Well, my earlier powers of prognostication were wrong and I was able (barely) to generate the absolute bare minimum of writing required to make par for day two. It exhausted me and, after doing so, I required a long and fitful rest filled with more visitations (maybe I should see a doctor about that) and strong urge to tell the world to sincerely fuck off and slumber for the rest of my remaining days.
Alas! I was called once again to play master chef and, with tears in my eyes, I dragged myself out of a not-quite-dead-yet state to wrangle up some grub for the resident monsters.
While I am proud of my commitment to the cause to write a truncated day’s worth of writing (about half of what is required and a third of what I wrote yesterday), I am loath to note that my creativity has left like a wet fart out of my brain cavity and left me with just cantankerous dwellings on life in general.
Progress as of November 2 at 12.47:
3,340/50,000 words (6.7%)
Target total wordcount for today: 3,334 words [MET]
Results are manually updated throughout the day. Followers are advised that past writing performance is no guarantee of future wordcount appreciation.
I have amazing powers of prediction… And, scrying into the shallow waters in my scrying dish I see a future looming for today. And I see… And I see…
Eesh. What a day… No, no more words added to the murdered word pile after my last post. I was too busy contemplating next steps.
I sat down and put my fingers to the keyboard to add another 2000 words to the dead word pile and realized that I wasn’t quite sure how I wanted to proceed. The problem? Action scene.
I know, I know. It’s only noon and I should focus more on writing my tale instead of posting a chronically early progress report for NaNo, but I need the thoughts marinade in the juices of what I have written thus far to bring out the flavor.
There’s nothing like deciding you need to have an actual plan for an upcoming novel the night before you commence writing said novel. You know, something more than a few bullet points and something that at least whiffs of a plot outline.
Have I mentioned that I am no good at being a planner? That, at the very best, I am a planster (half-assed plot, write by the seat of your pants)? I think I mentioned I was more a gardener than an architect. So it goes.
By the time this post goes live, there will be less than twelve hours by my time zone before NaNoWriMo begins.
I’ll be honest. I’ll either blow 50k words out of the water and peg something significantly higher as I try to avoid news of all the frustrating things going on in my own neck of the woods between coronavirus denialism, shenanigans by politicians and their lawyers in an attempt to pervert the outcome of an election and disenfranchise millions, the election itself, the rise of the white supremists from their foul moldering places, trying to keep my family safe from sickness when the numbers are skyrocketing for coronavirus cases, etc.
Or, all of these distractions will prove to be too much and I’ll barely eek out 20k words.
With two days until the madness begins, I’m trying to get motivated for NaNoWriMo, but I feel more like a limp, deflated, burst balloon rag than I feel like a writer today. Now if there were only a Useful Pot to put me into…
I sometimes wish I knew why I was so compelled to write all the time (although that compulsion sometimes leaves me when I need it most, ugh). It’s not as if I crave fame or fortune, or that I feel that I’m a particularly good writer, although there have been enough other writers out there to boost my ego a bit as I read what they write… I don’t want to even go into some of the stuff I’ve read and been asked to give advice on or write a positive review for on Amazon. I get PTSD just thinking about some of it. But I’ve never considered myself a noteworthy writer, although that doesn’t stop me from iterating and refining and trying to be better. Nor, apparently, does it keep me from oversharing the results of my perversions.
When I write, I do it Hemingway style. Sans alcohol, perhaps, but I still try to write as if I am drunk, then go back later and edit if it seems worth doing so. Actually, Hemingway never said to “Write drunk, edit sober”, though the internet loves to attribute that advice to him.
But let’s not get off on a tangent of chasing particulars.
I do think there is some hidden wisdom in the phrase, however, but you you have parse it out a bit to find the grains of truth.
I’m starting to get the mental gears greased for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and decided to try to write improvised stories of varying length and likely questionable quality as part of the process on a daily basis for the days remaining until NaNoWriMo starts in earnest. The inspiration for each piece will come from scrolling through my Home page on Pinterest until I find a picture I feel (for whatever reason) to be inspirational as my prompt. The length may vary, but each piece will have a target length of at least 1700 words, as that is near the minimum required on a daily basis to complete the NaNoWriMo challenge. Only minimal edits are done with the results below and the work is the effort of a single writing session.
I always welcome people who want to be “buddies” on the NaNo site. My user name is Michael_Raven, if you want to link accounts.
[Length: 970 words, a bit pitiful in terms of length…]
“Witch!” shouted the preacher man, finger pointing.
The gunslinger had emerged from the ruddy umber hills of the badlands to the forbidden West of town, black hat pulled down low against the dust dancing on the wind, dark scarf pulled up to her eyes against the same and saddlebags thrown over her shoulder with no horse in view. The walk was the weary kind, the kind that spoke of more than a few clicks afoot in the valley of the dead.
Drunk Billy looked up from his bottle at the preacher’s shout, long enough to start a fit of giggles that devolved into outright laughter. A strange one, Billy was. But that’s why he drank like a fish, his head done broke back when that bull kicked his damn melon in ten years ago. Boy had never been right since.