I've always been an artist and writer who works best in the evenings. To me, digging into a story or sketch at 7pm was perfect. I'd work out what I was going to do then have it cooking in my mind as I made dinner and returned to it after I'd eaten and watched the evening news. I never was big on watching a lot of TV -- though I did follow "Friends" and "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" almost religiously -- so I'd have until about 10 pm to work and still be able to slow my mind down enough to where I could go to sleep about 1am.
But something I hadn't really noticed was, I used the rest of the day to gear my mind up to this. I'd read the paper, check news blogs and do research and even just run errands. Even while mom was living with me in LA (for 7 1/2 years) I was able to keep this schedule because I got off from Heritage at 5:30, would have her fed and settled into her room (where I'd set up a TV at the foot of her bed and she could sort through the paperwork in her dozens of boxes and channel-surf to her heart's content) and I'd be rested enough to get going. And when she moved back to San Antonio and I had my life to myself, again, it worked out even better. I even joined a gym and would exercise 2-3 times a week after I got off work. And when Heritage closed, I moved the writing time up a bit -- to 4pm -- but I still used the day to work my mind and let ideas percolate.
I got into so very steady habits, it seems. Even when I went nuts and worked 12 hours a day writing to get something done (like the storyboards for "Kerosene Cowboys" or a script for a J Morrison Group industrial video), I'd slip back to the same schedule. But I've had a hell of a time doing that here in SA. Because even though I have mom set up in her room with a TV at the foot of her bed, just like in LA, she prefers to sit in a chair she claims to hate in the living room and watch her programs there, and it's brutally distracting. I've tried listening to music via my headphones but that cuts into my concentration and puts a layer of creative noise between me and my thoughts. So unless mom is quiet during the day, and lately (unless it's raining) she's been anything but, I've found I can't get started writing until 9 or 10, when she goes to bed.
So...last night I was able to get only 1300 words input, and then only because I focused on a part where Brendan witnesses an explosion and sees the aftermath, something I'd sketched out in general a few years ago when I was still trying to work out the story in third person. I doubt I'll have a full first draft by the end of the month. Mom and Kelly are in a needy phase, and how they knew to wait till now to start in on their wants and requests...I almost think it's deliberate. They both know what I'm trying to do, I even talked to mom about it, yesterday, as she had me take her to Target and HEB and Walgreen's Pharmacy and U-Haul. Didn't phase her. Because already today, she's come up with one of her, "Can I borrow you for 5 minutes" moments where she wants some things put in the storage room and a shelf attached in her closet so she can put things on it. And like a wimp, I do it.
And in the story, Brendan has grown to despise his mother, but loves her enough to never tell her so. And it feels too right for the story for me to pull back from it, and it leads to a moment I didn't see coming, one of gentleness and grace and outright deception that crystalizes everything.
Y'know, when idiots tell you to write what you know, they usually mean it in too literal a fashion. But I've just seen how it works in the abstract...and it carries a thousand times more meaning for me, here, now. I think I finally understand why I need to tell this story.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Rainy days are perfect for writing
And it rained all day, yesterday. So I caught up to myself in "Place of Safety" and even rewrote a confrontation on the Craigavon Bridge to fit in with a chapter that immediately precedes it. I'm still pushing to get the book done by the end of the month; I'm at close to 23,000 words and have 104 pages, so far. It won't be a work of art yet, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I will know where the story is headed and know what to dig into once I get to Londonderry to do more research.
I've realized I also need to research Houston between the years 1973 and 1981. Fortunately, I have friends who lived or grew up in the city during those years, and I lived there, myself, between 1985 and 1993 so have an idea of the city, but I want the details right even if I don't wind up using them.
And that's something that works so neatly within this story. Since Brendan's telling it, I don't need to outline everything he does to make the tale work. It would be ludicrous for him to say, "I sat down to a meal of porridge and toast from the toaster Mam bought off Mrs. O'Leary so we'd not have to burn our bread over an open flame." Or "I snuck over to Kelly Brothers grocers in the Waterside, up on Spencer, because their vegetables and beef were of a higher quality, that being the Protestant side of town." He wouldn't think about such things. It'd just be, "I scarfed my breakfast and busted out the door" or "Mam sent me for lettuce and cutlets, and warned me to bring back good ones, this time." It's nice to have all the details in the back of my brain, but Brendan's leading this story and doing it fine, so far. It worked out well in "Bobby Carapisi," especially insofar as Bobby's telling of his story, so it's a comfortable fit for me in this one, as well.
