winning

I just won nanowrimo* 2011. I finished my 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of November. That’s all I’m saying. This guy. (points both virtual thumbs at self then shuffles off to bed, tired)

*National Novel Writing Month

nanowrimo writing wisdom

It’s funny how a lot of otherwise improbable events can be made believable by laying an early framework for those events to occur.

Just writing, “I got hit by lightning three times on my way home this morning.” seems improbable on its own. But how about this: “People get struck by lightning all the time in my family. I got hit by lightning three times on my way home this morning.” While not the strongest of examples, you get my point.

The first sentence creates in the reader an expectation or at the very least a baseline statement to measure that second statement by and it lessens the blow. A bit. Though lightning is still quite dangerous.

Better might be: “I stay inside when there’s lightning outside.”

(sorry, just avoiding my nanowrimo writing a bit longer)

quick nanowrimo update

And when those days come when I know I will not be able to write and the days after when I should be making up the words which those days missed out on, I am struck by how hard it can be to return to that mode of thinking and writing without editing one’s thoughts and words as if it’s some learned thing and not the thing that it is, which is this: unlearned.

excerpt from nanowrimo book

Here’s some of my story (rough draft) wherein a madman leaves the small company of survivors who are trying to escape the wilderness of a foreign planet. Hope you find it enjoyable (feel free to encourage me, but I don’t need any corrections or editors or naysayers … not yet anyway).

—————————

Days went by. The four of them walking. Resting during the hottest hours of the day and always walking at night because they were too restless and too watchful to sleep at night—-for that was the time when the natives struck and they could not defend against another attack. Thurber’s head wound was healing and the bandages were removed and the ragged red scar on his forehead shone proud and added character to his face to say the least. And they were all of them worn out and desperate but Gill Forstal—-who used to be a wealthy family man and adventurer and jovial pioneer in his manner—-was now dangerously gaunt and brittle of bone. He refused to eat anything that couldn’t be poured down his throat as liquid and this meant he wasn’t eating enough to survive, not for long. And this meant he would die soon.

Read more

nanowrimo

I woke up at 3am this morning with the decision to write a novel in a month. Despite my fairly busy schedule next month, I signed up for nanowrimo.org (National Novel Writing Month — which is November, which starts at midnight tonight, which I’ve only just thought of an idea for). Wish me luck!

Writing Delays

I guess this is one of those “dear diary” posts where no one really cares, but here goes anyway. I haven’t written a word on my book in a week. This was primarily due to the Three Rivers Art Festival … getting ready for it and then the festival itself. Now I will have to delay it another week or two — with only four days until the event, I threw my hat into the running for the Madisonville Art Market this Saturday, so I will have a booth there. I’ve done that art market a few times before — last year — and I’ve already got paintings and supplies ready to go from last weekend, so I’m fine there. On top of that, I have a commissioned portrait due next week — I’ll try to get that to an almost-finished state today … that would relieve a little of my schedule to work on smaller paintings the rest of the week to have for Saturday.

So I’m still working on a book. It’s just been delayed a few weeks — more time to stew in my brain I guess. There are a few things I need to figure out, as far as plot details go, before I get back to it, so this fallow time might not be such a bad thing after all. In the meantime, here’s a little excerpt from it [the dialog is a bit melodramatic but the rest is fine I think, especially for a first draft] … .

She watches his fingers. They twitch and make intricate paths around each other on the table before him. He watches them too — both of them in silence watching Jake’s stubby fingers bend and twist around each other. He notices the silence then and looks around the room as if to spot what’s not making so much noise. The silence is brief, interrupted by the sound of her chair moving, scraping, as she gets up from the table to busy herself in the kitchen, putting away clean silverware and flatware and bright plastic cups. Jake tucks his hands away and leans back in his chair, still jittery, still nervous about everything wrong with the world. The crisp night air still clinging to his skin like it won’t wash off and his clothes still cold and damp to the touch. He scratches at a patch of dry skin on his arm and runs both hands through his hair then brings them back to the table, fingers reuniting, moving again, writhing together on the table in front of him.

—You think there’s—

—What?

—You believe in hope? You think there’s hope in this world? For us.

She closes the silverware drawer abruptly and walks back toward him. He studies her face as she comes into the light — waiting for her answer, waiting for some sign of hope. He sees nothing in her face. It is somber and closed and distant. Devoid of any of the youthfulness they once possessed, her eyes are cold and dead. She doesn’t stop. She breezes by him without saying a word and takes with her all the warm air in the room and Jake shivers. He hears her whisper in the other room in the dark —

—We used to, didn’t we.

Sorry for the long post — thanks for reading!

book excerpt

Here’s part of a scene I’m writing for the new book. Rough draft, so it’ll change — hopefully for the better. As it is, I like it. It’s got a pretty good flow. I’m using the same technique or style as shown here for all the dialog in the book — it’s an interesting way to work, giving yourself limitations or a structure to adhere to. Same thing with painting — it’s often quite freeing to give yourself limitations (in style, color, technique, etc.).

