Broke 15k words today. Really thought I would be doing something with more emotional resonance. Instead of the deadly boring combination of exposition and jargonizing that this thing is turning into.
I’m not worried that my soul is dead and I’ve squandered what little potential to make “important art.”(much). But I am wondering at what point anyone, myself included, will start caring about my main character and the journey he seems locked into like a death march.
It’s true. Plant your butt in the chair and stare at the screen. Just stopped for the night having blown through a total of about 2300 for the night. (And some of them are actual words!)
NPR tonight carried an interview with #Roald Dahl’s youngest daughter Lucy that offered fascinating insight into the way Dahl worked. Not surprisingly, routine was at the heart of Dahl’s success. She says:
His work sessions were very strict — he worked from 10 until 12 every day and then again from 3 until 5 every day. And that was it. Even if there was nothing to write he would still, as he would say, “put his bottom on the chair.”
I’ll have been watching everything, recording everything. Uplinking everything back to Oz. And watching my PayPal fill up as the editors go through my feed and see the things that I see.
I love what you show me. I love what I see that you don’t mean to show me. Because it’s what you don’t want me to see that’s what I have to see.
It’s what you pay me to see, and to show you … streaming and raw, listicled and photo galleried, Vined and gifd. And finally, digitally shelved off shore where it will live forever, hiding in plain sight, online and available.
Just waiting for someone somewhere some night to get hooked by OMFG Mom Loses Shit As Hot Daughter Poles Cable Guy blinking in a Facebook ad. That slugtard clicks, the video buffers and I just made another two-tenths of a Bit.
Because you people will eat anything.”
I made my count for the day … 3200 words and change makes up for a lost day yesterday.
There. I said it. The elevator pitch for my novel. That starts at midnight tomorrow (Friday, 12 am CST) for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).
Ulysses. Set in the suburbs. My shameless aping of Joyce’s hyper-dense love letter to Dublin, an unfaithful wife, and a life of the mind.
What happens when a middle-aged man rolls out of bed, goes to work, comes home and goes back to bed? What does he read? What does he think about? What the fuck am I thinking? No idea.
I just know that NaNoWriMo forces participants to make the worst kind of vow. A commitment to discipline. A promise to spread the briliiance over 30 days.
In reality, taking the approach of writing a picaresuqe, might serve a bigger purpose. I’ve been dragging pieces of stories around in my mind for the last 25 years. Remnants of uncompleted stuff from college. A setting. A dialogue snatch overheard on an airplane. And realistically, all those pieces are taking up room that needs to be cleared out.
I’ll be trying something equally ambitious here … blogging the experience. It’s going to be a wretched display of self-loathing and overinflated sense of the Self. Possibly with footnotes.