Let's see how far I get, today.
I've realized I also need to research Houston between the years 1973 and 1981. Fortunately, I have friends who lived or grew up in the city during those years, and I lived there, myself, between 1985 and 1993 so have an idea of the city, but I want the details right even if I don't wind up using them.
And that's something that works so neatly within this story. Since Brendan's telling it, I don't need to outline everything he does to make the tale work. It would be ludicrous for him to say, "I sat down to a meal of porridge and toast from the toaster Mam bought off Mrs. O'Leary so we'd not have to burn our bread over an open flame." Or "I snuck over to Kelly Brothers grocers in the Waterside, up on Spencer, because their vegetables and beef were of a higher quality, that being the Protestant side of town." He wouldn't think about such things. It'd just be, "I scarfed my breakfast and busted out the door" or "Mam sent me for lettuce and cutlets, and warned me to bring back good ones, this time." It's nice to have all the details in the back of my brain, but Brendan's leading this story and doing it fine, so far. It worked out well in "Bobby Carapisi," especially insofar as Bobby's telling of his story, so it's a comfortable fit for me in this one, as well.
Let's see how far I get, today.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Hell is your family
I got no writing done, yesterday. Not one word. The whole day was spent dealing with mom and trying to get done in time to get something written...and then finally realizing it just wasn't going to happen. We went from Bed, Bath & Beyond to a nursery out on Loop 1604 in the middle of nowhere (20 miles from where I live) to my sister and brother-in-law's out in Spring Branch (a drive of an addition 35 miles) to an HEB Grocery Store to say hello to my niece (whom mom hasn't seen in months) to getting sandwiches to take home...and by the time it was done, I'd put over a hundred miles on my car and sat in some of the worst traffic you can imagine (and I lived in LA and I've been caught in gridlock driving in Dublin, so I KNOW bad traffic) and I was so exhausted, I couldn't think.
I did get in a book I'd ordered with photos of Derry from the early 60's to the late 80's so looked through that as I ate my sandwich and zoned. And I did make notes on how to rework a section I'd already done to make it more realistic and tie it into the rest of the story better. But that was it. The moment I thought I was rested and could start back in on the story, I'd go blank and get sleepy, so finally I gave up.
Hopefully I can make it up today. It's raining and I've already gotten mom her paper (she likes to sit and read the San Antonio Express on Sunday from cover to cover, even though it's really a pathetic excuse for a newspaper) and I've moved the boxes she wanted into our storage room so she should be low-key all day. But it's already 11:20am and she's still fussing about, so I may be clinging to futile hope.
BTW, anyone who tells you San Antonio is a lovely city has only been to the Riverwalk downtown. This city is UGLY, with the worst of urban decay inside and the worst of suburban sprawl outside of Loop 410. The place where I got caught in traffic is a hideous development of widely-spaced strip malls with huge black parking lots and big, blank, cookie-cutter houses on lots barely large enough for them, where the land was clear-cut of all trees to make building these homes and strip malls easier and where NOTHING was done to improve the streets to facilitate the increase in traffic. So even on a Saturday afternoon cars are backed up for miles in both directions trying to get through a series of lights that are anything but timed to help. And what's the city doing about it? "We're considering some possibilities...like maybe a toll road. What do you think? After all, we've been too busy helping the local money people make more money off the city doing projects that mean nothing (except for our vanity) to really take the time to consider the problem."
The deferential patronage system in this town is so completely entrenched, San Antonio belongs in a Third World country.
I did get in a book I'd ordered with photos of Derry from the early 60's to the late 80's so looked through that as I ate my sandwich and zoned. And I did make notes on how to rework a section I'd already done to make it more realistic and tie it into the rest of the story better. But that was it. The moment I thought I was rested and could start back in on the story, I'd go blank and get sleepy, so finally I gave up.
