I’m within an hour of the end of two days off. Yesterday I got a fair bit of work done on my manuscript – almost fifteen pages edited, which for me is flying through. I managed to take the evening off from everything and just watch an episode of “Breaking Bad.” I’ve only watched two so far – still wondering what all the hype’s about.
Then today I was woken up early with a phone call – Chris was sick at school and they couldn’t reach his dad. So I texted my ex, got up, delivered the papers, had a piece of toast and lay on the couch … and proceeded to sleep most of the day away. No editing accomplished.
Greater, more successful writers than myself (not a stretch) state that in order to be a writer one must dedicate one’s effort into writing: a writer must write. Here lies my conundrum.
I have no qualms over calling myself a writer. It’s what I do constantly – if I’m not physically typing on a keyboard or writing little notes, I’m composing something in my head with hopes that I’ll remember it.
But being a single mom, 80% responsible for two kids (meaning that I get to sleep 15% of the time and the other 5% is when their dad takes care of them) and having to be always within calling distance of my own mother, I don’t have time to write. What might take me three months more of full-time editing on my novel to render it publishable is, at the rate I’m going, bound to take me three years. Frustrated doesn’t begin to describe it.
I imagine there is, somewhere in the universe, a switch that can be flicked which could cause me to be able to stop merely calling myself a writer and become one. I realize that I cannot expect to ever take on a full-time job; my life is with my children, and taking care of them is apparently my job and mine alone. Would I want it any other way? Absolutely not.
Yet writing is also my life. I don’t live for my children – anyone who says they do, in my opinion, is in for a huge let-down when their kids leave home for good. I live for myself and I am a writer. I have a story that I feel needs to be told, of a world where I hope one day people will be able to escape, as I have. It’s inside me, it’s on my screen and it’s on paper, and all it wants is to be polished to a bright, shiny tale that many will love.
If only the magical switch to make it all come true wasn’t so far out of my reach.
There are reasons why unpublished authors don’t walk around telling people they’re writing a novel. First and foremost is the puzzled, glazed-over expression that immediately comes over the other person’s face, as they think to themselves, What kind of a flake am I talking to? Then quickly on the heels of that comes the hasty change-of-subject or the hands-behind-the-back stroll-away as they whistle and hope the author doesn’t follow them all the way home.
But it comes to something when an novelist’s family members don’t even take him/her seriously.
Are you a novelist? Do you ever hear your significant other say, over the phone, thinking you’re not listening, “Oh yeah, it’s just a hobby,” regarding your writing? Does the person supposedly looking after your kids allow them to come and ask you questions while you’re trying to work? Do people wander in to ask you if you’d like coffee while you’re trying to write?
It’s said that marketing a book is harder than writing, but on some days I seriously wonder. It takes a great deal of concentration to write something as complicated as a novel. There are many things to keep track of, characters to write and to get into, believe it or not. Getting into a character’s head so that his or her voice comes through well takes time.
So if you walk in on a working author to ask if he/she wants a cup of coffee (the answer is no) and he/she turns to you slowly and asks you in return if you’d care to have your fingernails removed with a screwdriver, chances are the author is in the middle of a torture scene and it has nothing to do with you. Still, back away with your hands behind your back and try to remember next time, IT’S NOT JUST A HOBBY!
There was nothing particularly appealing about Kingston, Ontario, when I first started writing my novel, The Great Dagmaru. At the time, I was traveling there weekly to attend doctor’s appointments at either Kingston General or Hotel Dieu Hospital. Two things inspired me to set my story there: one, I was familiar with the geography of the city, and two, this place:
Kingston’s Grand Trunk Railway Station – source – Wikimapia.org
I started writing my novel about a teenaged girl named Herman, who runs away from home and meets a tall dark stranger on a train. She never makes it where she is going. My initial idea for the tale included the stranger taking her to this train station – hollowed out as it is by a devastating fire – and keeping her there to serve him and his wicked magic. However, as I wrote, the character of the tall dark stranger morphed into Stephen Dagmar, a rich, gorgeous, and talented magician with a dark secret, who lives in a grand Victorian house with a turret:
I was lucky to be able to stay in the house I had envisioned my character living in, and as you’ll see if you read my July account, I even had the thrill of being allowed to sleep two nights in the turret room.
As I said at the beginning of this post, Kingston had no real attraction for me until my characters were born. Gradually as I traveled there for appointments I found myself enthralled with the city. I could see the places I imagined my characters would visit, and the things they would see with their own eyes. Eventually, the place began to inspire me, like a painting of a narrow pathway curving through a lush forest.
