Eight thoughts on Nanowrimo, 2011

I've been doing Nanowrimo for three years now, and although that's not exactly the longest time in the world, I think I can safely say that I'm pretty well aware of my own patterns over the course of November.

For one, I always begin the month with a fabulous, ambitious, glowing idea of what it is I'm going to accomplish. I have dreams, hopes, aspirations! I imagine myself churning out the most amazing novel that's ever been written. I imagine writing a brilliant novel that is not only enjoyable to read but intellectually stimulating as well; my own personal treatise, arguing for whatever it is that has caught me up this year.

By the end of the month I'm sitting bleary-eyed before my computer screen, making up random collections of words in order to claim that final prize - the little purple bar above my username that proclaims WINNER! Gone are the dreams of literary brilliance, of masterful thematic exploration and in-depth analysis of modern society. Instead, I just want to quietly hobble over the finish line and sit in the corner mumbling softly to myself, massaging the fingers that are still sore from typing those last 10 000 words.

And yet I return year after year. I'm not going to spend time wondering why I do this - I guess it's just who I am.

But I do want to spend a few moments pondering what it is I've learned from this year's Nanowrimo experience. So here it is, a brief look at some of the things I've learnt about myself and about writing in general, all in one month:

RTW: Goals and Rewards

Wednesdays are 'blog carnival' days over at YA Highway, where readers respond to questions posted by the YA Highway team. Today's question is:

How do you reward yourself when you meet your writing goals? Answer for big goals (i.e. I will buy a Lear jet when I get published) and/or small goals (I eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's in one sitting when I finish each chapter).
I realise I've been MIA for a few weeks, and just when I was starting to get into the habit of posting regularly. Sadly, my assessments tend to come round in horrifying unexpected cycles, huddling together like baby bears afraid of the cold. So I've been struggling to keep a hold of my sanity as I rush towards the end of semester. Hopefully I'll make it out alive, but at the moment it's touch and go.

I thought I'd keep up with YA Highway's RTW though, so here's my response to this week's question.

I had a surge of creativity about a week ago, sat down and wrote for four hours straight three days on end. For me, this is a record as I haven't really worked out a system for my writing yet. Of course, sometimes it's just hard to sit down and write. Which makes setting goals and rewards a tempting thing. Sadly, I've never been the person to do such things. So I've decided for today's RTW to post a plan I'd like to put into action rather than one I'm actually following.

And For Your Challenge THIS Month...

Nothing to do in April, as the cold winds begin to roll in and you feel it’s almost socially acceptable for you to wrap yourself in a massive doonah and disappear for months on end, until forced once more out of your little cocoon by the hot weather?

Yeah. That’s how I felt mid-March this year. So I thought I’d try something different. I decided to try out Script Frenzy. What is Script Frenzy, you may ask? Well, it’s to screenwriting what Nanowrimo is to novel-writing. Essentially it challenges you to write a 100-page script – TV, film, stage – in the month of April. Sounds like fun, right? I thought so, while I was pondering how I was going to celebrate the long winter nights that were fast approaching. And so I decided to take a leap into previously uncharted writing territory. Essentially, this was my thought process...

RTW: A Tourist's Guide to 2111

Road Trip Wednesday: #74

Wednesdays are 'blog carnival' days over at YA Highway, where readers respond to questions posted by the YA Highway team. Today's question is:

Assuming we make it through the 2010 apocalypse, what do you imagine the publishing world will look like 100 years from now?

Picture it. The year is 2111. A lazy afternoon sun dips across the scorching red wasteland that is the Australian outback. The dust stirs. One man - dressed all in leather, Mad Max style, despite the heat - zips across the landscape on a motorcycle like a black-and-grey wasp. But this is no joy ride. This is war.

Suddenly, on the horizon, shimmering, appear his pursuers. Even from a distance, they're high-tech in comparison to this Mel Gibsoneque vigilante. You can't see their faces because their vehicles seem to encase them in what looks like - if you're not afraid to have your fingers broken for making such an observation - a giant, flying silver egg.

Welcome, traveller, to the future.

RTW: Whadda Ya Know... About WIPs?

This week for YA Highway's weekly Road Trip Wednesday, the idea is to ask a question:

What do you want to know about writing and getting published?

Although I'm not currently working on a major story or idea, I'd be lying if I said I didn't one day hope to get something into print. Publishing is a long and daunting process, it seems to me, and not a little terrifying.

But my problem seems to be centred more on one thing: I just can't seem to focus on one story long enough to write up a full draft. I have at least fifteen stories that I choose between. I write depending on what mood I'm in, rather like my reading. Do I feel like Fantasy? Tackling the Sci-Fi? Romance? Working on a Fanfiction? Believe me, I've got a semi-finished story in just about every genre.