Hopefully I can make it up today. It's raining and I've already gotten mom her paper (she likes to sit and read the San Antonio Express on Sunday from cover to cover, even though it's really a pathetic excuse for a newspaper) and I've moved the boxes she wanted into our storage room so she should be low-key all day. But it's already 11:20am and she's still fussing about, so I may be clinging to futile hope.
BTW, anyone who tells you San Antonio is a lovely city has only been to the Riverwalk downtown. This city is UGLY, with the worst of urban decay inside and the worst of suburban sprawl outside of Loop 410. The place where I got caught in traffic is a hideous development of widely-spaced strip malls with huge black parking lots and big, blank, cookie-cutter houses on lots barely large enough for them, where the land was clear-cut of all trees to make building these homes and strip malls easier and where NOTHING was done to improve the streets to facilitate the increase in traffic. So even on a Saturday afternoon cars are backed up for miles in both directions trying to get through a series of lights that are anything but timed to help. And what's the city doing about it? "We're considering some possibilities...like maybe a toll road. What do you think? After all, we've been too busy helping the local money people make more money off the city doing projects that mean nothing (except for our vanity) to really take the time to consider the problem."
The deferential patronage system in this town is so completely entrenched, San Antonio belongs in a Third World country.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Moving forward
Despite my mother's interference. She doesn't MEAN to interfere; she's just old and needs things moved about in her never-ending shuffle of the junk she has, and then needs to tell me her plans for how she's going to get everything done by Christmas...things she's been planning to get done since she moved back to San Antonio 4 1/2 years ago. And much as I may want to, I can't yell at her to leave me alone. So I deal with it and now get my writing done when she's toddled off to bed. Meaning last night I started writing at 9pm.
And put out another 2000 words. 8 more pages. The beginning of the Houston section of Brendan's life. Initially I'd thought it up as something wild and chaotic; instead, he walked me through it like he's waking from a long deep dream, and I like it that way so much better.
It's fascinating watching this story morph from one of nothing but anger, conflict and pain into one that holds a degree of tenderness, longing and love. At least, I hope it does. It feels that way to me. It could just be that I'm falling in love with Brendan. I do that with my characters, sometimes, and while it can make things difficult -- I do have a tendency to assume everyone loves the character as much as I so I don't need to present his or her story as much as I should for clarity's sake -- it also allows me to go deeper into the character and allow them to do things you just don't do in a screenplay or a book if you're the hero.
For example, I wrote a thriller script about a young Russian soldier, Niko, who sneaks into the US to kill the man he believes ordered his own family to be killed, a guy named Alessandro. Niko learns Alessandro has a daughter named Tani and a troubled son, Gregr, and sets about using both of them to get to the guy...but then begins to fall in love with Tani and feel for Gregr. Typical Hollywood-style story, right (except for the lead not being a red-blooded American boy)? But then Niko decided he wanted to be suicidal and use his own death wish to destroy Alessandro, thus blinding him to the growing evidence he's after the wrong man. And even though he loves Tani, he still calculatingly uses her and Gregr to get to her father. And in the end, he commits a cold-blooded murder then contemplates doing a "suicide-by-cop."
What this did was set up a situation where it seriously looks like he's going to be killed...is actually taunting his killers so they'll do it quick. And the story demanded it be told in a style that will work on screen but is confusing on the page. I've had directors, actors and cinematographers read it and love it because it gives them a LOT to work with, and I've even taken it through a workshop to make sure it was sharpened as much as possible, but coverage people DESPISE the script. I've gotten a few copies of some really vicious coverage on it. And their flat-out rejections hurt...until I noticed they had major mistakes in the synopses and commentaries, thus revealing they hadn't read the script but only skimmed it. That or they were illiterate (and considering the grammar and spelling of two of them, I lean towards that explanation).
I think this is when I started wondering if I can write for Hollywood, now. And started shifting my end game to that of novelist. For all that I give up in the idea of making a film from my story -- the look and music and acting and movement -- I get to dig into the characters' hearts and minds in ways you just can't do in filmmaking, these days. Filmmakers USED to do it -- and not just in foreign films like those made by Truffaut and Renoir and Bergman and Bunuel, but William Wyler's "Dodsworth" and "The Heiress", Hitchcock's "Notorious", movies made under the studio system where the eye was on the bottom dollar just as much as today. But nowadays? There aren't many people in the industry capable of putting that kind of story across, and the audience has been trained to be spoon-fed everything. And now we're regressing as a society.
