Victory. Sweet, candied victory.

So I passed 50k, which is nice. I had internet trouble last night, so I didn't update earlier, and it frustrated me to the point that I didn't feel like writing anymore. So I'll add some more to the story tonight, because although I've got a much better idea of how it's going to end than I did on Saturday, I still am not completely sure, which means I still don't know how much longer it's going to be. Honestly, though, I've been pacing for 50k, so if it doesn't get completely done by Wednesday, I won't feel at all guilty. I understand the danger of working without a deadline, so I'm going to try to finish. Really, the story could go on for a long time. This is the first time I've really felt like I could write a soap opera. Which is a project I want to do still. A math soap opera.

Thanks, Bret, for finally visiting. About time.

Superawesome, y'all.

The Nanowrimo community, including writers and cheerleaders, are super nice. Thanks.

Parts of this post may be a bit hard on myself

The first thing I can point out that I've sacrificed this month after sleep and exercise is afternoon syndicated television, i.e., The Simpsons at 5 and 6. I might be able to live without that block of tv time after nanowrimo is over. I have been watching new Simpsons, along with Arrested Development and Scrubs. Coincidentally, my novel is derivative of the first two, and I'm going for a Scrubs-type of tone. The sentimental humor. But plot lines and jokes are taken directly from the Simpsons. Characters are directly cribbed from Arrested Development. The beauty is that my Frankenstein's monster of a novel is not 1% as funny as any of these shows, and about as interesting as a diorama. On the history of dioramas. Taken from the Simpsons: helper monkeys. Taken from AD: an idiot man-child brother. All parts not taken from television shows are taken from movies. No specific movie, because I took care only to use scenes that have appeared in enough movies that they are cliche. No, that's too much credit, because it would be an interesting experiment to see what happens if you forced yourself to write only in cliche. Truth is, no care was taken in writing this abomination that screams "kill me! kill me!" except that its vocal cords are in its butt, so you can't understand what it's saying, kind of like Metallica's "One" video.

Having said that, I'm going to get my 50k. So I've got that going for me. Which is nice. (Stolen!)

mathematics of noveling

there is a strict inverse relationship between my daily word count and my free time during the day.

apologies.

Yesterday's lapse in word count was time- and fatigue-induced, not a creative lapse. I was falling into microsleeps while typing. I would start dreaming briefly, and then be disoriented in the novel world. It was weird. I tried to get back on track today.

I think this will be a good book. It would make a good movie.

Yup, that's a 3000-word day–

beeyotch.

It's alive.

It was the strangest thing: I was sitting there, writing away, and my main character met somebody! It totally surprised me. The characters are driving the story for the most part, which is good, I think. Anyway, this new development leaves me with new problems, but they're problems worth dealing with because the tradeoff is worth it. The second half of the novel might become the last third now. The middle keeps going and going. The bigger problem is that it's much harder to be flip and funny when I'm starting to care about what's going on so much. I can't make a joke out of it! I can't do that to him! He would be crushed! So now it's become this serious thing because I can't toe the line. The editing, if I ever do it, will be a monumental task.

Not a good weekend for the writer in me.

It just seemed really difficult to write. For one thing, I do better when I have a slot in the evening when it's do or die. Having the entire day...well, I envisioned myself getting my quota in early this morning, then having the rest of the day to study for my exam, which would take a couple hours, then finishing my movie. No, that's not what happened. I've been agonizing because an event in my plot will mark the halfway point, and although I'm past halfway in word count, I can't seem to get the family to meet up with the prodigal son! There have been opportunities, but they don't reunite. Reunite, damn you! I'm sick of this!

We need a stinkin' plot.

I think I said earlier that plot is overrated. I'd like to qualify that. Plot is overrated in movies. In a goodly-sized novel, plot is pretty essential to be able to actually be interested in finishing reading the book. I would even say that plot is underrated, so that someone like John Grisham, who writes fabulous plots, gets little critical acclaim because they're looking for theme and symbolism. Something to deconstruct. Except that it's not easy to write a page-turner, and there's an art to that as well. I wrote at work today to lighten my load for post-bar time writing. Paid off.

I am going to rip off National Lampoon's Vacation.

