I'm Done!

At 2:06 pm today, Frieda’s Chair came into the world. Sure, she’s ugly—12 fingers, 11 toes, and a really frightening head of hair—but I think we can work with that. I’m seeing faux-hawk, thinking we’ll emphasize rather than understate. But she exists! And I’m in love.

56,356 words ago, she was just a rough idea. I thought I knew what the gestation process would be like but, really, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. It’s been a mirror, a joy ride, a terrifying free fall. But she’s alive and kicking and I’m happy as a clam.

The Ten things I learned through NaNoWriMo:

1. I can’t spell worth shit (still) but luckily MSWord can.
   
2. Breathing out (creation) is as important as breathing in (observation)—can’t do one without the other—and the moments of transition from one to the other are terrifying and magical.
   
3. Trust your characters to guide the way. Trying to force them to go where I wanted them to go lead to temper tantrums (theirs) and writer’s block (mine).
   
4. The world is magical if you take the time to look, full of weird, wonderful synchronicity.
   
5. A first draft is not the same as the finished product, but you can’t have the latter unless you’re willing to make room for the former.
   
6. It’s much easier to take wild adventures with a little bit of support.
   
7. Perfectionism really is the enemy.
   
8. Sitting and typing for hours will seriously shorten your psoas.
   
9. Letting the story unfold on it’s own consistently creates something better than what I’d originally imagined.
   
10. Play really is a path to power. Laughter is healing. Ridiculous goals can inspire. Imperfection is rich.
    

So I’m officially a 2008 NaNoWriMo Winner and I couldn’t have done it without you. Deep thanks to everyone who emailed, Facebooked, became a “supporter” on the blog, posted comments, asked about my word count, or just sent out the love through the ether. I couldn’t have done it without you! I mean that.

Breathing

I have the closing scene in mind. I know who did it. The characters have learned everything they must know. But I can't feel how to flow from there to the finish.

A little panic, I think, about ending. Sort of like breathing out and then holding your breath: it's that little moment of hesitation before breathing in and knowing that you'll be OK. Weird.

Tomorrow is the last day so I have no choice but to make it happen. It's not going to be pretty.

But isn't that what editing is for?

OMG 50K!!!

:D

I’m not quite done yet but I’ve reached that goal that was completely unimaginable 28 days ago!!! See how my word counter thing off to the right has changed? Pretty cool, eh. So now I’m tying up loose ends in the story and dancing around my apartment.

I’m probably insufferable right now but I’m just so darn PROUD OF MYSELF!!

Who knew I had it in me. :)

Whodunit?

I finally know why the murder victim died but whodunit is still up for grabs (although the field has definitely been narrowed).

Reporters live by the five W's: who, what, when, where, and why.

What, when, and where: all back at word 9747.

Why: At word 47,664 it starts to fall into place.

Who (as in whodunit): Somewhere near to 50,000, give or take 2,000.

When I first started writing, I was afraid to think about who did it for fear that the writing would be too stilted if I already knew the destination. Then I came up with three plausible motives and just let them act like the little lights along the aisle in an airplane, hoping they would illuminate my path in case of emergency. Now the who (and how) are emerging out of the same creative fog that has powered this whole thing. And it makes more sense than anything I could have imagined back at word 1.

That is the biggest lesson I've gotten from this process: trusting the timing and pace of intuition. Not only is it richer than what I might force into being, but it's easier too!

Brick Walls

For the first time, I am at a loss for words. (Well, clearly not completely since I'm typing and your reading, so the words have come from somewhere). But the end of the novel is in sight now. I'm definitely coasting towards the finish. And to tell you the truth, it makes me incredibly nervous. 

Perhaps it's the memory from my childhood, how when coasting downhill on my bike I slammed headfirst into a brick wall. Granted, closing my eyes wasn't the best idea. But ever since, I've been a little anxious about relaxing into an experience. 