So my question is this: How do you find that one idea that you feel confident enough about to actually say, yes, this is the story I one day want to hold in my hand as a published book? How do you decide which idea you want to become your official WIP; and how do you stick to it?

Image from here.

When the Tenses Start to Blend...

... you know you should stop writing your Nanowrimo novel and clean the fluff out of your brain. Like today... which was a good day, in that I somehow managed to write over 10 000 words of utter crap. I'm thinking of it as my 'buffer zone' for when exam study becomes a pressing necessity rather than a faraway possibility.

But 10 000 words in I still haven't decided whether I'm writing in first person or third person, or even which tense I'm currently using. So I go from Mia's POV to narrating what she does, and then I realise it's time to stop.

For some reason, I cannot decide whether I want to write in first or third person. Perhaps I want to keep my options open. Perhaps I'm just going mental. I even made my characters diss Tim Winton, a WA author I admire quite a lot. But I knew I'd lost control of my story when my character went on a two-page rant chewing up my favourite books of all time, namely Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Pride and Prejudice. And that was when I realised... there is no way I can make Mia Sargent sound like she isn't a whiny little brat.

...Also, judging from my taste in books, I'm also a walking cliché. But then perhaps that shouldn't come as a surprise. XD

Fear the Blank Page: It's Only Too True

November the first is here. Oh, my. And because I'm on study break and technically studying for Psychology, what I'm actually doing is staring at the computer screen too terrified to open a blank document and type the title of my novel at the top of the page. Numerous questions come to my mind. Does the title count as three notches in my 50 000 words? Is it immoral to count 'Chapter One' as two words? And just how much Earl Grey tea is it possible for one teenage girl to drink before exploding?

As anxious as I am to answer these questions and more, what is most confusing for me at this point is just why I cannot bring myself to open Word and get cracking with something I've been waiting to do since the beginning of the year, or even November last year. What is it? Cold feet? Jitters? A sudden and inexplicable drop in self-esteem? Or perhaps it's the fact that I want to shoot myself in the foot for spending hours reading Twilight as research for my novel, time possibly better spent learning to use a loom, teaching the principles of Zen Buddhism to iguanas, or planning an elaborately staged game of Simon Says in front of the town hall. Kudos to the people who are already past the 4000 word mark only a few hours into November. I salute you, and wish I had your resolve.

Dreams of Darkness: Nano Approaches!

So there's only one more day before Nanowrimo begins, and I am excited. Have I mentioned that? Perhaps a few times. So as the sounds of rabid pre-teens dressed as ghosts, vampires and Miley Cyrus fade away down my deceptively dark driveway I thought I would upload the blurb for my novel, and the cover. Perhaps my Miss Havisham-like confinement to the house on a Sunday night and my intense dislike of small children might perhaps make me question my attitudes towards life, tonight I couldn't care less. And why? Because I'm about to write what I hope will be my most well-thought out and fun story yet... in just thirty days.


Yes, I think I can honestly say I have never planned so hard or researched so much for anything I've ever written before. And now that I'm actually here, I'm gripped with a nervous fear; what if I open up Word tomorrow and have absolutely no idea what to write? Worse still, what if I write ten words of such complete and utter garbage that I'm forced to abandon the entire project and take up something less challenging than writing a novel, like piranha-baiting or designing ballerina outfits for small, vicious, and underfed Chihuahuas....

Oh, Yes, It's That Nano Time of Year...

This year, I told myself in mid-October, I will plan my Nanowrimo novel down to the last minute detail.

And I must admit that, for the most part, I was fairly honest with myself. Not having done Nanowrimo last year I was determined that nothing short of nuclear holocaust would stop me from writing a 50 000 word novel in November. And even then I probably would have tried to scribble a few words on the back of abandoned factory walls, dipping my finger in green radioactive goo and keeping track of my wordcount by making notches in a permanently smoking Seaworld fishtank.

But as the long days of October crept by, I found myself itching to actually start planning now. I've heard lots of people say it's never too early to begin planning for Nanowrimo, but then again I felt strangely as if there was simply too much of October left to begin contemplating what I would do in far-distant November...

Glee, and More Hoorays...

First of all, I was very excited to see Neil Patrick Harris (Barney from How I Met Your Mother) appear in an episode of Glee last week. Funnily enough, I had no idea he could sing....

The Dream On episode was, I think, much better than the last few, which I found a little lacking considering how awesome the Madonna episode was. There was a little bit too much focus on main members of the Glee club and the teachers' romantic problems in particular, so it was nice to see the less prominent members of Glee get a little face time....Though I must admit I do miss the episodes where Sue is prominent. She's an awesome character, the sort of character you love to hate...

