“That Quantity that is sufficient, the Stomach can perfectly concoct and digest, and it sufficeth the due Nourishment of the Body.” – Ben Franklin
Quantity. Oh my, my first week of NaNoWriMo comes to a creaking close. I open my browser in the morning to check last night’s word count: I haven’t been dreaming it – it stands solidly at 16,595 words. When in doubt, I go in-world to check the writing above my head, or the NaNoWriMo tree under Milk Wood, or I teleport to NaNoCafe. Databases surround me like drooling dogs, feeding on an abundant secretion of their own saliva.
- The daunted neo novelist under the Milk Wood NaNoWriMo tree, alone, at night.
Numbers are, as so often, deceptive, a device much like a calorie count: they do not account for the process of digestion that must take place after the gathering. At times, I feel too seriousy engaged in my own quest to touch my belly, listen to the noise it makes. I have published a few excerpts: tasty little morsels.
Quality. “How’s it going”, asks Ms Flawnt. “I don’t know”, I say, “I’m writing but I don’t know where I’m going with this.” We spread out plotting, usually at night, laying next to each other in bed – “Lovely foreplay”, she says, but I’m not sure she isn’t kidding. I’m trying to shut out what I know and sharpen my senses to what I must.
I kick plot ideas around like a soccer player during practice: one, two, three, four, five balls are in the air at once. My calves ache, I twist and turn, I try too hard.
Mid-week, and I get so unhappy with my attempts at crafting dialogue that I throw up and refuse to speak at all on the page. Several of my characters come knocking: “Please, give us a voice, master.” They chivy me, they cajole. I cry into my pillow at night, soundlessly, then I get up and ask the hamster for advice: “Tell me what to do!” The hamster nibbles my finger down to the bone. A quote by Henry James is tattooed on it:
“The only reason for the existence of a novel is that it does attempt to represent life.”
Still, I give up trying to create life-like dialogue. I let my characters speak rather than attempting to speak through them. It helps. My dialogue gets better. I begin to sleep dreamlessly again.
Qualms. This is a seance with inky spirits. Have I summoned too many of them too fast? I feel stuffed as if I had had too much pasta too late at night. The richness of the sauce. The meatballs. What was it that Mark Twain recommended?
“Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.”
Perhaps I simply need to trust my insides more. Not only not re-read with my eyes, but also not re-double my efforts in my mind. Accept that I cannot, shall not have a complete picture at this stage – I’m still 33,405 words away from the end, which, most likely, is not going to be the end. I should be grateful that the wound is still oozing, not closing, that I’m letting my blood flow on the page.
Last time I tried to write a novel, my narrative melted like Gorgonzola in the sun, making a stink (which was good) but not making sense in the end. I had killed it by letting myself wanting to know too much too fast: “Magic Mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
- The NaNoShrine and NaNoCafe for obsessive Wrimos with in-world/twitter wc updates
Quarry. Beneath the struggle, there is a quiet comfort that I discovered during this first week: the entire world has become my quarry! Whether I listen to a BBC broadcast, take a walk through low snow from our cottage down to the tracks, or retrace memory lines written all over my face: everything becomes another brick in the wall…
End of chapter. Special thanks to all the wrimo warriors out there who give shelter and support via various social media channels. I’d never have believed this would make such a difference, that you’re doing it, too: ”Together we stand, divided we fall”…
Virtually yours,
Flawnt Alchemi
