A Novel Idea: Update 3

Earlier today I finished the first draft of my first novel.  Like most first novels it is a very imperfect beast.  I suffer from no illusions regarding the fact that its faults stem directly from one  fact: the person writing the novel had no idea what on earth he was doing.  But so what?  I can worry about all those imperfections later, start trying to find ways to fix them tomorrow.  At the moment I’m simply enjoying the fact that I found a way to take an idea I had and sit in front of my keyboard to begin writing, to keep writing and, as of today, reach the final full stop of the final sentence of my final chapter.   I’m enjoying a certain sense of accomplishment that is akin to what I felt when I finished the first complete draft of my PhD thesis even if it is on a smaller scale; that particular project had been much longer and unfolded over years not weeks.

Part of me wants to dive right in to the revision process, to print up a manuscript and start reading, marking it up and trying to figure out where to start fixing the damn thing. One thing I learned while writing the above-mentioned dissertation and countless essays and articles over the years is that I, and many of my acquaintance, need a certain amount of space to revise properly.  There’s more than one reason for this.  The first is related to that sense of accomplishment I’ve already mentioned.  Sitting down to revise while still enveloped in the glow of having actually finished is a surefire way to bring you crashing back to earth.  I’m always harsh in viewing my own writing but never so much so as when I first look at a piece; beginning revision immediately makes me feel hopeless.  I wonder why I bothered when all I produced was a collection of words that make a little sense but come nowhere near expressing the meanings and ideas I wanted them to convey.  Moving from the extreme of elation at finishing and that of being a sneery self-critic ends up being counter-productive.  I wind up not working as hard as I should because I see very little worth salvaging in my own work; my general attitude could be summed up with the phrase “If I haven’t figured out a way to say it yet it’s only because I’m incapable of saying it.”

Leaving some time, at least 12 hours, between writing and revision mitigates that hopelessness and the apathy it produces in me.  I don’t know if it’s because I have a chance to steel myself for the necessarily critical observations I need to make but I suspect that’s part of it.  It’s also the case that allowing some time to lapse means that I can, most of the time, find something worthwhile, worth saving or developing or expanding, amongst the steaming piles of my creation.  I may be up to my knees in my own textual excrement but occasionally I find I’ve dropped a semi-precious stone and such discoveries are enough to keep me shovelling away.  Additionally, allowing myself a break also means I spot more of my own mistakes than I would if I began revision immediately.  I still miss things, and I’ll always need other readers, but like pretty much every person who has ever written anything I like to have done as much as I possibly can with my work before I show it to anybody.  This is, I know, partly pig-headed pride but it is also the case that if someone is going to do me the favour of reading my work in a critical way, to help me improve what I’m doing, it’s only fair that I try to give them as finished a product as I possibly can.  So. . .

. . . I’m having the afternoon off, at least from writing my novel.  I’ve produced a short poem instead, spent some time tweaking a short story I wrote last month and I’m actually considering folding some laundry.  For all of you out there that are pushing toward finish lines with your own writing I’d just like to offer you my encouragement and wish you Godspeed.  If you need to, I’m sure you’ll get there.  After all, if I can finish a novel, anybody can.

A Novel Idea: Update 2

My attempt to draft a novel in one month is clearly still sapping my will and ability to write much else.  I wish I could report that I’ve been flying along but this week, the past few days especially, has seen me struggling to reach the minimum word counts I need to hit each day just to finish by my thirty-day deadline.  Apparently this is normal, the chirpy e-mails sent by the folk at NaNoWriMo all insist that, at some point, most of us are going to find this hard going.  Apparently all I have to do is to keep writing and just get through my words for each day and worry about all other things at the end of the month and draft.  Today in particular I’ve felt that that would be much easier for me to do if the people  at NaNoWriMo would stop sending excuses for me not to write to my inbox.  I freely admit that such feelings indicate a failing on my part; I am being an ungrateful so and so who can’t blame anyone else for my difficulties in staying on task.  If I had any real will power I could stay away from my browser and mailbox.

I was hoping that by this, my second update, I’d have some sort of great insight to share with readers of the Omphaloskeptic.  I didn’t care if that insight was completely wrong, just as long as it meant I was thinking.  If it sparked comment burbling in happy agreement or howling in outrage at my idiocy I would have been even happier.  I tried making something up but that didn’t work either.  If it had I probably would have felt guilty; I’m supposed be saving my fictions for the novel after all.

