I’m procrastinating. Again, I know what I have to do (oh, and I get to introduce another character, yay), but I’m just a little bit…not motivated. I hoped I could finish my draft in april. But I spoke with a Chemist this week to clear up some of the science-stuff in my book. I learned that a quick and even a not so quick Wikipedia check isn’t going to do the trick if you have no idea what you’re writing about. (Well, I kind of knew that before, since it was the reason for speaking with my Chemist in the first place). Real people explain a lot more a lot better than even the most exhaustive research can do.
But now I know I have to change another large chunk of text. Which is good, really, because I felt that particular strand of my story being a bit thin and shallow and altoghether insufficient. And that talk gave me lots of fresh ideas and input and helped me to give my story more believeability and stability. But right now I’m too sluggish to get it done.
I still could finish this draft in april. I really could. I probably should. Guess I’m riding the downward slope again.
One of the TV shows I’m obsessed with has a saying: “Magic is Power” (You’re wrong, Cersei Lannister would say: Power is Power). I’m not arguing against neither saying.
For me, Words are Magic. Words can wield power. Words can seduce. Words can evoke the fluttering wings of hummingbirds, brushing against the inside of your belly. Words can arouse. Words can devastate.
Words are magical, that’s why it is possible for a poem or a song or a book to bring you to tears. George R.R. Martin has the power to build worlds out of words that are so real you can smell and taste and feel them. Fiona Apple writes songs that clench my stomach to little knots, and twist and turn them upside down. And Robert Carlyle (don’t get me even started on his perfection) has a voice that can turn the most ordinary words into something oscillating deep inside you, something resonating with your diaphragm, like dew glistening in the first light of morning and deep breaths of clean air.
I may be a bit florid here. Point is: Words are Magic. Words touch you where nothing else can touch you, inside your brain, inside your heart. Inside you.
That’s why everyone wielding the power of words – singers and songwriters, writers, actors – has my utmost respect. In some cases my eternal devotion (yeah, that’s why I said don’t even get me started – I may miss the appropiate gateway to leave the conversation with my dignity still intact).
Ok. So, I had a rather hard day yesterday. There was this scene that I had to write, and honestly, I never felt that much anxiety (yeah, it was that “go where it hurts” thing again). I sat there, shaking, sweating, lightheaded. I did everything NOT to write that scene. I emailed every single friend and checked every five minutes if they answered already. I strolled around tumblr, twitter and facebook. I came THIS close to cleaning my kitchen. But finally, I wrote it out of the way.
It was a lot like giving birth. And if you’re sensible or easily grossed out, you should read no further.
Being close to due-date or already past due-date, is terrible. You know it has to happen. There is this person inside you that has to get out.
Of course you could take the “easy” road. My firstborn was a medically induced c-section, but there went something wrong. For months I was in terrible pain. (Well, at this point, my analogy fails a bit…)
I decided to give birth to my second baby at home. I didn’t want to go to the hospital and risk a second c-section. Well, of course, there were problems. The contractions didn’t get stronger, and after two days, when they finally DID get serious, the cervix didn’t open. Try not to press, if everything your body wants to do is press that thing out! (That’s why, after two deliveries, I decided that there’s no possible way for my to get another child)
Afterwards, you forget. The body doesn’t remember pain. And the moment you’re child opens her eyes, blinks and looks at you in wonder is the moment you ask yourself, how it is possible to hold something so perfect, so beautiful in your hands.
With writing, it’s similar. Not the pain, of course. In its pain, giving birth is excruciatingly unique and beyond comparison. But the time before. It starts with light contractions, slowly building up to the point of no return. The point where you feel like you’re getting ripped apart. It has to get out, whether it is writing or a child. You may be afraid, anxious, nervous, but if it is something you want to, you have to write – or something you want to do or ANYTHING – then there is no way to avoid it, unless you want it to eat you from inside.
A friend of mine – a writer – told me, he never experienced such profoundly unsettling writing-moments. Perhaps it was the theme of the scene that made it so difficult for me.
But perhaps it’s me. I’m not an esoteric, and can be quiet rational and grounded. But I tend to feel everything in a more or less excessive way – everything fictional at least. My first till third undying loves were fictional characters, and I still fall easily in love with fictional characters, sometimes even my own. Not so easily with real persons. But someone (who is a shrink, but not mine) told me, that this overly excessive character trait is part of my writer identity and gives me the ability to tell those stories…To fall in love easily, to be easily engaged in fiction. Watch me obsess over my favourite tv show or book – you’d think me a teenager.
