The month of the novel

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.

Children’s books

Our little Bruce is growing fast. He’s got loads of energy – running, climbing, yelling, shouting… especially the shouting. He likes asserting his ebullience and notifying his maker that he’s still here doing His good work. Sometimes he’s like a Scottish squall – you’re sitting there in a peaceful, thoughtful mood and all of sudden this fast, ferocious dynamo comes tearing through and completely shatters your ruminations. The only difference being that the squalls here aren’t anywhere near as amusing.

He’s only a year and half but his presence is constantly felt. He’s loud, sure, but I suppose I’m getting used to it. But the whining. Oh the whining. He just went through a phase (at this age a "phase" lasts at most a week) of constant whining. For something, anything. It was probably something else bothering him and he couldn’t tell us. He’s got loads of words now, but his monologues are still pretty much incoherent.

But there are quiet moments. You’d think these would be a god-send, a moment for me to relax and actually read an entire paragraph in one go. But that doesn’t work. It’s worrisome. It’s better when you can hear him, because you know more or less what he’s up to. Running around screaming lacks a certain serenity but at least you know all is well. Banging and smashing from the other room is also usually OK. And a few moments of silence, followed by a mad mirthful cackle? Usually not so good.

It’s complete silence which is the most concerning. He could be up to any amount of sneaky trouble. Climbing up onto the roof for instance. Or up in my room smoking. I wouldn’t put it past him.

But usually the sudden and welcome calming of the atmosphere is just him gone to his room to read. I watch sometimes through the crack in the door. He’ll go over to his bookcase, pull out a book, take it over to the one clear spot on the floor, sit down, and start reading.

Ok, so it’s not proper reading just yet, just looking at the pictures, following the story, pointing at things and talking in his own language with a few intelligible words thrown in. But that’s reading, right? Sure it is.

He’s got some good books. But he’s got some weird ones too.

Alligator Pie
If I don’t get some I think I’m gonna die. I like all the poems; they’re all silly and fun, and I remember them from when I was a kid. But the pictures are just one bad dream after another. The artist was clearly on acid when he drew them. Bruce is OK with the rhymes but struggles with the bad trips.

Bigger Digger
Now this one is just stupid. A little digger gets stuck, and then a bigger digger has to come – but guess what? It gets stuck too. Any guesses as what’s next? You got it – a bigger bigger digger. It’s all just idiocy. I cringe when Bruce chooses this one. Repetitive tongue twisters with no real story or good things to look at – it’s no fun for either of us.

The New Baby Train
New babies come from… trains. Kind of confusing when you think about it, but the art is excellent and there’s lots of choo choos. Always popular for that train-crazy kid.

My Seasons
The kids in this book are obviously retarded. Every last one of them has this dumb little smile on his face. This is not unusual in kids books, and I don’t like it. I don’t see the point in condescendence. The common denominator isn’t interesting to children. More blood and guts! I think he’s almost ready for Jacob Two Two and the Hooded Fang.

Scarface Claw
A good story but soon gets repetitive. Bottomley Pots all covered in spots – you’re made to say this about a dozen times through the story, not to mention all his buddies with their own personal rhyming nicknames. However, if you can slog through the silliness there’s an awesome scene at the end: SCARFACE CLAW! Very frightening, and always something to look forward to. It’s a great formula for kids books – some good and scary action as a focal point.

My Babies Faces (or something – you get the drift)
A Canadian picture book full of pictures of ethnically diverse babies. Annoyingly politically correct. I think there’s one white baby in there. It’s not that I mind black babies – some of my best friends are black babies – I just don’t like kids books that preach and teach as if they’re on some kind of mission.

Hop On Pop
Dr. Seuss has some good books, but they’re too full of tongue twisters. Maybe kids like them but I don’t enjoy reading them. There is one good lesson in this one though: You must not hop on Pop.