My story had a world.
Here are some pictures I took while I was there: here is the world where Stephen and Herman exist.
Next door to the Hochelaga Inn
Cross, Lake Ontario
Girl, reading by the water
Kingston Harbour
Inside the turret, Hochelaga Inn, Kingston
I have been back to Kingston since this trip to do further research. I found the spot where Stephen’s house will be situated in the story (I expropriated land from the government which currently houses the local airport – I doubt they’ll notice) and I have measured distances from there to various places my characters will visit. I’ve sat in restaurants, sipping wine with the ghosts of Stephen’s and Herman’s characters, and I’ve strolled with them along the shoreline.
One of the first things I ever read about writing fiction was that it is necessary to create a world in which your characters will live. I consider myself lucky to have found this amazing, inspirational setting for mine.
With the door closed it was very quiet in the room apart from the sound of birds cooing. Herman went to the window in search of the source. A line of tall, thick trees at the perimeter of a vast lawn surrounded the house. Daffodils and tulips poked up through the soil as close to the house as she could see without putting her forehead against the glass. Beyond the garden a cobblestone walkway, wide enough for two people to stroll side by side wound it’s way past a patio sat off to the left. To the right was a small brick building with six or eight sides, she couldn’t really tell from her vantage point. It was made of the same colour brick as the house and had many small windows near the top. It looked to be about two stories high. A shed, or a coop perhaps. She turned her back to the window see if the room appeared as domestically normal as the garden. The walls were paneled with dark wood and the furniture was antique, upholstered with red velvet. Along one wall, to her right, either side of the door hung pictures of landscapes rather than family portraits. The wall opposite the door was covered in fragrantly old books. A computer with a the large flat screen perched upon a heavy ancient-looking desk was the only evidence that she hadn’t stepped back in time.
To this:
The sound of birds cooing beckoned Herman to the window in search of the source. A protective line of tall, thick pines stood like sentries around at the perimeter of a vast lawn, and daffodils and tulips poked their heads up through the soil as close to the house as she could see. Beyond the flower garden a cobblestone walkway, wide enough for two people to stroll side by side wound it’s way past a patio off to the left. To the right stood a small red brick building with six or eight sides and a dozen small windows near the top that reflected the gloomy April sky. A shed, or a coop perhaps. She turned her back on the peaceful scenery outside, to see if the room appeared as domestically serene as the garden. The dark paneled walls were adorned either with painted landscapes or covered in bookshelves containing fragrantly old books, lending the student in her warm comfort. A computer with a the large flat screen perched upon a heavy ancient-looking desk was the only evidence that she hadn’t stepped back in time.
Above is first the original NaNo 2011 version of the beginning of Chapter 5 of my manuscript, and second is what I edited it down to this morning. What do you think?
I see this as the result of two years writing experience and endless blog posts which have forced me to write to be publicly read. I see this as the result of two very wonderful people who have critiqued my work and told me in no uncertain terms that I have to put the character in my descriptions. (Thank you so much, Janice and Connie. Honest critique is the most valuable thing a writer can receive.)
In all, I see the second version as something that a publisher might actually look at. But that was one paragraph out of 524 pages.
Weekends alone are never long enough so I decided this one was going to be dedicated to that which I have no chance to do during the week or when the kids are here: I worked on my manuscript to the exclusion of all else. My bum is numb from sitting in one spot and my neck aches and it feels great to have made it a third of the way through this stack of papers which now have scribbles on each one of the ones I’ve been through. I still have so much work to do! But I figured if I didn’t start, I’ll never end.
My internet-free weekend has been freeing, in a way. No checking every few minutes to see if I have comments, even though I haven’t been anywhere at all. Aside from my JusJoJan 11 post on my fiction blog last night (and I was feeling it, let me tell you) the only thing that has been going on.. and on and on on my laptop are Buck-Tick videos. They are who I write to and Sakurai Atsushi is who inspires me to write my main character – Stephen.
So that’s it. I have to hit the publish button now before I’m tempted to edit. I think I may do a stream-of consciousness post once a week. What did you think?
1. It’s never too late to join in, since the “Jot it” part of JusJoJan means that anything you jot down, anywhere (it doesn’t have to be a post) counts as a “Jot.” If it makes it to WordPress that day, great! If it waits a week to get from the sticky note to your screen, no problem!
