I’m sure this was a great idea…writing a novel in a month…
But I’m not a novel writer. The most I can handle is maybe a few essays, a poetic word here and there. Fragments are what I do best. So why is it that I felt I could write a whole novel—a relatively short one of 50,000 words? Haven’t a clue at this point, but I’m diligently working away.
I’m writing by hand which is how I usually compose and have done an estimated word count which I posted on the site. At the rate I’m working, the calculator says I’ll be done by January 1. To finish on time in this month of November, I need to write 2,017 words a day for the duration of the month. That seems rather daunting. Undeterred, I’m still plugging away. Will do another word count probably tomorrow.
I’ve figured out how to use dialogue – albeit rather boring dialogue—sort of Nicholas Sparks variety—he said, she said sort of stuff. I’m using bits of my journal entries as I don’t have time to make up everything. I’ve worked out the basic premise – more or less. One thing I’ve noticed is that I don’t write humorously in a novel format. I don’t know what it is, but I certainly don’t seem to be able to offer any witty repartee. This is probably because I’ve never written in this format in my life and feel like a stranger in a country where I forgot to bring along my language immersion CD’s. I have few bearings—make that none—so I’m floundering along like the proverbial fish out of water. If I could think of a few more boring metaphors, I’ll be sure to use them as right now I cannot focus.
Missing Twitter the most it seems followed by Facebook, emails, my friends, family, my life. This novel-writing on a deadline is lonely work. The hope that maybe I can finish something spurs me onward. Maybe I’ll have enough of a manuscript that I can approach someone about publishing it. My creative nonfiction manuscript is on hold for the moment so if I push myself enough, maybe I’ll have two manuscripts by year’s end. Or maybe not . . .
I just had to take a break and write something other than my novel. What a strange sentence that is! I never thought I’d say something like that. Write something other than my novel? Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words seem to haunt me though: “The way to write is to throw your body at the mark when your arrows are spent.” Hmmmm… all I can say right now is , ” Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!”
Note: I’m in such dire straits for outside contact I’m even publishing this post and for some reason I want to contact Mork, not Mindy so much, but Mork…definitely.