Magic Happens

Kind of a long post today, on 40K day, because the overlap between fantasy and reality continues to amaze me.

This morning, I could not get started. I sat down to write and had no idea where to go. My characters just stood there, arms crossed, staring back at me. I got up, washed dishes, called home, sat down again. Still nothing. The plot flat as a post-mortem EKG. Things outside the novel didn’t help either. Events of the week had left me stirred up and unhappy with my own company. We were all in need of a change of venue.

I headed out to a coffee shop. First thing, I see one of my characters, the one with the Great Dane and the little mutt, halfway down the block. Thing is, he and his dogs are not one of my based-on-real-person characters. I thought he was pure fiction but there he is. Perhaps this is an encouraging sign from the muse.

At Maxfield’s, I grab a coffee, plop myself down, and plug in the headphones. I am determined not to get up until I reach 40K. I poke at my characters, elbow them in the ribs, place banana peels in their paths, try my own angst onto theirs to see if there’s a fit. Somehow, somewhere, something sparks. Words start to flow, dialogue emerges out of nowhere, truths began to be told. And I push past 40K!

Walking home, I amuse myself by pretending—atleast for this month—that I am a ‘novelist’ and thinking that actually, it’s kind of a lonely of way to make a living.

I round the corner by my house. Coming towards me: a skinny, grey-bearded homeless guy is pushing a shopping cart full-to-overflowing. We nod at each other. “You’ve got a lot of colorful stuff there.” I say in passing, impressed by his bounty. Twenty yards later, “Hey lady!” I turn and look back. He’s walking towards me, holding out a fancy mylar balloon with streamers and stars and the words “Happy Birthday” across the middle. “I’ve got two of these, maybe you know someone who’s having a birthday today.” I thank him and smiling, turn away thinking that’s me: today, I’m giving birth . . . to a novel, to a self, to possibilities.

I can’t help but wonder. Was he real? Would I have seen him had I not spent the morning writing fiction? Perhaps fantasy, rather than being an escape from reality, nurtures it. Perhaps creativity makes magic happen for real. It did today.

Plot arc?

I'm scared. Do I have a plot that will stretch all the way to 50K? Or will it sputter out somewhere in the mid-30s, only to leave me prostrate and shy of the mark?

So far, I've just been winging it, trusting my memory and instincts and characters to guide the plot forward. But today I actually sat and detailed some of the possible actions that could be included. The NaNoWriMo folks talk about having a story arc pretty clear at this point. I'm concerned that my "arc" is but a plane, flat and dull, like documentary footage without dramatic impulse. Perhaps some of you experimental film buffs might enjoy that, but I'm hoping to entertain here. Writing with no clear plot arc feels kind of like walking a tightrope: exhilarating, but not exactly pleasant.

Oh, and I employed another tool today: the Onerosity Coupon. I pledged to hit 35K by Friday or I would have to undertake a particularly onerous task for a friend. So if you have some heinous task you need doing, by all means track down your NaNoWriMo friends. Either you'll get credit for being a super-supportive pal or you'll get your stuff done. Win-Win, atleast for you.