Man...got on a rant. Think I'll go for a walk, talk some more with Brendan and see what I can get done, today. He had an idea for a moment when he has to fake being a priest and offer up last rites to someone who's dying so they can go in peace. I'm thinking about it...but I'm leery because it leads too neatly into a confrontation with some British Paratroopers on the Craigavon Bridge and I don't want it to be that easy. But we'll see. After all, he's leading me right, so far.
And put out another 2000 words. 8 more pages. The beginning of the Houston section of Brendan's life. Initially I'd thought it up as something wild and chaotic; instead, he walked me through it like he's waking from a long deep dream, and I like it that way so much better.
It's fascinating watching this story morph from one of nothing but anger, conflict and pain into one that holds a degree of tenderness, longing and love. At least, I hope it does. It feels that way to me. It could just be that I'm falling in love with Brendan. I do that with my characters, sometimes, and while it can make things difficult -- I do have a tendency to assume everyone loves the character as much as I so I don't need to present his or her story as much as I should for clarity's sake -- it also allows me to go deeper into the character and allow them to do things you just don't do in a screenplay or a book if you're the hero.
For example, I wrote a thriller script about a young Russian soldier, Niko, who sneaks into the US to kill the man he believes ordered his own family to be killed, a guy named Alessandro. Niko learns Alessandro has a daughter named Tani and a troubled son, Gregr, and sets about using both of them to get to the guy...but then begins to fall in love with Tani and feel for Gregr. Typical Hollywood-style story, right (except for the lead not being a red-blooded American boy)? But then Niko decided he wanted to be suicidal and use his own death wish to destroy Alessandro, thus blinding him to the growing evidence he's after the wrong man. And even though he loves Tani, he still calculatingly uses her and Gregr to get to her father. And in the end, he commits a cold-blooded murder then contemplates doing a "suicide-by-cop."
What this did was set up a situation where it seriously looks like he's going to be killed...is actually taunting his killers so they'll do it quick. And the story demanded it be told in a style that will work on screen but is confusing on the page. I've had directors, actors and cinematographers read it and love it because it gives them a LOT to work with, and I've even taken it through a workshop to make sure it was sharpened as much as possible, but coverage people DESPISE the script. I've gotten a few copies of some really vicious coverage on it. And their flat-out rejections hurt...until I noticed they had major mistakes in the synopses and commentaries, thus revealing they hadn't read the script but only skimmed it. That or they were illiterate (and considering the grammar and spelling of two of them, I lean towards that explanation).
I think this is when I started wondering if I can write for Hollywood, now. And started shifting my end game to that of novelist. For all that I give up in the idea of making a film from my story -- the look and music and acting and movement -- I get to dig into the characters' hearts and minds in ways you just can't do in filmmaking, these days. Filmmakers USED to do it -- and not just in foreign films like those made by Truffaut and Renoir and Bergman and Bunuel, but William Wyler's "Dodsworth" and "The Heiress", Hitchcock's "Notorious", movies made under the studio system where the eye was on the bottom dollar just as much as today. But nowadays? There aren't many people in the industry capable of putting that kind of story across, and the audience has been trained to be spoon-fed everything. And now we're regressing as a society.
Man...got on a rant. Think I'll go for a walk, talk some more with Brendan and see what I can get done, today. He had an idea for a moment when he has to fake being a priest and offer up last rites to someone who's dying so they can go in peace. I'm thinking about it...but I'm leery because it leads too neatly into a confrontation with some British Paratroopers on the Craigavon Bridge and I don't want it to be that easy. But we'll see. After all, he's leading me right, so far.
Friday, November 6, 2009
I want to be alone...
Gretta Garbo had it right. When you're alone, you can do whatever you want, and if you get nothing done for the day you have no one to blame but yourself.
Yesterday my 81 year old mother decided it was time to make a complete pest of herself -- the "Can I borrow you for 5 minutes?" kind of crap that extends to hours and destroys whatever line you were following in your writing. Then my brother, who's an alcoholic but usually keeps to his room to watch the History Channel, got into a chatty mood after he got home from work and would not leave me alone, no matter how many times I asked him to. He went away once he'd finished slurping two more beers and taken three cigarette breaks in his chat.
