Plodding On

Easier going now that I've gotten back into the drift of my story. Despite my insecurities, I'm going to plod on. Even if at the end of this, the only conclusion I reach is that I'm incapable of writing a good novel, I have to give it a shot. 

I have to give this one good shot. And then we'll go from there. 

In the meantime though, I've been hit with another fabulous idea. Of course, like every other writer on the planet, I considered jumping into that one. But what to do with the book I'm working on? Leave it aside? Work on both simultaneously? 

And then I told myself to shut the fuck up and just focus on the book at hand. If after I'm done with this one, that idea still remains, I'll take it up. But for now, let's just get through this, okay?

Writing a novel is hard enough without being distracted by other books and ideas. Maybe that's why I'm being distracted. The book is reaching the middle. Middles are hard. The opening is done, the conclusion is not here yet. I'm exploring relationships and wondering where my character is going to go. For now, she seems to be finding her own directions, but at some point I'm going to have to start making shit up. 

Did I mention that this is a lot of fun? Because no matter how hard it is, and how much I've been moaning about that lately, I've been having fun. 

I'm in love with writing again. A few months ago, I wouldn't have believed I'd be saying that again so soon. 

The Words are Showing Resistance

It is a hard writing day today. I know it's partly because I'm coming back to the novel after what seems like a long break, but it's also because confidence seems to be running low. 

I brought home a novel by an author last week, who I happen to know. She sold her first novel quite easily, and her second novel went on to become a huge success. And I thought she was a brilliant writer. Until I got home her first novel. 

It's not that it's bad. It just doesn't suit my taste, I guess. I read the genre a lot, but the novel didn't really connect with me right from the beginning. The opening is amateurish at best, I thought. I'm now in the middle of it, and it seems to be getting better. 

Then, of course, before I started writing today, I visited a writer's forum. Another writer I respect posted some of his work. Now, this writer has also published two novels, but the novels were not successful, and I don't even think he has a third book deal. Which is sad, because the excerpt he posted? It was bloody brilliant. 

So there I was, sitting down to do my 800 words for the day, and I'm reading fantastic writing by this really talented writer, who wasn't successful in his fiction-writing career. And I'm thinking, I don't write half as well as this guy. What chance do I have?

As much as anyone else I suppose, as long as I keep getting those words out, paying attention to my story, and not giving up. 

But you can see why it's been hard. 571 words so far today. More to come. 

Firing Away

It's amazing what guilt can make you do. And accountability, of course. Another 890 words down today, making it a total of 1,760 words. I'm really getting the hang of this, aren't I?

The downer? The story seems to be going in ten different directions. My voice is going in many more. There are characters coming up all over the place, and while I think getting this first draft out might not be such a big issue, boy am I not looking forward to the rewrite that comes later. 

But seeing as I don't have to worry about that for the next three months, I'm feeling pretty happy about my productivity. 

I know several authors who've said time and again that their books began to form on their own after the first ten or twenty thousand words, so I'm not panicking yet. I'm going wherever my thoughts are taking me without judging their literary merit. I'm singularly focused on meeting word counts. 

I haven't decided what I'm going to do for Thanksgiving. I don't have family around, and my boyfriend is currently on a whole other continent. I have invitations from several friends, but a part of me really just wants to be holed up in my room writing. 

I'm talking twenty days off in December from all kinds of work and writing (including this novel), so maybe staying in on Thanksgiving isn't such a bad idea after all. 

Writing (non-fiction too) is solely responsible for my lack of a social life. But at least I enjoy it.

A Missed Day

Yesterday was the first time since I started writing that I missed a day. I didn't mean to, but the inspiration was missing, and even though I kept telling myself I would get to it, other work beckoned, and well, it didn't happen.

Don't worry, I chastised myself enough for all of you. 

That's the one thing I'm going to try and avoid at every cost-- the missing of days. I know very well how easily a missed day can become two missed days, how two become four, and how one day you wake up, a year has passed, and you're still hoping to write fiction someday. 

I don't want to write fiction someday. I want to write fiction now. 

I've finished my words for today. Since the 800 came really easily this evening, I'm going to see if I can sit down and crank out another 800 to compensate for yesterday. 

Writing isn't a lottery -- the talk about the "odds" is misleading -- it's a game of skill. If you write total trash, no matter how many manuscripts you send in you won't get picked. If you write Really Good Stuff, the only thing that'll keep it from being published is if you don't submit it.