2. If you write a JusJoJan post on your blog, you can ping it back to the above link to make sure everyone participating knows where to find it.
3. Write anything!
4. Have fun!
I’m so frustrated! All morning I put off printing off my manuscript (the older one, not my new NaNoWriMo project) which is 503 pages long. I’ve been going through WordPress themes, delivering newspapers, eating… generally doing everything I could to procrastinate. Finally, I said, ‘That’s it! I’m going to do it!’ (Yes, I talk to myself when I’m alone.)
So I went into the room where the printer is, and got started. Two hundred and fifty pages and I ran out of ink in an almost brand new cartridge. 250 pages! This thing is going to cost me $70 to print… and that’s just a draft!!
Who knew writing could be so bloody expensive?
So, my novelist buddies out there in WordPress land, and anyone else who prints vast amounts of text for whatever reason, do you take care of your own printing needs on your home printer? Or do you take it to a professional?
And either way, how do you afford to write?
Ugh.
Blog post of December 3rd, in honour of Every Damn Day December. Check it out! It’s not too late to join in!
Twins. Part of the plot in my NaNoWriMo project required a case of mistaken identity, so instead of having one protagonist, I’m writing one and a half. I call the twins “one and a half” protagonists because I’m writing in the first person – so I’m getting all of what one of them thinks and only half of what the other does. They’re both good guys, Marcel and Max are. Decent men from a good family – very much the same in many ways.
As usual, something happened in real life which made me contemplate the differences between siblings. In this case it was a conversation with the lady who manages the dry cleaner on my paper route. She has two granddaughters who she loves to talk about. She was telling me how unalike they are, even though they’re very close in age. This is a subject (among many) that has always fascinated me, being an only child. My own children didn’t grow up as siblings usually do, since they all have such physical differences, so it’s something I must study from a distance.
The difficulty I’m experiencing in my novel is that the twins, Marcel and Max, sound the same when they speak. It makes sense to me that they should, but they end up coming out like these guys:
Not all that polite mind you, but they speak exactly alike.
Once NaNo is done and I can put some thought into it, I’ll work on finding something unique about the two, which will come out in their speech. But in the meantime, I’m wondering what about their natures, and not their nurture, can help my readers to tell them apart.
Have you ever written siblings and come across this problem? Let’s learn from each other!
I’ve been seriously thinking about how much my own tastes influence my fiction. The other day, my characters were in a restaurant and I purposely made them order something I, personally, wouldn’t eat.
It occurred to me that maybe I’m thinking about this too much – micromanaging my story. But the fact is, they’ve gotta eat. And I find it boring and not really credible that they’d like ALL the same things I do. If for no other reason than every character in every story I ever write always eats the same group of foods, I feel like I have to change it up once in a while.
Is this something you’ve put any thought to? If you’re a vegetarian, do you ever have your characters eating a nice juicy steak?
How else do your characters not reflect your tastes? (Human characters, that is.)
“Write what you know.” It’s one of those things we’re told to do, along with “show, don’t tell,” and a bunch of other guidelines we’re given as writers, that will apparently give us the tools we need to make us better writers and bring home our first million. It’s the “write what you know” thing I want to focus on today though, and I’ll tell you why.
I almost got hit by a bus today.
Don’t panic, I’m okay, but it was a close call. I’m talking inches. Millimeters even. It got me to thinking about my NaNo project, as does everything in my life – when I decide to write a novel, I live and breathe it, almost literally. Having something as dramatic as a real-life near-death experience happen to me (okay, okay, the mirror of a bus moving half a mile an hour nearly clipped my ear as I walked along the edge of a sidewalk) being worth mentioning, could happen to one of my characters, right? You can bet it will.
So back to writing what you know. I don’t think they really mean it in the strict sense of writing what you do for a living outside of writing, for instance. Or even writing about characters who write, though many writers do (I’m looking at you, Stephen King). If we did that, everything we wrote would be autobiographical. And what would the fantasy writers do? I’m thinking an elf accountant would be rather boring.
I think writing what you know can be taken in a more broad sense of feelings, emotions, and yes, little experiences like almost getting hit by a small, slow-moving school bus that’s coming to a stop beside the curb.
So my challenge, for all my fellow NaNoers who are reading this, is simple. Write into your story the next time you write, about something you’ve experienced in the last week. If your characters are in space it can be a sensation, or a sentence you remember hearing or saying.
And if you’re writing an autobiography – oh what the hell. Lie! I dare you!
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