What I have noticed is that while I certainly don’t feel more like a “real” writer than I did before I started this whole process I have settled into a workaday routine that reminds me a great deal of what it was like when I was writing heavily for my PhD thesis and then, later, the months long spurts of writing lectures for courses I hadn’t taught before.  I’m at my computer within the same five-minute window every morning, I know when my breaks to make another espresso (doubles in the morning, singles in the afternoon) and refill my water glass will be.  Lunch is usually at the same time unless I’m actually absorbed enough in what I’m writing that I work through that window.  In that case I grab something when I think of it and bring it back to my desk rather than taking a break.  Even the dogs recognise my routine and sit quietly in the study until they know it’s time for their second walk of the day.  Unless of course we get post in which case they have a break to stand up and bark at the outrage of a few small slips of paper having dropped onto the floor down stairs courtesy of a friendly man who wears a uniform.  They don’t trust him you see.

So what’s my point in telling my readers that I have a routine and I’m sticking to it?  Well, it may be that I don’t have one.  However, I think what I’m trying to say is that, whether you’re a Pulitzer prize winner or a multimillion pound author of cheap thrillers or like me and lots of other people who are seriously working away at writing a novel just to write one and then figure out what might be done with it doing so is involves a routine, discipline and periods of slogging through the task at hand.  It’s a job of work to be done whether the writer knows he or she will be paid for all the effort expended or they’re simply taking a punt and trying to earn the right proudly to wear the badge of that boring, unshaven, sleepy, excited, clear-visioned and horribly confused creature alternately called both author and writer.

Can I watch TV now?

A Novel Idea: Update 1

Obviously since the beginning of November the words have been thin here at the Omphaloskeptic.  For reasons I expected I haven’t had much time or inclination to sit and write posts of any length.  Those expectations have been compounded by a sudden turn of events in the world beyond my keyboard that there’s no reason for me to go into here.  Besides, the main excuse for  the lack of posts here has been the fact that I have been hammering away at the draft of a novel I began on November 1 and referred to in a post on the same day.

I haven’t hit any major blocks so far, nor do I have a masterpiece on my hands.  This is fine as the main motivation for me undertaking the challenge presented by the ludicrously abbreviated NaNoWriMo was to make myself write fiction, at length and to see what I could learn along the way.    I’ve passed the half-way mark in terms of the 50,000 word minimum the event requires so by that measurement, if no other, things are progressing well.  So far I’ve discovered a number of little, finicky things about myself and what happens when I try to write a sustained piece of fiction rather than an academic piece.  I’ve learned some more general things as well and, while I don’t think I’ve had any earth-shattering or revolutionary insights I thought I might mention a few.

1. It’s really very liberating to write without footnotes – I had done some research for the novel I’m writing before I started andwhen I revise the draft I know I’ll need to do some more, but not having to constantly cite sources as my academic work required me to has been great.  I’ve never been one of those people who could write a sustained argument and go back and add appropriate attributions after the fact.  I’d miss things, get them wrong, my whole argument would suffer.  As a result I was always meticulous about footnoting and quoting as I went along.  It saved me time, effort and embarrassment.  Eleven days and 26 thousand words in and I haven’t added a single footnote or quotation to my draft instead allowing my mind to lead me where it may.  The fact that the destination I most often wind up at seems to be my e-mail inbox is neither here nor there.  When not checking my e-mail I am enjoying simply writing.
2. It’s very scary and difficult to write without footnotes – I’ve spent so much time over the past ten years being very careful to situate my own words within a framework of arguments made by others and to avoid even a hint of unattributed use of other sources that footnoting has become second nature to me.  While part of me has been enjoying my unaccustomed freedom another part of me still can’t shake a sinking feeling.  That part of me is convinced that I’m simply making things up as I go along (it cannot accept that is actually the point) and feels like a trapeze artist flying from one greased swing to another over a pit of broken glass who for reasons he can’t really understand said “screw it, I’ll work without a safety net” before he climbed up the latter and started his act.  He also has a suspicion he may have accidently worn the leotard with the rip in the crotch but he is too busy to check.
3. I’m really, really bad at this and that’s okay – My own inner critic is just as displeased, judgmental and over-educated as ever.  I’m learning to tune him out when I’m actually writing and just get on with it.  Occasionally he’s using his harsh tones to give me a constructive criticism.  I figure that’s a step in the right direction and, if I can continue the trend through a process of editing and revision, he might actually become helpful on a more regular basis.

There are other ideas I could enumerate but I think  that’s enough for now.  I’d like to say that these three things are the most important lessons I’ve learned so far, but I’m sure they aren’t.  What those big lessons are I probably haven’t even recognized yet as anything other than minor observations.  Now, because my eyes are dry and tired and I’m sick of pushing little buttons to make text appear on the screen I’m going to stop, have a cup of tea, listen to some music and talk to my dogs.