November 16, 2007
Stream
Just past the halfway mark. Still lagging, just hit 18,000 words with 20,000 as the goal for today. My God, the speed with which I reach mile markers is for once one that I appreciate. Seconds ago my jaw hung gaping at the 10,000 word count at the bottom of my screen. Probably, most likely, the longest single piece of fiction I have written. Short stories, like uncaring metaphors for my deepest fears, have always been easy. Long form anything… now that’s work. Bravery. Strength. Growth.
Wendy became set dressing the moment after her creation. Sebastian rocketed from interesting to absolutely magnetic. Whatever will become of them and Sara? What awaits on that train? Back east? Who’s New York number is sitting on her phone like a time bomb from the past? Will she bring a bag full of pills and other uglies, or no luggage at all? What is dear Sara/Kenna’s problem, and is it hers alone?
What’s both maddening and magic is that “I” know all the answers to these questions, but divulge them in perfect time. One part of my brain keeps the wall up, delivering a stream of plot at about the speed of my typing. I’m not writing this book alone, and yet I’m the only one on the project. Sara/Kenna gets it. Assuming I let this novel see the light of day, I think others might get it, too. Well, we’ll see.
I slept in until 11:30 this morning. No idea how it happened. Old dreams of familial strife reappeared. Why am I always screaming? Why is no one ever listening? Next week is Thanksgiving. I dislike holidays. Every year I think about fasting or helping others. Both ideas are executed for their sheer unoriginality. But lately, letting the stupid ideas live for a while, as long as they’re green-lighted by ye olde gut, has proved a fantastic tactic. Fan-Tactic? Ugh.
I’m seeing everything through a new lens lately, but you’ve never escaped my eye. Nothing, no one, ever. Even in my years of silence, nothing fades. The Big Picture is so important to me. You’re so very important to me. YES, YOU.
UPDATE: 9:36PM and I’m done @ 20,0012 words. Better than drugs. (But even better with drugs.)
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November 12, 2007
NaNoWriMo and a child molester
Point the First: Yes, I am participating in NaNoWriMo. It hurts. So good. Better than therapy and it’s free.
Rule #1: Until 12/1/07 you absolutely may NOT reference NaNoWriMo when writing me. It’s the big white elephant in the room until then. I don’t need more pressure from people asking how it’s coming, what’s it about, can I read some, damn I didn’t know you wrote, etc. Zip it.
I think I had a 2nd rule but it’s not coming to mind.
But here is something insane.
Sean was at the dumpster, dumping trash. He picked up a shoe box that had “Steve” written on it. Open that sucker up and he found Boy Scout paraphernalia. A highly decorated merit badge sash, olde skool style fast food hat, shirt with medals and patches, “pathfinder” belt buckle, hankies, etc: just a mess of Boy Scout stuff. We (I?) imagined that his parents were cleaning house and throwing old Steve’s memories out the fucking door. Yah, well. Tonight I put 2 and 2 together, and Googled the full name of the rightful owner of the shoe box. Turns out he’s a VERY recently ex-doctor who lost his license cuz he pled guilty to “LEWD OR LASCIVIOUS ACTS WITH CHILD UNDER 14 YEARS”. And… he lives in my building. My 9 (counting commercial) unit apartment building. All this time- several months now- I’ve been looking on the box with a sort of sadness, lamenting the loss of the items. Imagining, in my projecting way, parents who ditch childhood memories like winter coats. But no. Just a child molester who thought better of keeping his Boy Scout memories, about 30 years after the fact (he’s 43). I don’t know ANY of my neighbors, outside of a few callous nicknames like “that old white bi guy who loves the Ethiopian couple” or “ex-fattie, Kirk and his still-fat GF”. (Gawd. I very recently, momentarily, lost a brochure that I had written personal things on. Words that would make me look like the asshole I can be. I almost died of pre-embarrassment, but some dude sitting behind me (who had CHATTED me up earlier) was like “oh did you drop this? it was *back here*”. Yah. Something told me then to SHUT [my pen] UP, but I kept going. It’s why I keep going now.) Neighbors that I don’t know, if you find me, please don’t judge me harshly. I label you, but I’m aware that I know I don’t knowyou. I’d love to know you. Knock on my door, k? Never before noon, not after sunset.
Fast forward a few days. Cuz I keep journal drafts like it’s going out of style, and don’t publish half of them.
Sometimes I notice defining things that I do, and want to document them. For the longest time, I was averse to putting that stuff anywhere online because I feared having it used against me. At worst, stalker fodder and at best, one more weak spot paraded in front of strangers who will treat the knowledge like a tissue. Wow, OK, I sometimes reveal a lot in my preambles. More neurotic, I sometimes leave them unedited.
I eat slowly compared to most people. It takes me ages to finish a meal, unless it’s a sweet or I’m high.
Often, it also takes me ages to write anything outside of a free-write in my paper journal.
I take my pleasure and my work very seriously. I’m a double Capricorn, and the weight of that occasionally crushes me.
Day 12, almost halfway done and I have just made 50% of my word count goal on any given day. And yet, I have been calm from the start. And how much do I love my nearly 14,000 words! This story has completely taken over my life, and as behind as I am in my other work, it’s a sort of bliss. For years I circled this challenge, looking for its weak point so that I could pounce and be assured in my victory. But it wasn’t until the year that I had heaped work on my plate, zero writing stamina under my belt, and time commitments to my church that I had every intention of fulfilling that I plunged headlong into NaNoWriMo. Exuberant imperfection they call it. Giving yourself permission to make mistakes, and then making them. Writing with a persistent, white hot fury until your Inner Editor understand that it has truly been given the boot for an entire month. Almost halfway in and I’m starting to uncover truths.
Year 28, get ready to embrace your new novelist.
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