The miracle in question was only performed to hasten the operation, under circumstances of present necessity, which required it. -Ben Franklin
Finished that belated, beloved, beleaguering NaNoWriMo contest at 50,267 words. What can I say: thanks to the divine. Amen to my mom and dad. Blessings to the organisers. Yiiipppeeehs and Yaya-cries to the other writers and GoGoGoGo to those who’re still slaving away at it! Exclamation mark time! Now I need to shake it all off and wipe my boots clean. A winner all the same.
Actually, I can’t believe I am writing again already! Worse: I am already thinking about the next novel! It happened in the car as I was listening to the intoxicating Jim Norton reading Ulysses…and I have plans for video and podcasts – on the last day, I even managed to record a novel excerpt as a podcast – you know how much I like La Voce. Divas. Verdi. La Callas. Aww.
What it meant: I am now estranged from Ms Flawnt. Fortunate for me, she is the forgiving type (though she doesn’t know it – that’s even better). Our daughter has begun to call me ‘mummy’ because, evidently, she has suppressed all memory that she has a father (that used to be me before nano). I haven’t been around much in SecondLife®…the chat’s too good there, too many distractions, and, as Mark Twain says, only swiftness in banging the keys counts. Hence, not much remains of this writer’s virtuality…one of the many things to be picked up again in December, and also, there is Black Friday to consider (less of a tragic, torturous event on the Old Continent, but still, who are we without regular, life-affirming, mind-numbing consumption).
‘Banging’ was my original title for this piece, but it’s perhaps not as relevant as its current title, ‘manifesting’. In previous reviews of my path through NaNoWriMo jungle, machete in hand, rubber boots on my feet, a turban slung around my head (aching from plot twisters), I have discussed gathering yer wits, digesting yer innards, listening to yerself…in the last week, I found that the hour of manifestion had come: I see manifestation as the ability to make something happen by drawing on all your resources, not just that clever little brain of ours, caffeine and nicotine drenched as it is in my case.
On that last day, I needed a small miracle to finish: word count was good, but my characters were fighting with each other for my attention, besides my original heroine, another one, her opposite in every way, had appeared and captured the heart of my main character (MC), and even the MC’s lofty priority position was threatened by a character, who, in the course of several chapters, had shown staying power and an uncanny ability to hold the story together by its very presence. Even the location was in serious jeopardy: I had started in London, but about half way through the novel, my main cast relocated to a castle in the Scottish Highlands – should I lure them away from there for the grand finish (which I always imagined in a trendy city venue, or trust them? To put it shortly: I did not count on miracles though I felt I needed one. I was planning a major military operation dominated by me as field marshal, and I envisioned myself on a hill, leaning on a cannon, mumbling phyrrically: „Another victory like this and we’re done for.”
OK. Lemme put all this behind me. Rumour has it, that I’m being missed under Milk Wood, which is where I live. It’s time to return for timeless chat, banter and a small, measured amount of words every day, but not 1,667 (the required daily amount for NaNoWriMo). I have vowed to put the manuscript in a drawer for at least one month while I rebuild relationships with Ms Flawnt and with Little Miss Flawnt. I am daunted by the task of editing the beast. If you do, too, write to me and we shall whine side by side.