It’s NaNoWriMo, or, in other words, National Novel Writing Month. (They don’t say which Nation, but I have a feeling it’s a certain self-entitled Nation.)
So, within the thirty days that make up this miserable month of November, I’m supposed to write a novel of at least 50,000 words. And then, if I finish on time, I win! And, just by finishing – and no matter how crap it is – a panel of award-winning authors from around the world pore through every brave and lyrical utterance, shaking their heads in wonder: how could such a talent have eluded them for so long? Society has surely been the poorer without this masterwork of insight, exposing as it does the weepy workings of our brittle human souls.
Well, no. There’s no prize. Not even a tee-shirt. In fact, no-one even reads it.
There is a website. You tell them how many words you’ve written, and they take your word for it. You can type “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”, over and over again, if that’s your thing (and it sure was Jack’s). And then you submit it. And then it’s over.
Last year there were 120,000 starters, 21,000 of whom finished on time. Impressive. Some of them have even been published, and, of those some, a few have even won some award or ended up on a best seller list somewhere – Kazakhstan, maybe.
Myself I’m now just shy of 24,000 words*. But then, last weekend, one of my characters did something I wasn’t entirely happy with, and I haven’t written a word since. I spent days worrying about it, trying to find a way out of the dead-end situation she’d gotten herself into, but I couldn’t find an out.
So I stopped writing and bought a new video game instead. I’ve been playing it ever since, every chance I get. Words? Novel? I couldn’t face it.
It’s ridiculous, really. The excuses. Because I really was quite enjoying it. Sure, I had no outline – just a couple of characters and a vague idea of a plot – but things were happening, new characters were appearing out of nowhere, fitting in perfectly and helping to drive the main characters’ delusions that there is some meaning to be found in life.
I started worrying about the logistics of it all. Everything must be neatly and logically tied together. I panic as soon as the threads start to fray. I find reasons not to continue.
It is a resistance I’ve mastered over the years. The better I can thwart my potential, the happier I am.
50,000 words is a lot for one month, what with work and family and rock band – and my new video game. The only way to achieve it is to write without stopping to edit and pretty things up. I find this difficult.
I’ve been thinking about it, and I realize that my comfort with the status quo just isn’t Punk Rock at all. So I’m going to continue with this pathetic dead-end attempt at a novel. And that corner I wrote Ruth into? It’s just logistics. I’ll figure it out later. I can leave that bit and jump straight into the action of what happens next. Who cares how she got there? I can fix it in the mix.
In writing fiction, the only brick wall is the one you erect yourself. Mine is a good wall, and my bleeding head has become familiar with the comfort of its unyielding brick. I know I can’t remove it – that would probably destroy me. But I think I can sneak around its side.
Enough. Back to the novel, yes?
*That’s a self-motivating lie. It’s closer to 12k.
This Train is for Gourock 