Posted on

Gearing Up for a 30 Day Workout

nano_09_red_participant_100x100_1“[W]riting is physical,” Natalie Goldberg says in her book, Writing Down the Bones (p.50). I, along with many of my other NaNoWriMo participant colleagues (I think), would agree.

Last year at this time, I dove – head on – into writing. I’d been talking about writing all summer. I registered for a writing class that would take place just after the new year. And, in a rare move contradictory to my no-risk personality, I signed up for NaNoWriMo. Even more surprising, I wrote a somewhat lucid story that inched passed the 50,000 word count. Up until the moment the purple NaNo word meter hit the 50,000 mark and flashed “you’re a winner,” I authored only short, undeveloped stories that barely registered 1000 words.

This year, I signed up for NaNoWriMo by accident. Really. I logged on to my account to check up on an old message in my inbox. When a window full of legalese popped up and asked if I would accept, I thought, sure, I’ve been here before. Click.

Wait. Accept? Accept what? Oh, boy.

I tabbed over to my author info page. Sure enough, that little purple line was back down to zero. It stared me in the face, like a digital taunt, daring me to try again.

I’ve had to remind myself, as the days inch toward November 1st, that NaNoWriMo is another exercise in writing. Natalie Goldberg emphasizes the importance of exercise when she says “[t]he rule for writing practice of “keeping your hand moving,” not stopping, actually is a way to physically break through your mental resistances and cut through the concept that writing is just about ideas and thinking” (p.50). She, of course, means pen-to-paper. But, I believe, in translating her philosophy to hand-to-keyboard, NaNoWriMo offers a 30-day plan to whip my writer’s mind in shape: “cut through” my tendency to think too hard about a story, pound out 2000 words a day (on a good day), and see what becomes of the characters and the work.

NaNoWriMo is initiation by fire for those writers who want to come out of hiding. It’s a test of tolerance and discipline. And, it’s an intervention with your mind’s editor, a reason to send her away for the next 30 days. If writing 50,000 words of one story makes you want to take a nap, if you’d rather dream up your story than put it down on “paper,” remember writing is an art to be learned and practiced. No good story comes out perfect the first time around. I’ve heard it over and over, but my stubborn (sometimes egotistical) mind refuses to listen.

To combat that stubbornness, I’ll take on another 30-day challenge of late nights, fast typing, sweat, and a maybe a few tears. Oh, and fun. NaNoWriMo is supposed to be fun!

***

Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones (Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc, 1986), p. 50.

Posted on

flash fiction: Losing My Focus

It’s Wednesday. Are you ready for the word? I’m not., but I’m committed to giving it a whirl.

From Wordsmith.org, Today’s Word:
peremptory. adj. dictatorial. expressing command or urgency. not admitting any question or contradiction.

I admit, I went to a thesaurus in search of connections: dictatorial – bossy – overbearing – high and mighty.

***

I walked into the house carrying a bushel of fresh picked apples. A waft of Yankee Harvest candle overcame me, which was then overpowered by a stream of staccato jazz violin — Stephane Grappelli, her favorite. I don’t know any other violinists, but I know Grappelli well. He’s her “pick me up” music she plays when cleaning house or scrubbing dishes or ignoring her lingering doom.

She meandered down the hall, like a skeleton in jeans. The apples were heavy, and her appearance shocked me. I dropped the bushel onto the floor harder than I intended.

“Careful, Maggie! If they’re too heavy, ask for help.” Even in a state of decline, her peremptory voice commanded subservience.

“Sorry, Mom. It slipped.” I slipped. She hated it when I reacted too strongly to her thinning hair and gaunt face. When I visited, I forced myself to look her straight in the eyes, zero in on her amber irises, watch her pupils shrink and grow with the changing light through the window. Only when she turned towards the kitchen, and I followed, was I allowed to study the sharpness of her shoulder blades. My heart fell.

“I picked two bushels of Macs and Paula Reds, mixed. Those are good, right? How many apple crisps are we making today?”

“Paula’s are good, Macs will do. I need ten crisps. One for the Johnson widows down the street, three for the church bazaar, five for St. Vincent DePaul – soup kitchen’s open tomorrow. And, one for you, my sweet.” She looked over her glasses at me, straight into my anguished face. “Get that expression off your face, Maggie. Only smiles in this house today.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, Mother. I’ll go get the other bushel.”

She hollered from the kitchen as I stepped through the front door, “And, don’t drop them this time, missy!”

Behind the open trunk of the car, I broke down. When she told me of the cancer six months ago, she declared it a minor disruption. She demanded I see it the same way. She refused to listen to my fears. This apple crisp bake-off is a tradition. I knew it was coming. But, I hadn’t prepared for the wrench on my heart.

I gave myself exactly one minute to fall apart, then I wiped my face with my sleeve, put on some lip gloss, and straightened my hair. I picked up the bushel and balanced it between the bumper and my legs. Then, I slammed the trunk.

She was standing in the front doorway.

“What’s taking you so long? We’re on a schedule here, and you know how long it takes to peel those apples.”

Her sharp tongue whipped me into a staunch laugh. “God, Mom. I’m coming! These apples are heavy.”

“So is your hand when you peel them.” She eyed me up as she held open the door and I slid past. “Let’s try not to take out half the flesh when you peel the skin away this year. Got it?”

She slapped me on the bottom and sent me marching into the kitchen.

Posted on

Bad Draft or Bad Writing Day?

The last time I sat down to work on my novel, the words read pale and lifeless. I’m only on chapter two. This can’t be a good sign.

I wrote a lot last week,on other pieces. My brain was too tired to rework any more stories. I decided I needed a break from writing, a chance to refuel. I dove into a book about writing instead: Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones.

I’ve read bits and pieces of her book before, but this time one passage struck me.

“If every time you sat down, you expected something great, writing would always be a great disappointment.”

My writing experience lies in short pieces: blog posts, articles under 1000 words, or short stories no more than five pages. In such a compact writing space, I easily devote time and energy to edit and re-edit a whole piece to the point of satisfaction, sometimes even pride.

Now I look at a novel and its end goal of 80,000 words or 100+ pages. Subconsciously, I expect myself to sit down and write a great second draft. When I couldn’t rework even one good chapter the other day, I did feel disappointed. And, discouraged.

Time is of the essence, I thought, this story is going to get old, and fast.

If I want to rush through a re-write just to get the story out, before it becomes a bore (before I lose my confidence), maybe the story should be shelved for a while. Perhaps even for good.

How do you know when the masterpiece you poured onto paper isn’t such a masterpiece after all? Sure, elements of the story show promise, but the story as a whole reads average, not great. And, how do you know the diffference between a weak premise and a bad writing day?

***

Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones (Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc, 1986), p. 11.