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Thursday 1 Nano-vember
2001
As if I didn't have enough to do before
the end of the year already... I have signed my November away
to the idea of writing a novel. Several buddies and I are
taking part in National
Novel Writing Month 3, a project where the aim is to write
a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. 50k? Gulp!
I have decided that my story is going to
be a big rambling family saga which might mean I will get
away with as little plot planning as possible. Two big families
(or maybe even three) of quirky characters (all pillaged from
my real life, of course, so watch out) all falling over each
other in daily tales of heartache and joy etc. etc. As soon
as I get tired of one story line I will chop and change to
another character's perspective and get myself out of many
potential plot holes along the way.
Around 5000 people have signed up which
is an incredible amount of closet novelists who are prepared
to burn the midnight oil over the next month. I am sure there
may be quite a few who are like my dad and have signed up
on the off chance they might feel like writing a novel in
November (as you do).
Last night we got together with the usual
crew for our survivor
series sweep dinner and meet. Over sushi at the local sushi
place (where the waitress laughs at us almost every time we
go there, and freely offers her harsh opinions of our haircuts
and styles) Cookie
Monster told us all about his plot. I have secret hopes
for Cookie Monster to be the trail blazer for our team...
he already has two brilliant choices for first lines and 336
words at last count at 10.30am on day one -- I am stuck on
character. I am just stuck.
Chris
Baty, who is my new internet rock'n'roll hero idol type,
sent out an inspiring email this moring which made me feel
a whole lot better. In his words:
"The question is whether or not you'll
stop beating yourself up long enough to let one of those novels
transcribe itself on your computer. The question is whether
you'll stop trying to be perfect, and start letting yourself
be messy. November is not an oil painting. November is a charcoal
sketch, a breathless, dashed-off line drawing. It's imperfect,
but that's the point. We need something to come back to later.
So allow sentences to be awkward. Allow
dialogue to be god-awful. Don't be discouraged by plots that
don't go anywhere or characters that seem to be changing every
time you meet them. They will right themselves in time. For
now, you are just sketching. Quickly. Intuitively. Without
erasing. Without deleting. You will get to 50,000 words, and
then you will look back at what you've done. And you will
be astounded."
--- I might just make it.
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