However. Now that this scene is out of the way, I’m feeling better. Partly. Part of me wants to go back and feel it again. Not the pain, be it child-bearing-pain or otherwise. But that moment right after. When you hold it (whatever IT is) between the palms of your hands, your sun, your moon, your galaxy, and you realize you’re all dust from the same stars. And you never loved something so thoroughly and absolute.
(Just to be clear, I’m NOT saying that writing SHOULD be this mystical thing, and if it’s not, it’s not real writing. No. (That would be really dumbass of me). I’m just saying it CAN be this way, and if it is, you should treasure those moments. They don’t come easily and they don’t come often. They’re the unicorns of your writing life, but it’s so worth it to endure.)
(AND: Don’t give birth to your child alone at home without help. You need a midwife. That’s their job, to help you and to judge whether it is acceptable to proceed in your home or too risky and you need to go to the hospital. Just to be clear.)
So yesterday, the peeps of Team NaNoWriMo asked on Twitter when we knew we were a writer.
Truth is, I still don’t know. When I was 14 – and that is half a lifetime away now – I decided that I wanted to be a writer. I wrote, I even started my first book. I wrote short stories. One story even involved a love affair of some ordinary girl (me) and a vampire. Gosh, I could be rich by now. But alas. When I grew older, I thought it unrealistic to achieve my goal and really become a writer. I knew I could write, my texts were witty, funny, utterly sarcastic, but I never managed to actually finish a story. When I finished school, I still didn’t know what I could do other than write. I thought about becoming a gardener, a photographer, a tailor. But after my last exams in school I realized I was pregnant. Every dream I ever had came to a halt. And since I didn’t want my daughter to be an only child, I got pregnant again.
Then I had two kids and still no idea what I wanted to be other than a mom. I wrote about my daily adventures with my girls, and this made me realize again what the one thing is I do best. It may not seem that way, since English is not my first language, but I’m really good with words. Written words, anyway. Make me talk in front of real people and I stumble over that slippery puddle of quirky sentences in my head.
So, when I was 25 and my girls both in Kindergarten, I started studying German Language and Literature. Right the first academic told us that we’re wrong here if we wanted to write. I followed through anyway, got my degree with two kids and everything in six semesters like a normal student, and I wasn’t even bad. And although I love books, I love literature, I came to deteste the pretentious academical world.
But that first academic was not totally right with his statement. I learned a few things about writing. Not technique, but how to research and how to endure the bleakest and most stressful times, and those two abilities were the most precious to me. But my final lesson, the one that showed me that I really am a writer came shortly after I finished studying. I submitted a short story to a prose writing contest of my alma mater in coop with a scientific publishing house, and I made third place. My story got published, and so I could call myself a published writer.
The lesson I learned there was that I had to dare to be a writer. The daring part is the most difficult for me. Since I finished studying, I wrote down first drafts for two novels, from beginning to end, and NaNoWriMo helped me a lot there, in showing me that I really could write a book from start to finish. But I haven’t submitted my manuscripts anywhere. I haven’t looked for agents or publishers. Yet. The daring still is the biggest difficulty.
But there is never a challenge so big you can’t get past it. That’s another lesson I took with me from my studies. You may think there’s no possible way you can do this, but you can, if you only dare.
Sometimes, reading about general principles of character developing can give you a moment of epiphany. Oh, how I cherish those moments! Especially when I suddenly know that my character in question is behaving perfectly IN CHARACTER. Nothing more frustrating than those awkward out of character moments.
So today, I trolled the Writer’s Digest site, just to keep me from writing a little longer. Rolling the path my hero has lying ahead of her over and over in my head. I read about reaction to frustration, and then it just clicked. She runs away. She does it constantly, everytime someone brings her near boiling point, she just turns around and walks away. So it was really natural for her to do it again and only get in bigger trouble. Everything clicked. I realized what had to happen, I realized where I had to revise my plot, where my first draft had gone wrong. So now, I’m really happy.
Well, one thing bothers me, though. I hate it to cut words out (just the words – not the scene) during NaNoWriMo, or, in this case, CampNaNoWriMo. It’s ok to revise little chunks at a time, cutting 100 words here and writing 400 there, but this is a really big piece of the cake. Funny, how reluctant I get when it comes to my precious words. But now, with my path so clear before me, I’m in a flow. Until the time comes when I have to reunite my storylines. Then I’m probably stuck again. But I’m not the type to worry about the future. And besides, the more you write and think about your story, the more ideas come to your mind. To get inspiration to visit, you have to work and set up a nice home.