WOW Hoorays and Killer Bees.

I know it sounds silly, but I truly didn't imagine that it had been so long that I hadn't posted anything since February. Wow. I'll put that into context for you: the last time I posted something here, China threw a surprise birthday party for Mugabe. (How sweet of them. D'you think they had icecream cake? Gotta have icecream cake, or else it's not a real party. Also fairy bread.) The last time I posted, Odeon cinemas had sworn to boycott Alice in Wonderland. (Aww.) And the last time I posted, the Columbian President told the Venezuelan President to (quote) "be a man". (Thank you, Wikipedia!)

365: Word Count

Today's word count is 1731. I'm pretty happy with that; it's about two chapters in Mr Feathercott's Business. Here's a little sample:

“Good morning, Mr Feathercott.”
Mr Feathercott would have ignored her, had not the infuriating manners of his youth forced him to return the salutation.
“I trust you slept well, Mrs Feathercott,”
“Yes, Mr Feathercott.”
“How comforting. I had a very unpleasant evening,” Mr Feathercott said, still not looking up from his meagre meal. The smell of bacon and eggs made him stomach turn rather abruptly.
“Oh?” Mrs Feathercott replied, clearly preoccupied.
Mr Feathercott was not satisfied with this. His wife, surely, should show more concern for his welfare! He wanted to complain, moreover, of her lack of support the night before. But complaining would mean recalling the disagreeable events of the previous evening, and Mr Feathercott did not wish to be confronted with this.
They breakfasted largely in silence, with Mrs Feathercott eating with a healthy appetite and Mr Feathercott regarding the glistening bacon with a look halfway between disgust and desire. Their repast was nearing an end when a small figure entered by the side door which led to the kitchen...

The Right Place to Write?

I've been doing a little bit of catch-up blog reading before university starts again, and YA Highway's Road Trip Wednesday for this week (or rather, last week, as it turns out...) asks where your favourite place to write is. Now, I'm going to be cliched and say that I need to write somewhere quiet. Since I do most of my writing on the computer nowadays, it's often at my desk. Wherever I end up, it has to be a very quiet, private place. I can't work with distractions all around me (and in my house distractions are a way of life!) so my room is the obvious choice. I tend to write in bed, especially when it's down on paper. But I actually find this incredibly uncomfortable.

Ideally, I'd love a hammock or a comfy sunlounge somewhere. I like being out in the daylight and feeling the breeze around me; it makes me feel a little more connected to the world around me when I'm in my hermit-like writing mode.

Mr Feathercott's Business, Chapter One

Had one wandered up a remote London road one gloomy Tuesday in 1957 one might have observed Mr Feathercott making his way home, his impeccably trimmed whiskers drooping in the chill evening air.
On the other hand one might not have; for Mr Feathercott was a singularly unremarkable character, with his wilting whiskers and his crushed bowler hat. Mr Feathercott, alas, was the last of a race of rather ordinary Victorian gentlemen, now nearing his seventieth year, and with no notable achievements in his long life to single him out for fame and fortune. Born to a dying race, Mr Feathercott had lived much of his life in obscurity. He had once brushed the hand of celebrity with his overly large nose when he had, after the unfortunate drowning of his elder brother (unfortunate insofar as it brought his heretofore ignorant brother into some sort of renown) come to a moderate inheritance. Moderate it was indeed, for ‘moderate’ was a word which could be applied to Mr Feathercott from the tip of his frayed bowler to the toes of his unpolished brown shoes.

Mr Feathercott's Business

Had one wandered up a remote London road one gloomy Tuesday in 1957 one might have observed Mr Feathercott making his way home, his impeccably trimmed whiskers drooping in the chill evening air.
On the other hand one might not have; for Mr Feathercott was a singularly unremarkable character, with his wilting whiskers and his crushed bowler hat. Mr Feathercott, alas, was the last of a race of rather ordinary Victorian gentlemen, now nearing his seventieth year, and with no notable achievements in his long life to single him out for fame and fortune.

Mr Feathercott's Business chronicles the lives of the Feathercott family - Mr Feathercott, his wife Esther, and his three daughters - over the course of the '50s and '60s.

