I am behind. I have been word-warring.
In the last 500 words, I have used the phrase "Craig from Barnes" fourteen times.
Seriously. Fourteen times.
I have got to get a better grip on this novel.
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
NaNo 2013
(Regular blogging, you say, Jen? How's that working out for you?)
NaNoWriMo starts in two days. Since this'll be my tenth one I can't not do it, but I have three reasonably major problems:
1. This November is going to be possibly my busiest November ever. Working full time, busy at least three evenings during the week and at least the first two weekends are going to be a complete loss writing-wise.
2. I have not even the slightest ghost of an idea. I don't have a character, a setting, a scene, an image. Nothing.
3. And, oh yeah, I don't have anywhere to live. I am dependent entirely on the kindness and generosity of people I don't really know that well, and it seems a little unfair to sit in said people's houses and swear at a laptop for hours on end while demanding use of their WiFi to obsessively update my word count like a weirdo.
Somehow I'm going to make this work, probably through lunchtime word wars, table-hogging in Starbucks, and hanging around the office for hours after I should have gone home. But I would feel a lot better if I had a starting point. I've gone into NaNo with no ideas before, and essentially one of two things happens.
Scenario one: I find a name generator, get myself about half a dozen names, then write some people with those names having a good-natured argument. This will then generate itself into an easy to write piece of irredeemable fluff which is neither bad enough to be embarrassed about nor good enough to ever show to another human being. It's not fun to talk about writing these, because as soon as you say, "Oh, it's about a girl who meets this guy at her friend's wedding..." you look at the person you're talking to and you can see the brain make a hasty exit out through the ears. Also, last time I did this, I ended up using the line, "What were you doing that needed the character of the egg?" followed by about ten pages about egg performance art. I don't need that.
Scenario two: I switch my brain off and just see what comes out of my fingers. What inevitably comes out of my fingers is a politically-motivated mystery, which would be fine if I had any clue whatsoever what the mystery was supposed to be. But I never do. If I try to think about it or plot something out, I somehow lose all ability to write anything. What I then end up with is 50,000 words of vagueness, all of which scream "AUTHOR HAS NO CLUE WHAT IS HAPPENING" and all of which is terrible. The last novel I wrote using this method had exactly two sentences I didn't hate when I read back over it.
I've vaguely considered a few times trying to rewrite the novel I started in 2009. I didn't get very far with it, but in the 15,000 or so words I did write, there was some stuff that I thought was good (it's pretty rare for me to think my stuff is good enough to be pleased about). Reading back over it, I still think that stuff is good, but I hate the plot and don't quite know how I would change it. I don't know if, during a time-crunched and homeless month, I want to put myself under the pressure of trying to write something I'd be proud of. Also, when I wrote the good stuff there was a certain inspiration in my life, and when it disappeared I was left with a massive creative block that lasted... well, ages, actually. Essentially, I don't want to write shit, nor do I want to screw up my good stuff by surrounding it with shit. So what to do?
I'm making the following rules for myself:
1. I am not allowed to write a plot-driven novel if I don't know what the plot is.
2. None of my characters are allowed to mysteriously appear in a location they shouldn't reasonably be and then be all enigmatic about how they got there for a page and a half.
3. Nobody is allowed to be known by eighteen different names for no apparent reason.
4. I am not allowed to go off on tangents about any of the following: eggs, yoghurt, flamingoes, foot injuries, body fascism, queuing, or the proper way to care for a pet reptile.
5. I need to somehow not make my entire novel about blues dance, despite the fact that it has EATEN MY SOUL.
So, this'll go well, then.
NaNoWriMo starts in two days. Since this'll be my tenth one I can't not do it, but I have three reasonably major problems:
1. This November is going to be possibly my busiest November ever. Working full time, busy at least three evenings during the week and at least the first two weekends are going to be a complete loss writing-wise.
