Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah):6586
Wrote past the word-count goal for the first time today. Doing a sweet-ass celebration dance right now, you just can’t see it. It involves butt gyrations. I’ll let that GIF of Tina give you an idea.
I have just the whitest goddamn legs on earth. I noticed this while writing today, given that I was writing while not wearing pants. I like to be as comfortable as possible while writing, so if I don’t have a pair of gym shorts immediately available, I’ll just write without pants. It works great. Gets awkward in the coffee shops, though.
Still trying to formulate a detailed, routine, strict plan of attack on this novel. Do I just let it pour out of me, whatever may be may be, and work from there, even if that sometimes bogs down as I get swept up in descriptions and narrative flairs and whatnot? Or do I power through with a bare-bones plot draft to get the story out with some measure of alacrity, then come back and flesh out narration and imagery and all that on a second pass, then rest like bread dough, then a further edit, then perhaps not-me human contact?
You would think, given two creative writing degrees and a third in straight-up English, I would have something resembling an answer. You would be wrong. We don’t have these problems in poetry. We just spit our hot fire and let you all figure it out. You do it! God I love poetry.
Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah):5540
First, a quick correction from last time: the beer in that photo was a Pay-It-Forward Cocoa Porter from West Sixth here in Lexington, not the Bell’s Kalamazoo Stout. I am so sorry.
Been real slow, buddies. A “busy” week at my “real” job, some doctor’s shenanigans, intentional slowdowns, and general exhaustion brought this bad boy to a crawl. Oh god, it won’t stop creeping along like a hoopty low on gas. Fear not, though (I say to myself, knowing you are a fearless bunch): the fire still burns, and we carry on like so many My Chemicals Romance.
My quick thought for today: keep the faith. Know thyself. Trust thyself. My runes will not stop telling me to tap in to that damn potential of mine before it rusts away. It isn’t a cocky thing; it’s a confidence thing. Don’t be a douche, but don’t be a douche to yourself either. You’ve got power inside you, no matter what you’re shooting for. You are the god of your own life. Own thyself.
Today’s writing was spaced out throughout the day—first words at around 9ish, last words at 7:30pm. I’d rather burn it out all at once, but there were things in the real world to be done, and that’s cool too. I damn near hit the count before my body started to give out energy-wise. You’ll also notice I cut the goal in half after running it by Amanda and her acting like 2000 was borderline stupid-slash-disgusting.
What I’m enjoying so far is building these layers of description into the narration, where I end up with complex, 4-8 clause sentences. This is fun, because I am a nerd, but it does slow the process down a bit. It’s also a connection to my poetic voice, from all the Ginsberg Whitman Beat Generation Buddhist Chant Mantra Litany study I’ve leaned into for the past decade. I guess it’s encouraging to be able to see the progression, the growth, especially when you’re worried you’re just wasting your goddamn time.
It is happening again. I’m tackling that grandest, perhaps most romantic, of artistic goals: the novel. Thought it might be neat to chronicle this absolutely-turbulent-don’t-think-it’ll-be-easy-I-may-just-shit-the bed journey here on the site, as a motivator for me and who the hell knows maybe others, and a chance to say Hello a little more often. This is all just an attempt, really, to live up to what Amanda’s doing; she can write a novel without desperately crying out for attention like me.
Why’d I say “again” earlier? Because I’ve written two novels already. One, THIRTEEN years ago (I’m so goddamn old), is the one-hundred-percent drizzling shits, a weak-ass superhero novel. There’s nothing wrong with superhero novels; mine just sucked. The second was finished about five years ago, and is much more “literary,” meaning it was about a sad dude with mommy-and-daddy issues who found a girlfriend and drank too much. It wasn’t that great either. I turned it into a film script, which was about 5% cooler, and then put it away to fade slowly into cobwebs and dried tears.
This will be my third serious try, and you know all the charm-clichés and everything. Writing fiction is what got me started on this artist train all those years ago. I hated poetry. HATED poetry. Refused to write it. So naturally my first book was poems, and I haven’t touched prose since grad school. Time to jump back on the Novel Express, shit or get off the pot, all those sorts of things.
I started the novel, officially, today, although I’ve been researching and preparing for weeks now. Didn’t hit my word count goal because it may be a bit lofty. It’s important to stay flexible with things like that. Also important not to get discouraged when you fall short. It’s an arbitrary number anyway—this ain’t a school assignment.
Keep writing, my buddies. Keep arting. Art your socks off. Art so loud you embarrass the preacher.