I had a breakthrough today, which I accomplished by turning off the car stereo on my commute. I was making myself laugh on the way home, which is a good sign. I know what kind of writing I like, so if I like my writing, that's a good thing. I fully recommend turning off thought-inhibiting devices to make dead time more productive now. I didn't before. "More dead time!" I was heard to remark. After class tonight, if the Vikings are losing, I'll definitely write. If they're winning, 60-40.

Mega Ultimate Blast times six billion!

This is hard. I can make my word count grow but just writing, but I don't think it's necessarily going anywhere, or more accurately, I don't know where it's going. Also, I feel confined, like I can't let myself go. I want to write something wild and fanciful, but still realistic, something funny, but left to its own devices, my writing keeps veering toward a very serious place. Consarnit!

Yesssss.

Hey, I found my voice tonight, suckers!

My writing is stilted, like an Uncle Sam.

I want to put my writing up here for the purposes of archiving it, but I don't think I want people reading it as a whole. Not that there's any danger in that, but I've always considered my strength as a writer to be the revising stage. Which is to say, my rough draft is boring.

First sample...

Not that I'm doing any editing/censoring/fixing this month, but as a volunteer at a nursing home, I'd really rather not mock old people. I didn't think this was over the line, but then I have no perspective.

"Joe, your mom called last night. She wanted you to call her back."
"What time did she call?"
"Mmmmm, let's see...it was during the beginning of Holy Grail, which I put on at 8, so a little after then."
"Why didn't you tell me last night?"
"Sorry. Forgot."
Although James said sorry, it didn't mean much to Joe, because James had done this before and he would likely do it again. In this case, it was difficult for Joe to build up the frustration necessary to properly chew out his roommate because he was actually glad he missed Mom's call. She was trying to pin him down for a family portrait. Joe's family took family portraits every January. His mother's rationale was that they would look younger for the Christmas card if they took the photo right after Christmas for the following December's card. That way, they could still take the traditional sleigh ride photo that they drove out 90 minutes into the country for. In a concession to the onset of her kids' adulthood, Joe's mom had done away with the summer family photo, but not without a closing barrage of guilt. "This isn't for me, you know. Your grandmother loves to see her grandchildren in the beach photo–you've seen how she's got every year's beach photo on the wall. But it's like trying to skin a toothless cat getting you kids together for this." One reason why the summer photo was the first to go was the wardrobe considerations that had to be arranged for. Mom was right about Grandma loving those beach photos. She was actually Joe's great-grandmother, and like Mom said, the back of her door at the nursing home was lined with beach photos. Conspicuously absent was the photo from 1987. Grandma had loudly and extendedly voiced her disapproval of that photo to poor Dad, who happened to be the one to answer his grandmother-in-law's irate phone call. Apparently, she disapproved of the male nipples exposed in the photo. Inexplicably, the offensive pink regions were still on display from 1986 and earlier. In 1988, Mom had asked Joe and his brother to wear their t-shirts in the photo. Grandma complained that "you can hardly tell you're even at the beach" despite the cresting waves and sea gulls in the background. Joe had suggested including a Portuguese Man o' War tentacle as proof of the beach's veracity, a comment for which he was grounded for a night. From 1989-1996, the beach photo was taken with Joe and his brother wearing old timey men's swim tops. Their sister had copies to be used for blackmail purposes. She had been able to wear whatever she wanted in the photos, because Grandma inevitably would ask, upon receiving the photo, who the stranger was who made her was into the photo, and why Joe's dad allowed that to happen.
"That's Carrie, Grandma," Joe's mom would reply from the script.
"No, it's not. The girl in the photo is thin."
Carrie was not, by any means, overweight, in photos or in real life.
"Next time, have a professional take the photo."
"We will, Grandma."

Dilemma.

I have been writing a realistic story, because I want the human elements in there, but I think I do better AND have more fun when I cease to be bound by the laws of physics and psychology. In college, I went realistic and came up with an utterly mediocre/poor short story that essentially ended my creative writing career. (maybe more on that later. It involves another person to show up in my life.) If I go crazy now...I lost most of my story as it lies in my head.

Screw it. I'm going to bed.

Why, during 2004, when so much of my early November attention is diverted elsewhere?