2. I have not even the slightest ghost of an idea. I don't have a character, a setting, a scene, an image. Nothing.
3. And, oh yeah, I don't have anywhere to live. I am dependent entirely on the kindness and generosity of people I don't really know that well, and it seems a little unfair to sit in said people's houses and swear at a laptop for hours on end while demanding use of their WiFi to obsessively update my word count like a weirdo.
Somehow I'm going to make this work, probably through lunchtime word wars, table-hogging in Starbucks, and hanging around the office for hours after I should have gone home. But I would feel a lot better if I had a starting point. I've gone into NaNo with no ideas before, and essentially one of two things happens.
Scenario one: I find a name generator, get myself about half a dozen names, then write some people with those names having a good-natured argument. This will then generate itself into an easy to write piece of irredeemable fluff which is neither bad enough to be embarrassed about nor good enough to ever show to another human being. It's not fun to talk about writing these, because as soon as you say, "Oh, it's about a girl who meets this guy at her friend's wedding..." you look at the person you're talking to and you can see the brain make a hasty exit out through the ears. Also, last time I did this, I ended up using the line, "What were you doing that needed the character of the egg?" followed by about ten pages about egg performance art. I don't need that.
Scenario two: I switch my brain off and just see what comes out of my fingers. What inevitably comes out of my fingers is a politically-motivated mystery, which would be fine if I had any clue whatsoever what the mystery was supposed to be. But I never do. If I try to think about it or plot something out, I somehow lose all ability to write anything. What I then end up with is 50,000 words of vagueness, all of which scream "AUTHOR HAS NO CLUE WHAT IS HAPPENING" and all of which is terrible. The last novel I wrote using this method had exactly two sentences I didn't hate when I read back over it.
I've vaguely considered a few times trying to rewrite the novel I started in 2009. I didn't get very far with it, but in the 15,000 or so words I did write, there was some stuff that I thought was good (it's pretty rare for me to think my stuff is good enough to be pleased about). Reading back over it, I still think that stuff is good, but I hate the plot and don't quite know how I would change it. I don't know if, during a time-crunched and homeless month, I want to put myself under the pressure of trying to write something I'd be proud of. Also, when I wrote the good stuff there was a certain inspiration in my life, and when it disappeared I was left with a massive creative block that lasted... well, ages, actually. Essentially, I don't want to write shit, nor do I want to screw up my good stuff by surrounding it with shit. So what to do?
I'm making the following rules for myself:
1. I am not allowed to write a plot-driven novel if I don't know what the plot is.
2. None of my characters are allowed to mysteriously appear in a location they shouldn't reasonably be and then be all enigmatic about how they got there for a page and a half.
3. Nobody is allowed to be known by eighteen different names for no apparent reason.
4. I am not allowed to go off on tangents about any of the following: eggs, yoghurt, flamingoes, foot injuries, body fascism, queuing, or the proper way to care for a pet reptile.
5. I need to somehow not make my entire novel about blues dance, despite the fact that it has EATEN MY SOUL.
So, this'll go well, then.
Sunday, 9 June 2013
space
He took his stuff, and he left space.
Big spaces in the living room, little spaces in the kitchen cupboards. Space I had prepared myself for, and space I hadn't expected. Space to be unnerved, space to read a little too much into every bump and every breeze outside. Thoughts began to settle in, unwind themselves and expand, to fill his position on the sofa and in my mind, to prod at me and do their best to unseat or unsettle me with suggestions that I might not, in some undefined and unquantified way, be able to cope without anyone with me in this space.
At first the emptiness was all I could see. I could feel his absence more than I could feel my own presence. I lay awake listening to noises that weren't there anymore. We'd shared this space, and now there was twice as much as I was used to, I didn't know what to do with it.
I'd asked him for space, a while ago. I asked him if we could make our lives just that little bit bigger so that I could stretch a little, breathe a little more comfortably. He hadn't understood. To him, space was a reason to shuffle in closer, curl around each other, pull the walls in that bit tighter. Space didn't work for him. He fought against it, and convinced me that was the logical thing to do. I learned, gradually, to distrust space, to be scared of it, to take our little bubble with me everywhere I went. I learned how to shut things out, to make the space smaller.
