Old Dog, New Tricks

I’m on my way to a “Thank G-d It’s Over Party,” but I’m not sure that’s how I feel. As I've said, normally I spend a fair amount of time chasing myself around trying to sit down and stay focused on the task at hand. (This is as ridiculous a spectacle to watch as whatever you may be imagining, possibly more so.) This month, I still fought with myself, but most of the time, I managed to sit still and stay seated long enough to get significant amounts of work done. I have always known this was what was required. Up till now, I've just fought it. NaNoWriMo commanded me to stay focused and determined for 30 days, and I listened. All of that expensive obedience training finally paid off.

Thirty days is a long time to sustain a feverish pitch, and that’s precisely what NaNoWriMo is all about. It is just that sweaty, target heart rate, go for the burn approach that made it work for me. NaNoWriMo is a sustained assault on the censors and editors and detractors that poison my head with helpful stuff like “Slow down, partner. You’re not going anywhere.”

This month, I fought back. "Oh yeah? Well, it’s NaNoWriMo, and I’m following other orders.” Knowing that 100,000 hapless dreamers were fighting their demons emboldened me to do the same. Picture me with my fingers plugging my ears and shouting "Mary had a little lamb little lamb little lamb..." In this way, I marched ahead, sometimes steadily with purpose, often lurching or listing from side to side, but in the basic direction of forward. Looking back only spooks this browbeaten writer, and no good can come of that.

Eventually, I will have to take a hard look back. I have now re-read my writing from the first few days and I have a two-word review: holy crap. There’s a nugget or two of something shiny in there, but mostly it’s a job for the dung beetles, which I had the foresight to put on retainer for the duration. I haven’t printed out the last 10 days of writing because I ran out of ink. And I need to complete my index so that it will be a little easier to handle the editing jujitsu. I’m going to work on that index before I re-read the whole thing, all 111 single-spaced pages of it, because I think I’ll feel less overwhelmed by the devastating awfulness of the task ahead when I have a roadmap in hand. That’s the theory.

I wrote 50,000 words, but I can't call it a novel exactly. I’ve shifted emphasis, exchanged character roles and motivation part way through. Right now, a third voice has asserted itself, and there’s no telling right now where it will really end. I punted and chose a deus ex machina ending for the first cut. That’s what I meant by Shitty First Draft. The title may be the only thing I don’t edit.

So, in short, it’s too soon to do a true post-mortem because, as I said, I've just written 50,000 words of a story that may one day be a novel for someone else to read.

It has been fun so far. Now it's time to get a drink. Let’s see if I can continue to be a good dog without the invisible whip of NaNoWriMo.

"Staaaay" she says, walking away slowly.