- James D. Macdonald, Absolute Write Forums

Block by Block

It is not an easy day for writing. The words are not flowing today. They're sputtering all over the page, and even though I've met half of my daily goal, I'm struggling to get through the next 400 words. 

It's only 400 words. And damn, today, they're just coming really hard. 

I'm not sure I believe in writer's block. Writer's block, I think, is just a symptom for a bigger problem. Maybe that you're overworked, or underpaid, or not enjoying the kind of writing you're doing. Or, as in my case today, you don't know where to go from here. 

It's a temporary hiccup. I started writing as soon as I got up today, and I still feel like I'm mentally clouded. 

My quick and easy solution is to jump in the shower and get some perspective. So that's what I'm about to do. 

Setting Myself Apart

I haven't started my work for the day, but I did write a few hundred words last night before the bed. It was the grueling death scene. I did somehow manage to spit it out. And while it was just as intense, if not more, as I'd thought it would be, I'm not really happy with the writing. I'm not worried though. I know I'm looking at a full rewrite after I've managed to vomit the story on to the page. 

I came up with this plot idea at the beginning of this year. I'd just about given up on the novel I'd been working on, and wasn't really thinking of jumping back into the game at any point. 

But then I read a book-- by Haruki Murakami- a Japanese author, and for some reason, I longed to write again. I wrote a long journal entry around beliefs and dreams and compromises, and then realized later that it was a bit of a synopsis. 

At the time, I'd been trying to get out of my current situation, so I applied to a fiction writer's retreat in New York. They needed a synopsis of the work I'd been doing while I was there, so I sent them the edited journal entry. 

A few months later, I heard from them-- they loved what I'd sent their way, and while I hadn't been selected, I was on the waiting list. That gave me a bit of confidence, I'll admit. Someone saying that I'd made the shortlist for something I was beginning to believe I had no talent in. 

Before I moved to California, I'd gone on vacation with my boyfriend. There, over a nice Italian meal one day, I confessed to my him that I dreamed of fiction. That I even had a plot idea. And I told him my story.

"Oh, have you seen Sliding Doors?" he asked me.

I hadn't.

"It's somewhat similar to the idea you're describing."

The dreams could have ended there, and they almost did. My great original idea was suddenly not so original anymore. But I came home, I watched the movie, and you know what? While it was similar, it wasn't how I was planning to execute my story. It was going to be nothing like Sliding Doors. Sure, there was going to be that element of a life split apart, but that was pretty much the only similarity my book would have to that movie. I loved the movie, I must say, and it gave me more confidence that my idea was worth following through.

So many people give up when they find that a story they're trying to write has been done in some form or the other. I have once before. But now I've realized that there's absolutely no one who can tell my story the way I would have told it. There's only one me. And that's what makes the difference. 

Opening the Doors to Inspiration

Just finished my words for the day. The writing hasn't come easy today, but I met my word count goal. That's not too bad. 800 words, I've realized, isn't a lot of words. That's weird, because in non-fiction, 800 words is a lot of words. Enough to cram in interviews, logic, clever zingers, and all of the rest. 

Of course, I'm really just writing a glorified outline for now. The hard work will come later, it seems. 

I was on a message board earlier and I was reading advice from the pros on how to write a novel. There's a lot of information about how to start a novel, how to format it, how to count the words, etc. I know a lot of this already, but for now, I'm going to ignore all of it. I am still counting my words using the word count function in MS Word, and I'm not using Times New Roman, and I'm not writing 2,500 words a day. 

If I had to write 2,500 words a day at this point, I wouldn't be writing any at all. It's too much for me. I have a busy life, especially right now as a lot is going on, and that seems like too high a daily target. It would be debilitating more than it would encourage me to plod on. Or I might do it one day and give up the next. 

800 is nice and easy. I'm in no speed competitions here; I really just want to get the story out. 800, my 1%, is a good pace for me and I'm sticking to it. 

The reason I'm also not delving into the formatting and the word counts and all that is because that's easy to get into later. I don't want to distract myself with anything that's unnecessary right now so that my entire focus can be on discovering my characters and their stories. 

There's a scene I've been avoiding. It's a depressing scene and although I've been thinking about writing for two days now, I haven't. That's my work for tomorrow. That, and another scene that just came to me. 

It's pretty amazing. Once you let loose and open those doors to inspiration, it doesn't take much time to come flooding in. 