I finally got a little writing done, late last night, by shifting to a totally different part of the story and just jumping in...but after 1200 or so words, I went blank. And this morning I woke with a headache and a mood so sour, I couldn't talk to anyone till a few minutes ago.
Now I know why writers drink; it's the only way they can legally drown their loved ones.
Forcing myself to a positive note -- I'm at 17,777 words spread over 79 pages and caught a glimmer of the parallels between Brendan's lives in Derry and Houston. I'm still moving forward...hell, clawing my way through the mine fields Brendan seems so adroit at dancing past.
Yesterday my 81 year old mother decided it was time to make a complete pest of herself -- the "Can I borrow you for 5 minutes?" kind of crap that extends to hours and destroys whatever line you were following in your writing. Then my brother, who's an alcoholic but usually keeps to his room to watch the History Channel, got into a chatty mood after he got home from work and would not leave me alone, no matter how many times I asked him to. He went away once he'd finished slurping two more beers and taken three cigarette breaks in his chat.
I finally got a little writing done, late last night, by shifting to a totally different part of the story and just jumping in...but after 1200 or so words, I went blank. And this morning I woke with a headache and a mood so sour, I couldn't talk to anyone till a few minutes ago.
Now I know why writers drink; it's the only way they can legally drown their loved ones.
Forcing myself to a positive note -- I'm at 17,777 words spread over 79 pages and caught a glimmer of the parallels between Brendan's lives in Derry and Houston. I'm still moving forward...hell, clawing my way through the mine fields Brendan seems so adroit at dancing past.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
16,508
That's how many words I'm up to. And I have a feeling half of what I wrote yesterday is crap...but it did open up a new avenue for Brendan and change my thoughts about an old friend of his named Colm. Which means reworking part of the ending chapter, but if it works...
This is going to be a long book. And already I'm leery of my factual details -- things like what kids did for fun in 1968 in Derry and how blocked off the border with Ireland was in this one particular area and such -- but those can be changed as need be, especially if I can make it back to Derry for a week to 10 days to dig through the library's archives. My last two trips set the ground work; this time I'll know exactly what it is I need to know and can focus.
And if all goes well, I'll be able to make the trip in January or February, before the tourist season starts. So I'll have to have a solid draft by then.
But I have a feeling it's going to be at least 125K words, and I'll need every day of the month open and easy for me to reach that goal. Guess we'll see what happens...but if that's the case, I'm WAY behind; by the end of today I'd need to be at 24,000 words.
This is going to be a long book. And already I'm leery of my factual details -- things like what kids did for fun in 1968 in Derry and how blocked off the border with Ireland was in this one particular area and such -- but those can be changed as need be, especially if I can make it back to Derry for a week to 10 days to dig through the library's archives. My last two trips set the ground work; this time I'll know exactly what it is I need to know and can focus.
And if all goes well, I'll be able to make the trip in January or February, before the tourist season starts. So I'll have to have a solid draft by then.
But I have a feeling it's going to be at least 125K words, and I'll need every day of the month open and easy for me to reach that goal. Guess we'll see what happens...but if that's the case, I'm WAY behind; by the end of today I'd need to be at 24,000 words.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Feeling tapped out
Yesterday was not easy, family-wise. Mother and brother were needy and I had to fight to get 2000 words done. But I did finish another chapter and set up the relationship between Brendan and Joanna.
Aftermath is, today I'm drained. I have a chapter I could work on that I have ideas about, but the fuzziness indicates it may be a chore. Positive thing is, I'm ahead of schedule so I can take a bit of time with it...but not too much. I still have that feeling things'll get crazy the 2nd half of the month. And I need a first draft done, which may well be more than 100K words, the way this is going.
Need more tea. Maybe caffeinated instead of herbal. And a cinnamon roll.
Aftermath is, today I'm drained. I have a chapter I could work on that I have ideas about, but the fuzziness indicates it may be a chore. Positive thing is, I'm ahead of schedule so I can take a bit of time with it...but not too much. I still have that feeling things'll get crazy the 2nd half of the month. And I need a first draft done, which may well be more than 100K words, the way this is going.