Today the space seems more normal. It's still not mine, but it's not his, either.
When we met, I lived alone, in my own space. Instead of moving in together, he moved into a space that was already mine. He fitted himself into my life, searching out places to put his belongings, his past, little bits of himself. We both grew, but not together, and when the time came he lifted right out of my life, almost as though he'd never really been there.
He took away the sofabed and the big TV. He took away the micowave and the knives. He took away a sense of comfort, and the dependence he'd needed me to have on him. He took away a closeness that was both too close and not close enough, at the same time stifling and lonely. He took away a fading camaraderie, a confused affection, a frustration and a fundamental misunderstanding that clouded everything we did towards the end.
He took his stuff, and he left space, but not emptiness. It's room to breathe, to move. It's space I needed, and used to have. I don't need to replace anything he took away.
He's looking for someone else's space. When he finds it, he'll slide in like sand, moulding himself to the shape of her life. She'll want that too, I hope. She'll be looking for the comfort that comes from knowing she can't fall, that he'll keep her close and safe, that he'll take care of her. She won't want to kick against him, like I did, to push him out of the way. She'll encourage it, and help him pull the walls in. They'll be strong together. That's what he's looking for, and I hope he finds it.
I keep looking over my shoulder, at the space behind me. It'll be mine, soon.
Big spaces in the living room, little spaces in the kitchen cupboards. Space I had prepared myself for, and space I hadn't expected. Space to be unnerved, space to read a little too much into every bump and every breeze outside. Thoughts began to settle in, unwind themselves and expand, to fill his position on the sofa and in my mind, to prod at me and do their best to unseat or unsettle me with suggestions that I might not, in some undefined and unquantified way, be able to cope without anyone with me in this space.
At first the emptiness was all I could see. I could feel his absence more than I could feel my own presence. I lay awake listening to noises that weren't there anymore. We'd shared this space, and now there was twice as much as I was used to, I didn't know what to do with it.
I'd asked him for space, a while ago. I asked him if we could make our lives just that little bit bigger so that I could stretch a little, breathe a little more comfortably. He hadn't understood. To him, space was a reason to shuffle in closer, curl around each other, pull the walls in that bit tighter. Space didn't work for him. He fought against it, and convinced me that was the logical thing to do. I learned, gradually, to distrust space, to be scared of it, to take our little bubble with me everywhere I went. I learned how to shut things out, to make the space smaller.
Today the space seems more normal. It's still not mine, but it's not his, either.
When we met, I lived alone, in my own space. Instead of moving in together, he moved into a space that was already mine. He fitted himself into my life, searching out places to put his belongings, his past, little bits of himself. We both grew, but not together, and when the time came he lifted right out of my life, almost as though he'd never really been there.
He took away the sofabed and the big TV. He took away the micowave and the knives. He took away a sense of comfort, and the dependence he'd needed me to have on him. He took away a closeness that was both too close and not close enough, at the same time stifling and lonely. He took away a fading camaraderie, a confused affection, a frustration and a fundamental misunderstanding that clouded everything we did towards the end.
He took his stuff, and he left space, but not emptiness. It's room to breathe, to move. It's space I needed, and used to have. I don't need to replace anything he took away.
He's looking for someone else's space. When he finds it, he'll slide in like sand, moulding himself to the shape of her life. She'll want that too, I hope. She'll be looking for the comfort that comes from knowing she can't fall, that he'll keep her close and safe, that he'll take care of her. She won't want to kick against him, like I did, to push him out of the way. She'll encourage it, and help him pull the walls in. They'll be strong together. That's what he's looking for, and I hope he finds it.
I keep looking over my shoulder, at the space behind me. It'll be mine, soon.
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