I’ve read quiet a few writing advice books. Most of them agree on one point: As a writer, you have to go to where it hurts. You have to look into those places that make you cringe and wanna look away, you have to take them, write them. Naturally, I hesitate to really plunge into it. After all, it hurts. It isn’t easy to open your eyes, and look at all those ugly places inside you. All the things you wanna hide. The things you know you want to do, you have to do to your hero, but shy away from.
I know what’s the right thing to do, and ultimately, I’m going to do it. Then there is this moment, when I do all these hurtful things to my protagonist (and it really feels that way – not life, not the villain, not the antagonist, I am the person who is responsible), and it’s like liberation. My writing connects with some higher level of consciousness, it’s creating some sort of flow, where I’m only the pen, the medium through which words are formed on the screen. This is really hard to describe, but this is the moment I write for. Makes me sound like a masochist.
So, now I know where my story’s going to end, I know how to get there (roughly), but I also realize there’s a big chunk of already written story, that is an enormous glitch in the way. I have to get rid of it, or at least change it so it fits again into my story, but that – no surprise there, I fear – is going to hurt, as amputation does at any rate. It’s not only in terms of story or theme or whatever, that you have to go where it hurts. Sometimes it’s in the realization that your story just doesn’t work the way it is and you have to change at least a fourth part of what you’ve already written. That’s hurting almost more, because there’s no fun part to it. That’s just work. (Well, my inner sadist, who likes to play around with my own inner masochist, points out gleefully that this is the price I have to pay for pantsing…)
Since I started editing my (let’s call it) current draft of my novel, a bunch of characters walked in who weren’t there before. I’m not sure yet if I really need them, but they help me finding the way through the labyrinth of my brain. And my novel. Only problem: Everytime a new character arrives, I have to rename someone. It’s like a jinx. Either I already have a (rather important) character with a name similar to my new acquisition, or a (not so important) secondary character with a similar name to the new character. Which is, in its essence, one and the same thing. It’s kind of unconscious naming (if that’s a thing). Oftentimes I don’t notice it right away.
I have characters that had their name changed four or five times already, and I can’t promise that it won’t happen again. Luckily I didn’t rename them so often as to forget who they are. I hate name-generator-thingy-things, so everytime I realize that there was another one (how could that even happen? Again?), I take my encyclopedia of names and start digging. Or I take my book on mediaeval culture and literature and skim through the index of names, if I’m looking for a mediaeval name. I try not to have more than one name that starts with the same letter, to not be confusing. Most of my characters tend to start either with B or W, for what it’s worth. My mind seems to like those letters.
I’m so more than thankful for the search and replace option of my writing program. Makes changing names easy.
Friedrich Schiller, Preface to The Robbers, 1781
Schiller knew already that there is nothing more boring than a simple all-black-villain. His choice of words may be a bit florid nowadays, but his idea is dead on. Don’t make your villain a flat copy of some random comic baddie. Give him some humanity. Same as the hero, the villain WANTS something. The difference is, he goes the wrong way about it. Makes questionable choices.
Camp NaNoWriMo, day one: I didn’t feel the typical NaNoWriMo-Anticipation yesterday, but I feel it today. I couldn’t sleep, so I read two chapters of my WIP and decided what to change, what to add, what to delete. I may have forgotten what it was, but I trust my brain enough to recognise it again when I read it.
I changed my wordcount-goal last minute from 80K (complete work, counting in the 63K I’ve already written) to 20K (that I actually have to write to reach 80K).
Since I participated in NaNoWriMo for the first time, I measure my works in words. It may be more accurate or meaningful to count pages, but I feel much more satisfied counting words. My sense of accomplishment tells me, that 5000 words are more than 10 pages. (I don’t know if 5K translate actually to 10 pages, or 20, but that doesn’t matter now). And I love the satisfaction it creates, when I export my 60-something-K to manuscript pages and see full of amazement, how much I actually wrote! That’s part of my reward at the end.
So, do you prefer to count pages or words? And why?
Over the last six days, I wrote 3500 words. That’s nothing, since I know I can write 3500 a day. But I’m content. I’m aiming to write at least 300 words a day, because that’s a manageable amount. Not a dreadful mountain that inspires fear and provokes failure.
Writing 300 words a day is my way to trick myself. Most of the time, I write more. But if I don’t write more, I don’t have to fret and scold myself. And 300 are 300 more than none. I’m not good in maths, but my calculator says, that’s 109500 words a year. That’s a novel.
Of course I don’t write everyday. I’m too lazy. I get distracted too easily. It would be nice though…and since I joined Twitter and detected the magic of hashtags like #wordmongering and #amwriting, it gets constantly better. After tweeting that I’m now writing for half an hour, I consequently have to do it. The only way to be a writer is to write. Simple as that.