress on any of them. I've had this entire week and I've whittled it away worrying and stressing and not working, and, rather ironically I might add, delaying work on those projects by distracting myself with other things like the novel. I'm honestly surprised that I didn't use this blog as an excuse to spend more time not writing my essays.
It feels like a physical pressure on my chest. I know that, one way or another, for better or worse, this feeling won't persist. I know that I'll knuckle down and just freaking do the work that needs to get done. But I guess for some strange reason, part of me is looking ahead and would rather feel intimidated than motivated. I don't know why that is. Burn out, maybe. Perhaps just a little bit of laziness, some good old procrastination.
Writing out my thoughts about it all has helped somewhat, though I'm sure this is not making for particularly interesting reading. My apologies. I will endeavor to return to a more engaging style of posting, perhaps after my massive "to-do" list has been whittled down appropriately.
I'm pretty sure that means another few days without posting in the blog. Unless I feel the need to stall, in which case, um, see you tomorrow, I guess?
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