So here I am, on the NaNoWriMo downhill . . . and it's been such a sweet ride. I've learned, and fretted, and pushed through, and stirred up stuff that I never could have imagined being part of the richness of writing what may very well be a very bad mystery novel (or a very good first draft). But I've also indulged myself in moments of hope and pleasure and even very tiny ones of trust in myself as an artist. It's been a ride like I never could have imagined. I don't want it to end. Even more, I don't want it to end on an unforgiving brick wall. So I need to remember the hard-earned lesson from way back then (the one learned after the face full of scabs--the envy of all my classmates--healed). That with eyes open, you can steer clear of the wall, and then ride back to the top and do it all over again!

Spontaneous Knotting

You know how you reach into your purse, your backpack, your pocket and pull out your earbuds for you iPhone or iPod or whatever iDevice you have. You reach in and pull them and and somehow, in the dark all by themselves, they've pulled a Houdini and tied themselves into knots. There's a phrase for this: spontaneous knotting.

My plot lines are beginning to do a similar trick. Overlapping, intertwining, confusing me to no end. While I'm busy visiting with one character, others are over in the corner introducing themselves and forming alliances. They've eyed each other from across the room, bought each other drinks, and made small talk. Now when I try and write my parallel plots lines, things are all tangled up. So much for linearity. And so much for my ability to keep track.

I'm just going to have to stick the darn things in my ears just like they are, all funky and weird and tangled. With just 6 days, 0 hours, and 36 minutes to go, there's no time to waste. So here's to spontaneous knotting in plot lines! This ought to be good. :)

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.

Staying in Touch

One piece of advice they NaNoWriMo folks offer is to stay in touch with your characters. That if you leave them idle for too long they'll get bored and wander off making it very hard to pick up where you left off on the novel. You'll start typing and no one will be there. Some kind of a rapture of the imagination.

So today, I say goodbye to my generous Seattle friends and head for Portland to visit my niece and see her in her new world of Reed College. She's the one who planted the NaNoWriMo seed in my imagination so it seems only fitting.

Alas, only 392 words today. But that was enough to say a quick hello to the plot and the characters and to assure them that tomorrow, once I'm home, they will have my full attention. I can't wait to find out what they've been up to!

Slow and steady

OK, I know the word count was a bit low today, but it was a big day. Lot's going on in the outside world (that is the world outside the novel) including Prop.8 rally in Seattle and ongoing delightful visit with friends.

It's alright though. 804 very good words today representing a headlong dive into the plot. I'm still on track and intend to spend heavy time at keyboard tomorrow while my friends bike.

I feel good, I feel strong, I feel curious about how this will all turn out :)

P.S. Thanks to all the notes of support. VERY MUCH appreciated!!!

Half way there!

Broke through the 25K barrier today. Yippee!

Hard to imagine how the second half is going to unfold but it sure is getting interesting in here. New characters are cutting in line after I'd gotten everyone all organized. Temper tantrums are happening (theirs not mine) in unexpected ways. The thing really does seem to have a little life of its own.

Of course, it could be that I'm just no longer able to keep track of everything neatly in my head and that "life" is randomness due to my imaginative limitations. But what the hell.

Take a deep breath, just 25K more to go!

Water Stops

NaNoWriMo is like running a marathon, complete with annoying hills, shin splints, and much needed water stops along the way. Today, I pulled into one of my very favorite 'water stops' and washed down some Gatorade-for-the-soul. It left me untethered and loose, spiritually limber. Refreshed, I regained my stride with goal of crawling inside my characters, feeling their embodied truth, and working (with reverence) from the inside out. Surely this will add to my word count. But knowing what a riot of energy and images live inside my own body, I expect I'll need a flashlight and some bread crumbs to find my way back out of theirs.

They say Week 2 is the hardest week of NaNoWriMo, the one during which most people falter. So leave comments to spur me on! Guilt, encouragement, accountability, public shaming . . . whatever it takes! My stride feels good right now. Heartbreak Hill is still weeks away. But a little cheering from the sidelines never hurts.

Offerings

Friends bring me little virtual tidbits to include: flummery, a (human) knee bone found at Fort Funston, man overboard on the bay, galette. I like it. They are things outside this growing tumoristic novel that is taking over my imagination. It's fun to try and see where they might fit.