Goodnight Moon
A classic. I remember reading this to my little sister when she was a baby. Beautifully illustrated. But who’s the old lady whispering hush? If it was his/her grandmother, why don’t they just say so? I have suspicions.

The Tiger Who Came to Tea
This is a good one. There’s a playful whimsy about it and a distinct lack of preaching. Sure, it’s a bit dated now, with Mommy staying at home cooking and shopping while Daddy goes to work, but hey, doesn’t sound bad to me. I guess I’m a little old-fashioned myself.

Curious George Takes a Train
I used to love curious George books as a child. But the one thing I always wonder about is: who is Mrs. Needleman, and what is The Man in the Yellow Hat going to do to her when they get to where they’re going? There’s always something a little off going on in the background. This I like.

The Hungry Caterpillar
An excellent little baby book, with a good story, with counting and lots food items to learn and identify. I like this approach to combining a bit of learning with a good story – the story still comes first.

Pat the Bunny
This is one sick little book. Every page has some kind of obscene insinuation.
"Judy can pat the bunny. Now YOU pat the bunny. How big is bunny? Sooooo big!
Paul can put his finger through Mummy’s ring. Now YOU put your finger through Mummy’s ring."
And so on. You’ve got to see some of the pictures too. It’s downright dirty. Was the author having a little joke with us?

Writing a good children’s book is a lot harder than you’d think. It’s a careful juggling act, balancing children’s perceived intellectual capacity with adult concepts. There must be humour, and whimsy, and maybe a fright or two. Learning is a bonus but must come second to the story.

If I could find a willing artist, I might just give it a go.

My writing room

I think I just realized why I’ve not been writing much lately: my writing room has declined from a disgrace to a veritable shit pit. (Thanks to my wife Sharon for that oh-so-descriptive phrase).

The Guardian has been running a feature on writer’s rooms in their Saturday edition. Some of these rooms are gorgeous. My room has nothing in common with them.

One problem is that my writing room is multi-functional: it also serves as a music studio, a computer room, and a general dumping ground for junk that we have no room for elsewhere in the house.

Another problem is that I’m a disorganized slob who smokes and drinks too much. Smoking is a messy, disgusting business, especially if you roll your own. Bits of tobacco and a layer of ash cover every surface. The keyboard probably contains enough bits of tobacco to roll an entire cigarette. It started off as beige; many of the keys are now almost black.

I’ve been sick the last few days, so the floor is littered with snotty tissues. I don’t even have a trash can in here. From where I’m sitting I can count 5 empty scotch tumblers, 3 empty beer cans, and two used cups of tea.

Papers are strewn everywhere amongst the music mixers, microphones, speakers, and other electronic devices. Wires criss-cross my desk. The blue-tack has come unstuck; maps and posters hang in a crumpled mess.

My tools have nowhere to live, so they sit in a disorganized pile in the middle of the floor, ready to trip me when I come through.

My desk is against the window, so at least I can usually ignore the horror behind me. We just raised the ceiling in the front hall, thus losing valuable storage space in the attic. All that useless crap now sits in untidy piles behind me. I keep meaning to go through it but the thought is depressing.

The sick family that lived here before us had painted everything in various shades of blue and purple. We’ve since redecorated the rest of the house, but the walls in my writing room are still a nauseating baby blue. But I can’t just paint them; I’ll need to strip the wallpaper too. The floors are a kind of cheap prefab synthetic pine laminate that leaves me cold. I’ll have to get a carpet in here too. I keep meaning to get on with it all but the thought is too depressing.

Surely a nice, clean, organized space would do wonders for my motivation and peace of mind. Surely I could summon the effort for even a wee once-over? Everything tidy, in its place, a few nice things on display, all ship-shape and ready to go. Surely the words will then come flowing out in a joyous click-clacketing symphony. Scrumptious paragraphs will arrive whole and fully evolved. Entire pieces will form beautifully without any of the pain, self-doubt, and other dark thoughts that are the staples of my process.

Hey, a little optimism can’t go wrong can it?