They walk along the wide sidewalk and breath in the night air. The black currents of the river flow to their left, an empty street lies to their right, and tired old buildings beyond the street; and beyond and above the buildings, wisps of smoke and steam rise romantically into the blackest of skies, despite an almost full white moon in clear display above them.

—Claudia. No one’s named Claudia, are they? Where are you from?

—East coast. We moved around a lot.

—Ah. Your parents must have named you — where are they from.

She laughs. It is soft and brief, almost melancholy in its tone, but it is a laugh.

—My father’s family came from Germany. My mother is Canadian.

—That makes sense.

—And, ‘Morris.’ Have you ever met another Morris in your life?

—You’re right. I’ll change it. Just call me Jake from now on.

—Jake. Pleased to meet you, Jake.

—Likewise.

Arm in arm they stroll. They stop to watch the river, which can’t quite be seen except where the big ships move by and in the wake of those big ships where moonlight shines back at them in thin moving ribbons of water. But there are street lamps and other lights all along the other bank. Up and down the river. Lights winking at them in irregular intervals. A cool breeze lifts up out of the ravine and brings to them the rich river smells which tell the true character of the land — the true land, the land underneath and long before the great concrete foundations of the city.

She rests her head softly upon his shoulder, and he can feel her there. Through his clothing. The warmth of her. Her lilac scented hair. Her thoughts floating out into the ether.

—It’s so peaceful.

—Mm.

—If I ever want to kill myself, remind me of this location, won’t you?

—Don’t talk like that, Claudia. It’s not funny.

—I’d throw myself in and sink to the bottom.

—I’d jump in after you.

—You’d do that?

—I used to practice holding my breath underwater.

—How long could you go?

—I don’t know. A long time. That was a long time ago.

—I can’t swim.

—No?

—I’ve tried — it wasn’t for lack of trying.

—I’d have thought you could.

—I can float on my back very well.

—Well good for you.

She squeezes his arm and he laughs. They huddle close together and continue their stroll along the empty street.

writing excerpt

Rereading what I wrote last night, I read this little gem. I may change it later, but I sure like it as is, IIDSSM*. Especially that last sentence — it’s awkward-cool.

Jake Plesco pounds the card table with a fist as he stands. He grabs one edge and flips the flimsy table over. Cauller is surprised and is moving backward — caught up in his chair and falling back now — chair and all falling and landing with a crash on the empty floor on his back.

*sidenote: I didn’t know IIDSSM was an acronym people used — I searched for it after I used it and found that it apparently is a thing. (If I do say so myself)

Point A: On Starting a Novel

Hardest part in starting a novel for me is that part where you have a general idea of what the story is but no idea yet of how to get to the end of it — what will get me from point A to point Z. I believe the next step is point B, but just where is that point and what happens there?

That’s where you just trust yourself and jump into the fray, I suppose. I find that moving my fingers quickly over the keyboard helps a great deal, just tap-tap-tapping keys to form words and sentences and paragraphs. Eventually the paragraphs start communicating with one another; they start getting along and harmonizing and reverberating and forming ideas. Then pages take shape and whole sections seem to appear from thin air.

In a month or two I’ll be complaining about the hardest part in finishing a novel, getting from point Y to point Z. And then come the editing stages — talk about frustrating. But for now, there is the writing. Writing without editing myself too much, without letting my brain get in the way of my fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. Wish me luck. I’ll let you know how it’s going along the way.

Also, I may have a print version of Leito the Artist available real soon.

Leito the Artist, On Sale Now

LEITO THE ARTIST is actually my first book [the second one just managed to leapfrog this one as far as being published first]. Why digital and not print? Money — I don’t have any. So until then, LEITO THE ARTIST, the ebook, is now Online at smashwords.com — download your free sample now, or better yet, buy yourself a copy (go ahead and buy multiple copies for friends and family while you’re at it).

I’m proud of the book — I’m happy with A Slow Flowing River as well, but LEITO THE ARTIST is more real and more personal. It’s main character is very much based on me and the story is grounded in reality — like 50% me, 50% made up — because that’s what beginning authors do, they write about boring things like themselves.

Here’s the lame description I wrote for it on the site:

Leito paints. He watches and listens and seeks out his purpose in life. He hopes someday soon to make a living as artist, to be the best artist he can be. Through a series of vignettes and flashbacks and dreams and loves and life, LEITO THE ARTIST learns how: “Trick is to GO WITH THE FLOW. Life, ever-evolving, changing. And he may never be the same person he is today. Ever again. Life goes on.”

If you have the ability to read, this book was made for you — it has lots of words in it. Give it a try. Thanks! (that is all)