Life in the Feathercott household follows a well-defined and inescapable order. Mr Feathercott, the aging academic, spends his life pondering Mr Dickens and snoozing in his favourite chair by the fire. His dissatisfied wife Esther, twenty years his junior, has long ago faded into the throes of middle age yet she cannot forget the encounter with a handsome ginger-whiskered man more than two decades ago.
But times are changing, and Mr Feathercott's carefully ordered world is being systematically eroded piece by piece. His daughter Maud, newly wed to the charming and devastatingly handsome Peter, cannot wait to escape to Chicago with her husband. Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, is busy raising a family and caring for her own husband, but she finds herself unconsciously drifting towards music stands and record stores when the soulful tunes of the King of Rock 'n' Roll are heard. And as for Gladys, the Feathercott's youngest daughter - well, nobody speaks of her, save in a lowered voice as if afraid that the gossip will spread on telepathic thought waves.
Useless, archaic and mildly irritating, Mr Feathercott's world will be turned upside down. And it all begins with an encounter in a deserted pantry...

Chapter One

Project 365: Soul Catchers, Chapter One

When one considers soul’s mates, one thinks of three words; destiny, love, and impossibility.

Destiny operated on a tight schedule in the kingdom of Stillvalley. While in other universes Destiny might be known for her fickleness, in Stillvalley she was as sharp as a needle and just as likely to prick you till you bled. She ran an efficient operation and never failed to reward heavy tippers. It was her duty to ensure that each and every being in Stillvalley, from the lowliest flea to the mightiest beast, had a soul’s mate. And she had never missed one single solitary creature.

Well. Not yet, anyway.

Soul Catchers

Destiny has your soul.

What if there was a place where there was a somebody for everybody? In the kingdom of Stillvalley, everyone has a soulmate - whether they like it or not.

But when one young farm girl appears to flout destiny and reach her sixteenth birthday without her soul's mate, danger threatens to cloud Stillvalley and destroy it from the outside in. The King's Wards are slipping, allowing contingents of the kingdom's most deadly enemies, the elves, to enter by stealth and destroy Stillvalley.

Only Alunah, the farm girl who managed to escape destiny, can save the kingdom now. Accompanied by a poacher called Wren and armed only with her handy sickle, Alunah must travel to Stillvalley Castle and consult the most famous witch in the land. But Alunah's quest to find her soul's mate and save the kingdom will change the way she views the world forever. Loyalties will be tested, fears realised, and nothing in Stillvalley will ever be the same.

Chapter One

Project 365

It's the time of year to make New Year's Resolutions, so here's mine; I'm going to complete the 365 Days Challenge by this time next year.

Run by the amazing Scribbler's Abode, Project 365 challenges you to do something creative - photography, art, or writing - each day, every day, for an entire year. So I've decided to apply it to my writing, and I'll be posting snippets, short stories and excerpts as I go. The 365 logo shows that this piece is a part of the challenge, but for all my WIPs I'll still have a little icon to show which story it belongs to. The main story I'll be focusing on this year is Mr Feathercott's Business, and I'll post up the summary for that very soon.

Last night I wrote a short story which I hope to post up soon; it was really just to get into the mood, but I'll say this now; I'm really excited about this challenge. It's something to keep me motivated and focused, and I sincerely hope it will help my writing too.

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the Seventh

Letter the Seventh

To Mrs E— Kirk

London

1st December 18—

Wales

MY Darling E—,


I mentioned in my last letter that my tale is nearly complete. I am going now to Scotland, and thence to Ireland, and thence to – I know not where. The only thing I am sure of is that I am going with the best and dearest of girls, and when I return, I trust you will pay your dutiful and devoted respects to the new Mrs Jane Notingham.

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the Sixth

Letter the Sixth

To Mrs Kirk

E—ton House, —shire

31st October 18—

Wales

My Dearest Sister,


I have at last removed to a more comfortable lodging than that which I had hitherto remained in. Being, at last, deemed strong enough to remove myself, Miss Jane was most helpful in the moving and re-establishing of my personage in a smaller but infinitely more comfortable abode. I am now quite settled here and determined to regain my full strength before any continuation of my journey. Your letter much cheered my spirits, and your eagerness to hear the end of my tale prompts me to once again take up Miss Jane’s Tale. I last told you of the machinations of the Knight with respect to the person of Mrs Forbeson. In continuation;
“The Knight went out onto the moor in search of this plant, but could not find it. It grew rarely, and so he was forced to wander across unfamiliar land. With no lamp to guide him as night fell, he tumbled into a bog, breaking both his legs and fracturing his neck, and there he drowned. Thus the household was dissolved, but Mrs Forbeson, loyal to the last, was cursed with remaining in this house. For, unknown to the Knight (who was blinded by ambition and by jealousy, and who had never, I believe, looked at his wife properly above twice since their marriage) the Countess had in secrecy given birth to a child by the Nephew, a little girl. Mrs Forbeson was charged with raising this girl, and the Countess had forced her to swear never to remove the child from the house.”