Need more tea. Maybe caffeinated instead of herbal. And a cinnamon roll.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Moving right along
I'm up to nearly 12,000 words spread over 5 different areas of the story, so far. Life keeps trying to interfere -- and has done a good job of it, today -- but I wrote until nearly 1am last night...where Brendan takes Joanna to Griann an Ailech for the first time (they have to sneak across the border and cut through muddy fields to do it, and fall in love as they go) and I'm still working on that section.
In a slightly different fashion to my normal way of writing, I've worked up both the opening and ending chapters of the book, so I know how it begins and ends and just need to get from here to there. I didn't do that, exactly, with "Bobby Carapisi." That one, I also wrote bits of it all over the place but didn't have my ending until everything else was done. Then it fell into place.
With my three books of erotica, I just let the characters lead me from A to B to C and on, and they turned out surprising, even to me. And my scripts, I usually have an idea of what's where, how and when once the characters are set, but I leave it flexible enough to change without any concern...which worked beautifully with "Blood Angel," since my initial thought was to have Tristan kill Gabrielle -- but neither one of them liked the idea and lead me to the ending the script now has and is better for it.
But "Place of Safety" -- I'm forcing myself to listen to Brendan, and he wanted me to know both A and Z and have me trust him for the rest. That's half the reason I backed away from the project for so long. I initially thought I'd have him wind up an architect -- major symbolism blast here, a man trying to build in a world being destroyed -- but he cut that idea out the first time he spoke to me. Instead, he's just a lad with an ability to fix cars who wants nothing more than a wife and kids and a way to provide for them, and begins to build that sort of life as a mechanic until fate comes along. And that's the way it's going, because that's all that seems to work in the story as I write it. Which is rough because I don't know anything about that kind of work. I'm playing it safe and using my old 1965 Volvo 122S for him to work on, first, because I used to do things like rebuild the clutch and replace the fuel filter and set the twin carbs and rebuild the drum brakes, but that's it. The rest is research.
I do desperately want to go back to Londonderry for a week to 10 days to dig through the library and archives of the times. It looks like Brendan's found a way for me to do it in January or February, so long as I have the first draft completed by the 30th. Nothing more about it till I know for sure...but having this drop into my lap now, when I'd asked for it...that makes me think I'm meant to write this book and get it out there, no matter what.
In a slightly different fashion to my normal way of writing, I've worked up both the opening and ending chapters of the book, so I know how it begins and ends and just need to get from here to there. I didn't do that, exactly, with "Bobby Carapisi." That one, I also wrote bits of it all over the place but didn't have my ending until everything else was done. Then it fell into place.
With my three books of erotica, I just let the characters lead me from A to B to C and on, and they turned out surprising, even to me. And my scripts, I usually have an idea of what's where, how and when once the characters are set, but I leave it flexible enough to change without any concern...which worked beautifully with "Blood Angel," since my initial thought was to have Tristan kill Gabrielle -- but neither one of them liked the idea and lead me to the ending the script now has and is better for it.
But "Place of Safety" -- I'm forcing myself to listen to Brendan, and he wanted me to know both A and Z and have me trust him for the rest. That's half the reason I backed away from the project for so long. I initially thought I'd have him wind up an architect -- major symbolism blast here, a man trying to build in a world being destroyed -- but he cut that idea out the first time he spoke to me. Instead, he's just a lad with an ability to fix cars who wants nothing more than a wife and kids and a way to provide for them, and begins to build that sort of life as a mechanic until fate comes along. And that's the way it's going, because that's all that seems to work in the story as I write it. Which is rough because I don't know anything about that kind of work. I'm playing it safe and using my old 1965 Volvo 122S for him to work on, first, because I used to do things like rebuild the clutch and replace the fuel filter and set the twin carbs and rebuild the drum brakes, but that's it. The rest is research.
I do desperately want to go back to Londonderry for a week to 10 days to dig through the library and archives of the times. It looks like Brendan's found a way for me to do it in January or February, so long as I have the first draft completed by the 30th. Nothing more about it till I know for sure...but having this drop into my lap now, when I'd asked for it...that makes me think I'm meant to write this book and get it out there, no matter what.
Monday, November 2, 2009
NaNoWriMo...