Making Discoveries

Just as I was falling asleep last night, a few thoughts came into my head, so I jotted them down quickly. Another character is emerging, from places where I didn't know characters existed. 

See, when I started writing this particular novel, I didn't really have much of anything to go on. The first attempt, exactly one year ago, had been the exact opposite. I felt like I knew my protagonist, where she came from, where she wanted to go. I had it all mapped out in my head, and the process of putting it on paper was so tough, mostly because there were two things that kept popping up. 

a) She was a lot like me, and I didn't really want to write about me.

b) Because I seemed to know a little too much about her right from the get-go, there was no process of discovery. I knew what I had to know, so I wasn't really having much fun. 

This time, I've got a vague idea of who she is, where she's going, and what the point of this book is going to be. But I don't have her pinned down yet. That's part of what's exciting about writing this book. I know how it's going to turn out, but I don't really know what it's going to take to get there. I don't have it all mapped out and laid out for me. So I'm discovering too. That's fun. 

It's really early for me to be making discoveries like this, I suppose. Or maybe not. If there's one thing I've learned about writing is that there are no rules and no time-tables. Everyone figures it out in their own time. 

So I'm beginning to understand the writers who say they like coming to a blank page to discover what's going to happen next because they don't know. I never really understood it.

I get it now.  

Fiction? Non-fiction? Both?

800 words for the day-- done! 820, actually. And I didn't have to even pull out any hair. 

I didn't write one of the scenes I thought I would-- the one in which the character dies. It'll be an emotionally charged scene, and I wasn't really feeling up to it this morning. I might do it later in the day if inspiration kicks in. More likely though, I'll probably just finish up the paying work on my plate today. I have a sort of day off, so I'll be doing stuff around the house. 

I've already been grocery shopping and made breakfast. I did get up at 5 a.m., after all. That's so unlike me. I'm usually a night person. Stick around and you'll see.

I spoke to the boyfriend earlier this morning. 

"Should I quit journalism?" I asked him.

"No," he replied. "What else would you do?"

The boyfriend knows I have my moments. He also knows that I'm completely in love with my work. I'm a passionate journalist, and I love being one. It's the freelance bit, the troubles of getting work and being able to do the kind of work I want to do, that I've lately been having trouble with. It's losing its appeal. And quickly.

I still haven't figured out who I want to be when I grow up. I've achieved one dream, some level of success, and now here's this other one. 

Right now, the non-fiction pays the bills and the novel writing is done in my spare time. In a couple of years, maybe it'll be the other way around. I'm not really sure which way I want it to be yet. Maybe 50-50? 

Is it even possible to love both non-fiction and fiction equally?

A Sudden Twist

I am absolutely mortified by the quality of work that I am producing. It resembles more an outline of events than it does a coherent story. 

I'm not sure if I'm the best story teller around, but the only little thing that keeps me going is that I'm pretty sure I have a good plot. If it'll stand tall in front of all those other books out there, I don't know, but I like it. And if the writer likes it, well... right now, that's the only factor, isn't it?

It's been a morning of self-criticism and being too hard on myself. Last night, I was walking home thinking of the next two scenes I want to write-- one of them will be in the middle of the novel, when the readers are going to get a bit of a shock. A character they've grown to love and know so much about, they'll discover, is dead. I didn't really anticipate this when I thought up the plot of the book. It just suddenly came to me as I was walking down the road. 

Is this what they mean by the book taking on a life of its own? I haven't written 2,000 words yet and the darn thing is going off on tangents already. Not that I'm complaining. It's a great twist. 

I was so excited about it, in fact, that I thought I'd write it as soon as I got home. I kicked off my shoes, got into bed with my laptop, and thought I'd nap for about half an hour before I started, seeing as how I was so exhausted. 

I woke up at 5 a.m this morning.

Laying the Groundwork

This morning as I got up, I felt wretched. I have a full day of journalism work ahead of me, which means I won't be at home until later tonight, and I know I'm going to be completely knackered, so I won't write. 

That only leaves me with one option-- write my 800 words before I leave for work. 

And this is exactly why I didn't want to get out of bed this morning.

But I'm an adult. For the most part. So I did. And because I would rather do anything than write the darn thing, I read my e-mail, I washed the dishes, I cooked some eggs, and I jumped in the shower. And then it came to me. The next scene. 

All I had to do, I realized, was to know the next scene I was going to write, visualize it in my head, and put that into 800 words somehow. Or maybe I could do two scenes. Or whatever. But all I really needed to know was what happened next, not the whole bloody book. 

