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Balancing Form and Function

I’m nearing the end of week two of NaNoWriMo, and this year I’ve spent almost as much time analyzing my process as I have pouring words out onto the screen.

There are several writers’ views of NaNoWriMo: some love the idea of a first draft in 30 days, some support it but wouldn’t try it, and some avoid it like a Kindle.

Last year, I wrote 50,000 words, the story flowed like one big stream of conciousness dump:  start, type like crazy to the last day (of NaNoWriMo and the story), upload said draft, punch the enter key, BOOM – 50,000. Woo! And, all the details happened in one year’s time. I had a beginning, middle, and end. At the time, that was all that mattered. This year, after week two, I feel myself beginning to balance between the form and function of the NaNoWriMo sprint.

I still appreciate, and need, that 30 day time limit. If I sat down to write a first draft in three months or six months or even a year, I would flounder after a few weeks and fold. But, while I’m still writing to finish a first draft in a very short period of time, I’m allowing myself to let go of chronological order. I am writing scene to scene, which sometimes means I go back to the beginning or I jump to the end of the story. I’m sure other NaNo-ers do this already, but for me this option is new.

I read somewhere this morning that in life, whatever seems important is rarely urgent, and what seems urgent is rarely important. Today, this first draft seems important. I have a story that, in my mind anyway, wants to come to life on the page. But, finishing the first draft at break-neck speed is no longer urgent.

I want to finish NaNoWriMo, don’t get me wrong. I’m keeping a close eye on my writing buddies, like Dot — who is an inspiration because she puts her writing time first even with her hectic schedule. She’ll hit 50,000 no doubt. And, I know come November 30th if my word count meter doesn’t purple-out, I’ll hang my head. But, not for long. My first draft thus far is wordy in several parts; at least one quarter of it will likely fall into the abyss of ideas or word combinations that should never be recalled. Most of it, however, merits a considerate rewrite, and that’s as exciting as making it to the 50,000 mark.

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Writing with Tunnel Vision

For various reasons, I slowed down a bit with my NaNoWriMo novel this weekend. The decision to take a mini-break was easy, since this year’s NaNoWriMo experience has felt, in some ways, like I’m trudging through six inches of mud. I’m making progress, but it’s slow and sticky and I keep getting stuck.

I turned to Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones again and flipped through my December issue of The Writer magazine. In both the book and the magazine, I found crucial tips or guidelines – or maybe even rules of the trade – that I often miss when I write, whether it’s for NaNoWriMo or just in general.

In The Writer, I saw myself as I read Mary Miller’s “A Case for Plot.” She starts out by saying she never cared much for plot, because she “believed that in order for things to happen in [her] stories, they had to be happening in [her] life.” Like Mary Miller, I keep my life as level as I can, because I, too, am a lover of structure and routine. I prefer logical steps to accomplish any goal and minimal risks. But, when I write with my idiosyncrasies and philosophies in the forefront of my mind, I make it difficult to allow a character in a story to take action or risks.

For instance, in the first 10,000 words of my current NaNoWriMo draft, my main character observes way too much of life’s happenings from behind a window, either the kitchen window or the living room window. Maybe that’s her thing, her own idiosyncrasy. Or, maybe that’s more of me seeing the story through my limited vision.

Maybe my main character would rather step outside and press her nose up against the neighbors window, be more forthright in her snooping. I, myself, wouldn’t be quite so daring. I tend to hide behind the edge of a curtain or to open the slit of the blinds just a smidgen. But, that’s me. I’m only the writer. If I reconsider my main character in her own right, then maybe, as Mary Miller puts it, my main character will “step in and do something, or I’ll get to know her better and her lack of action will feel like a choice instead of just passivity.”

Natalie Goldberg’s chapters “Be Specific” and “Big Concentration,” complement Mary Miller’s article. First, Natalie Goldberg suggests we name things, like a specific flower or a tree, when we write. In naming an object with more specificity, “it takes us closer to the ground. It takes the blur out of our mind” (p. 70). Rather than show the reader a moment in a story from a general distance, naming things keeps the reader present, in the exact moment, and makes the experience more realistic. Second, Natalie Goldberg suggests we widen our concentration on a character and add environmental clues, like a sentence about the temperature or a background noise or even the color of the sky. In this way, we remind ourselves, and our readers, that “the universe moves with us, is at our back with everything we do” (p. 72). It all sounds simple, so simple that I forget to do it.

Each time I force my main character to stay behind the kitchen window (because that’s what I would do) and look straight across the yard to the neighbor’s kitchen window, I isolate her. I force the reader to decipher a story through tunnel vision, and I shortchange the experience. If, instead, I let my main character open up the front door, get hit by a brisk night air, sneak under the dark shadow of a large oak tree, and let goosebumps rise up on her arms, the reader has more to consider and is more vested in the story.  Are the goosebumps from the night chill? Or, are they in anticipation of what she might see once she climbs the front steps and presses her nose up against the cold, glass pane?

Tomorrow, I will have a little more time to spend on the story. By pushing my writer-self to the side and by widening my character’s perspective, I hope to travel easier along the plot line.

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Goldberg, Natalie. Writing Down the Bones. Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1986. Print.
Miller, Mary. “A Case for Plot.” The Writer Dec. 2009: 15-16. Print.

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Missing Mrs. Wilson

I woke up this morning, excited that it’s Wednesday. I have logged over 6300 words for my NaNoWriMo novel (which will most likely turn into a very long short story, but that’s okay). I thought a quick post on Wednesday’s word would be a nice little break.

After my laptop warmed up, I clicked on over to Wordsmith.org. Today’s word is nihilarian – one who does useless work.

That’s a terrible stream of words for a writer to read smack dab in the middle of week number one of NaNoWriMo.

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Writing every day for 30 days straight isn’t useless. I know that. What is useless is my right and left hand that keep typing the letters b-o-l-t every other paragraph. Bolt here, bolt there. He bolted again. He’ll get whiplash from all that bolting if my fingers don’t stretch a little further and start typing something different, like bound or hightail it or even just walked away.

What isn’t useless is the strikethrough tool, which lets me keep all those repetitive words, plus the choppy scenes they describe. I wish I had used strikethrough on the first day of NaNoWriMo. I wrote a lovely opening scene with an elderly Mrs. Wilson as she got out of bed at midnight. Then, later that day, her rise at midnight seemed unimportant and took the story in the wrong direction. I hesitated to use strikethrough, since that felt like cheating, like I was padding my word count. So, I deleted about 700 words on Mrs. Wilson instead.

I’ve missed her midnight spirit ever since, which brought home one of Chris Baty’s tips for – and benefits of – finishing NaNoWriMo: ignore the delete key. A NaNoWriMo first draft is a smorgasbord of ideas that hopefully, but may not, go together. Don’t delete anything, because 1) you’ll cross that 50,000 word mark before you know it (and won’t that be a feat!), and 2) the scene you save may turn into another story later on.

I’m hoping Mrs. Wilson didn’t take my cut personally, and she shows up in her slippers again at some point.