I thought I'd explained this but people keep asking so -- it stands for "National Novel Writing Month", which is every November. There's a challenge -- write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I've participated in the last two of them and made it both times, though the book I wrote last year was complete crap and needs to be rewritten, beginning with word one. But that's the beauty of the deal -- all that matters is that you complete your first draft and quality does not even enter into the equation. And the first book I did, "Bobby Carapisi", is now in print...so who knows what will happen with book 2 after I dig back into it?
Book 3 is "Place of Safety" and I'm finding myself being more precise with this. Maybe too much so. I want to get it down solid and I'm fighting to keep from going back and rewriting, already. I've posted what is essentially the prologue on the site -- www.nanowrimo.org -- and have a total of 5762 words done...albeit not in order. But that makes me think I'm going the right way with this. I jumped all over the place writing BC then pulled everything together at the end (for a total of 124,000 words) and it made a lot more sense than I expected it do. The rewrites were to clarify the story and build consistency in the characters (and destroy all typos, which I keep finding even after going through my work a dozen times). I'm hoping that will happen with POS -- sans typos.
Now off to another chapter of the book. Its siren calls whispers to me.
Book 3 is "Place of Safety" and I'm finding myself being more precise with this. Maybe too much so. I want to get it down solid and I'm fighting to keep from going back and rewriting, already. I've posted what is essentially the prologue on the site -- www.nanowrimo.org -- and have a total of 5762 words done...albeit not in order. But that makes me think I'm going the right way with this. I jumped all over the place writing BC then pulled everything together at the end (for a total of 124,000 words) and it made a lot more sense than I expected it do. The rewrites were to clarify the story and build consistency in the characters (and destroy all typos, which I keep finding even after going through my work a dozen times). I'm hoping that will happen with POS -- sans typos.
Now off to another chapter of the book. Its siren calls whispers to me.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Started early
I began writing "Place Of Safety" at precisely 12:01 am this morning, since you ain't supposed to do no writin' till the 1st and I was feeling antsy. And I posted my first 1700 words even though they probably don't make a whole hell of a lot of sense. I haven't even noted that Brendan is the narrator, yet; he's still planning to do the reveal once he's laid out his family's situation in March 1966. Little sneak. Face like an angel but a devil's mind to him.
God, I hope I can keep in mind all I'm doing is a first draft, so I won't do my usual self-editing...which I've already begun to do and which slows me to a ludicrous pace.
But here's the opening paragraph --
"Those who knew Eamonn Kinsella -- and were being honest with themselves -- had to admit that had he been born but ten miles to the west or north, his murder would have been seen as the fitting end to a hard and brutal man. That he drank too much was not the problem; so did most of the men in his pinpoint of the world for it was often the only comfort offered by their existence. Nor was it that he was quick to temper when one too many pints had wandered into his brain. Sometimes anger was the only emotion men like him were allowed to hold dear. And if his wife was seen at market with an extra layer of makeup over one eye or across one cheek, well...she, herself, was not one to be known for gentleness. Besides, occasionally the only way a man can claim he still is lord and master of something is by proving it to his missus. But when your sons come to school with plaster on their skin or a cast on their limbs, and your daughters wear long blouses to hide the markings on their arms, and when the nearest priest is called to quiet the house twice a week, on average -- well that was beyond the simple need of self-justification."
God, I hope I can keep in mind all I'm doing is a first draft, so I won't do my usual self-editing...which I've already begun to do and which slows me to a ludicrous pace.
But here's the opening paragraph --
"Those who knew Eamonn Kinsella -- and were being honest with themselves -- had to admit that had he been born but ten miles to the west or north, his murder would have been seen as the fitting end to a hard and brutal man. That he drank too much was not the problem; so did most of the men in his pinpoint of the world for it was often the only comfort offered by their existence. Nor was it that he was quick to temper when one too many pints had wandered into his brain. Sometimes anger was the only emotion men like him were allowed to hold dear. And if his wife was seen at market with an extra layer of makeup over one eye or across one cheek, well...she, herself, was not one to be known for gentleness. Besides, occasionally the only way a man can claim he still is lord and master of something is by proving it to his missus. But when your sons come to school with plaster on their skin or a cast on their limbs, and your daughters wear long blouses to hide the markings on their arms, and when the nearest priest is called to quiet the house twice a week, on average -- well that was beyond the simple need of self-justification."
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