Writing fun

Here's how writing and exercise are alike: I love how they feel when I do them, but procrastinate like the devil before I get to it. What is that about?

During the month of November, I wrote nearly every day. I had the challenge of doing NaNoWriMo and wanted to succeed at writing 50,000 words on a new novel during the 30 days of November. I did it, as I have done for several years now. The unfinished novels are beginning to pile up, but they've also been the seed for publishing the books I have now on Amazon.

This past November I returned to my favorite genre, historical lesbian fiction.  It weds my favorite subjects and gives me the chance to stretch by doing research and NOT falling into the trap of formulaic writing. (At least I hope I don't fall down that hole!) So I was a happy little clam getting ready to write and having the story take shape day by day. I only missed one or two days of writing in November. When I reached the 50,000 mark, the book wasn't finished, but it was maybe 2/3 done. And I haven't looked at it since.

When I'm under the time crunch of Nano, I am just piling up words, not looking for deathless prose. The point is to put so many words into it that I won't just abandon the effort later. There are predictable stages, including the 30,000 word slump when the whole thing seems not just impossible but a stupid idea in the first place. By then, I'm usually floundering around with too many characters running off in all directions, too many storylines to keep track of, and no clear idea how to bring it all together. And really, that's the way it stays all the way till 50,000. What keeps me going is the word-o-meter.

So this week, I pull up the file for the first time since Nov. 30, convinced that I'm going to be reading a pile of jumbled up trash that may not even be salvageable. And what do I find? It's a story I want to read. I can't remember what all I've written, since I've never read it over. It's like a new book, and it keeps pulling me forward. The story is better than I thought it would be, the characters are developing well, and there are some really good individual sentences ----- I love a good sentence!

It's not perfect, of course. It's a first draft of a Nano book. I'm excising, rearranging, editing, expanding. But that's fun, too. What is so exciting for me is that, contrary to what I've been telling myself for the last 6 weeks, I actually DO have a viable book here. I'll be able to finish it and send it on it's way to join its sisters in the wider world. I'll watch it bob around in that big sea of books and know from experience that it's going to wash up on shores farther away than I'll ever see.

And then I'll go back and finish Nano 2010, a baby I've been shaping and polishing for a year and a half and still haven't found the ending.

Why in the world would I procrastinate about doing something that is this much fun?

Silly Writer.

For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost

I'm not sure I trust myself to speak today.  Waking up to the news that a military strike killed the United States' Most Wanted is disturbing.  I'll tell you why.

I'm a novelist.  We writers are a strange breed, especially those of us who construct whole lives and worlds in the imagination.  The very same perspective that makes it possible to follow a story across time and generations, also makes it difficult to watch "real life" unfold and not see it as the arc of a storyline.

Nothing happens in isolation.  As an author, if I drop an event into a story that is in no way related to the overall narrative --- just because I heard about or imagined something that tickled me ---- it stands out and cries to be removed.  I've had to go back and take out some very entertaining scenes or characters for just that reason. 

Everything is connected to everything else.  Poets and philosophers and storytellers and religious teachers all say the same thing, using different metaphors.  A stone dropped in the water, a butterfly in Indonesia flapping its wings, the birth of a baby, a nail lost from the horse's shoe ---- all have been used to bring home the point that the tiniest action has unpredictable effects.

So Osama bin Laden, the 17th baby born to a well-to-do family in 1957, was killed in an operation that will no doubt be written about, filmed, talked of and doubted for years.  (Or he wasn't killed, if you prefer.)  At one time, he was a newborn baby, not unlike every person reading these words, not unlike the babies all over the globe being born this instant.  His life began to unfold at that moment.  One thing happened, then another and another.  Just as we all do, he processed the world and its inhabitants based on his own interpretation of the things he felt and saw and heard and learned.  Was it pre-ordained?  There are those who believe it, I'm sure.  I don't happen to think that way.

I'm certain that this man, whoever he was in his heart of hearts, was responsible for terrible pain and grief in the world and in individual people's lives.  There is no mitigating such an awful legacy.  He will be remembered, not for whatever acts of kindness he may have bestowed on the people close to him, but for the monstrous acts of violence he set in motion.  He is not the first, nor even the worst, if you toll these things in number of casualties.  But he has left his mark upon the world.

What captures and distresses me is what comes next.  Some people, many people, are celebrating his death.  Others don't believe it.  The fact that he is gone will have some effect on the organization he leaves behind.  Where does this lead?  There will be geo-political ramifications that, like the stone in the pond, will radiate out from this event in all directions.  There will be political fallout in the US.  There will be private, personal changes wrought by the strike.  The families who have lost precious sons, daughters, mothers, fathers through military service or in the 9/11 attack will add another layer to their existing story of life and death.  Civilians in the war-torn countries involved, whose lives have been disrupted or destroyed over the past decade will also react, each in an individual way.

Sometimes when I read fiction, I can't stand not knowing what is going to happen and I either stop reading or jump ahead.  I have a low tolerance for suspense.  Sometimes in life I feel the same way.  There are too many variables crashing into each other right now.  It makes me jumpy and anxious and ready to have the resolution.  But I know, because I write the stuff, that resolution is short-lived and more will continue to unfold.  With a book I can write the words THE END and call the story to a halt.  In real life it just keeps coming.