Right now, everything feels like fodder for the novel. And that's not just because the shear volume encourages me to stick just about anything I can think of onto the page. I come out of my apartment after writing for hours and am shocked to see some of my characters out and about, the corner where the body lay undiscovered perfectly calm and clean. And when I go back to the keyboard, coffee in hand, words roll out from where I do not know. Today, 1473 words appeared from nowhere. I felt like I was daydreaming on the page.

The boundary blurs between fantasy and reality. The novel is everywhere and everything is (potentially) in the novel. Is this a good thing? We shall see.

Spillover

The slog phase (or the first slog phase) has begun. Sitting and writing for hours, allowing unrepentant drivel to pour forth, is hard work. The inner critics are getting hoarse from all their shouting.

But are upsides, and they are these:

1. Exercise seems appealing. It couldn't be any more unpleasant and it doesn't require a keyboard.

2. Ditto on eating right. Comfort food just isn't up to the task of beating back the slog-energy so might as well fuel the mind and body well to reduce the suffering.

3. Story telling fatigue. Since all my creative juices are being poured into this "novel" it leaves little energy for making up stories about my own life. You know the ones, like why hasn't so-and-so called, do I belong, does my hair look nice. The stories we tell ourselves on a regular basis. No energy for that anymore.

NaNoWriMo . . . a much better escape than watching TV!

The Body has been found

Need I say more?

It's a murder mystery, right? So at some point a body must be found. But I've been a little nervous about the moment. Gone are the easy intro pages--all character development and context--now we have a murder to solve, facts to connect, the reader's critical eye to consider. Who should die (yeah, Allen . . . he deserves it)? And who's the killer? You'd think I'd know already but, to be honest, I'm really not sure at this point. 

Will I have enough content to get me from death (word 9737) to the end? Have I dropped the body too soon? 

Stay tuned for the answer.

Politics is in the air, and it smells sweet!

Like so many, I'm completely elated by Obama's victory  . . . and completely pissed off about Prop. 8. In the real world, I'm committed to action, optimism, and a focus on what's possible. In the fictitious world that is emerging in this novel, there things bleed over in interesting ways.

Tonight, one of my characters was introducing his new black, shepherd puppy to a friend.

"This is G.M." Rich said, "Short for Gay Marriage. We figure if we spend every day calling "Here, Gay Marriage" and "Come, Gay Marriage" and "Stay, Gay Marriage" we might send some karmic message out to the universe to overturn this hateful Prop. 8"

I'd heard this might happen, characters taking on a life and a voice of their own, but damn it's fun. Fiction, yes, but a satisfying way to channel the frustration. And who knows what other forces are aligning to our cause right this moment.

Trust is an interesting thing

Yesterday was a good day of writing. Characters came knocking at my door, plot lines fell into place, I could see (atleast a little bit) where things were heading. I could breathe.

Today, I'm nervous as I sit down to write. Will it flow again? Are the characters ready? Is this interesting in the least? Will the plot come to a screeching halt and the whole thing implode somewhere around word 5,555?

This mirrors the feeling in the air today on this election day. All across the country people are voting. Will he win or won't he? What'll be next? Hope or fear?

It makes me wonder if the real challenge is not about eliminating fear but rather about coming to expect its visit. Fear pounds on the door and yells, tracks mud in on the clean floor, demands our attention. Yet trust says open the door gracefully, stay calm as fear storms past, extend one arm politely towards the empty chair and say, "I'll be right with you after I finish this dream!"

Who are these people?

They said that, while writing, characters would just appear unbidden, each with a life of their own. I didn't believe that until today, when Allen showed up. He's a bit of a twit, actually, pompous and full of himself but with a lovely, long-suffering Boston Terrier named Skittles. I'd say he's at the top of the list of murder candidates right now. Funny thing about writing a murder mystery is you know that someone has to die. So as each character steps on stage I have to wonder: will they be the one? Sort of a perverse form of speed-dating, quickly assessing who I might kill.

Some characters are based on real people, or amalgams of real folks. But even then, there is an element of mystery that humbles me. I may know their name or appearance but in trying to imagine their thoughts or the color of their bathroom walls I find myself wanting to do justice to their human complexity.

Who knew making things up could bring such reverence.