So I thought of the two things that I needed to happen next in my story, and I came out of the shower knowing exactly what I was going to write. And I did. 870 straight words. 

Damn, I feel great. 

One of the things I'm noticing is that I'm a little conflicted about my voice. Ideally, I'd like to be funny. But I'm also writing what will be deemed a somewhat serious subject. I don't know how to be funny without making a joke of the entire thing. My protagonist will have to be funny, I think, but how I'm going to keep that tone in the book is something I haven't figured out yet. 

But I've got rewrites and edits for that. Right now, the way I see it, my job is to get 80,000 words of crap on to the page. We can pretty it up later, we can spice it up, funny it up, whatever. I can think about all the plot holes and the message and all of it at some other point. But right now, my job is to get it all out. Whatever the "it" is. I'm sure somewhere along the way, say at 40,000 words, I'll find the answers to my questions. 

But for now, I'm plugging away.

The Grand Plan

So I have two rules for this blog:

1. I will only post when I've actually done some writing. It doesn't matter how many words I write, but each post will have an update bar below it to show my progress. And of course, unless there's been progress, what's the point of posting?

2. I aim to write 800 words a day. I might do it in spurts like I have done today, or I could do it in one sitting. But the aim is to do 800 words. Per day.

Why 800? Well, for one, it's a nice number. There isn't the pressure of that massive 1,000, and it's still more than 500. It isn't that hard a goal to achieve. Secondly, I've got this nice meter which is tracking how many words I'm writing, and since 80,000 is my goal, an 800-word average means I'm writing 1% of my book every day. 

See, I told you I was left-brained. 

This also means that I have about 100 days to finish my first draft. That's approximately three and a half months. Which is perfect. 

I know I'm looking at a grueling edit, if not a complete rewrite once the first draft is done, but at this pace I should have a complete, ready-to-go novel by the end of six months to a year. Which is pretty cool. 

I'm in it for the long haul, people. I've got it all planned. 

Now let's see how I do on the action. 

Letting Go

"You do not have to know "how" you will reach your goals to begin. Just begin and let the "how" unfold." - Author Unknown

This is my biggest challenge. As a journalist, a writer of facts, I know how I'm going to approach a story, and I know pretty much what the structure will look like, before I've even written a word. Novel-writing is not the same.

In fact, it's quite the opposite.

As a novelist, I have to show up at that blank page not knowing where my story is going. I have a basic idea that I'm playing with, but that's pretty much it. I don't know the ending of my story, I don't know the middle, I don't know the scenes. And to this left-brained writer, it's such a challenge, the not-knowing.

In my first attempt at a novel, I pretty much outlined every chapter. I divided the total word count (100,000), by the number of chapters I'd have, and then tried to see how many scenes would make a chapter, and how long each scene should be.

Yeah, that went to the trash pretty soon.

The next idea, the idea I'm working with now, is something I've thought about before, but something I haven't really explored in words. Sure, I've written a paragraph here, a paragraph there, I told the boyfriend of the premise, and I've joked about how I long to write fiction. But the act itself is pretty tough. It's scary. It's personal.

And I know personal. I've written essays chronicling my life, my choices, and had good and bad feedback for it, so I'm not completely new to the personal space. My journalist alter ego blogs, too. But this is different. For one, it's a whole book. And two, it's not my life we're talking about, it's my imagination.

For once, I have complete control over what I write. That's what's scary I suppose.

It's a Brand New Day

What is it about writing fiction that scares the crap out of me? Is it the idea of creating a world from scratch? Is it the thought that there's no fixed structure, no certain rules, no formula for success? Is it the fear that the worlds I dream up, the characters I create, and the situations I put them in won't be good enough?

I've been a freelance journalist for several years. In my other writing avatar, I am what certain people might call successful. I write for magazines and newspapers that you probably read or have read, I earn a decent income from my articles and essays, and I enjoy the writing and reporting process. Writing comes easily to me.

I was living my dream. And then this new dream suddenly materialized from nowhere. And as much as I tried to shake it, it just wouldn't disappear.

But this writing has not come easy. In fact, it's been absolutely terrifying.

So here I am. An aspiring fiction writer. Anonymous, so that my editors don't find me. Nameless, so that I can be accountable without feeling pressured. Ready to give this novel-writing career a go.

Will I make it? Will I give up before I've had a chance to prove myself. Will this dream become a reality?

That's what I'm here to find out.