Like the month-long NaNoWriMo novel writing month, Camp is also designed to get people to write every day, though this time things are less structured, and you don’t have to write an actual novel in 30 days. You can also set your own word count goal (the official NaNoWriMo goal is 50,000 words, or 1,667 words each day).
I’ve decided to tackle another 50K with Camp, since I was about to write 71K and change last November. My biggest challenge has been deciding what to write. I’m still in the editing process for my NaNo novel and have been struggling with the climax and resolution. I know where I want it to go, but getting there has been a bit more difficult than I expected.
What I have learned in the editing process is that I don’t really know my characters all that well yet. I thought I did, but not knowing how they would handle a complicated issue only goes to prove that they are still strangers in many ways.
Yesterday, on the very eve of Camp, I finally decided that for Camp what I would do would be write vignettes featuring different characters. Backstory, scenes, maybe even full-on short stories. Any character already named in the novel is fair game. After 30 days and 30 new bits, I should know everyone a bit better.
So at midnight I started with one of my main characters, Simon. While I don’t want to get into details about my story or the characters on the blog, suffice it to say he had a troubled childhood thanks to an abusive father, and now, as a graduate student, he’s trying to come to terms with his past, missing family members, and his father’s legacy. That’s not the plot of my novel, but it is what I’m trying to explore within his character. Last night I wrote a couple scenes from when he was 18, just before and just after he started college. It was really fun, seeing him at a different point in time, and learning a little more about what makes him tick.
I’m not sure yet which character I’ll encounter tonight. I’m kind of thinking I want to hang out with Jake, the protagonist of my short story that inspired this novel, The Pink Suitcase. Although he’s not one of the primary characters in my novel, he does have a significant supporting role.
So that’s the report for today from Camp. I’m sure I’ll write more soon.
(ps this post is #1 in what will hopefully be 30 posts as I take part in my colleague Justin’s writing challenge. Join me! 🙂 )
About a week ago I decided to commit to doing Camp NaNoWriMo, a somewhat more laid-back version of the November National Novel Writing Month, where you can choose a wider variety of things to write and can make your own word count goal.
Back in November, I had participated in NaNoWriMo proper, and wrote 71,664 words towards a brand new novel during those 30 days, without missing a single day. Since that time I have engaged in the perhaps more painful and difficult task of editing it into an actual, you know, readable piece of writing with good characters, a logical plot, suspense… the kind of things that are hit or miss during a marathon month of writing. In November I created some amazing gems and a lot of stinkers.
I’ve made amazing progress along the way, and the novel, while not complete, is significantly better than it was on December 1st. One thing that happened is that I had to cut a lot of great scenes with peripheral characters whose company I had grown to enjoy. Those characters told me that they’d like their own shot at a novel, so Camp NaNoWriMo will allow me to write the first novel’s sequel. That presents my first challenge.
But wait… how can I think of writing a sequel with the first novel still incomplete? With that, I encounter my second challenge. In the next 16 days, can I finish a rough edit of the first novel so that all of the plot points, climax and resolution are knocked out, so they don’t hang over my head?
To complicate matters even further, I have just agreed to participate in a 30 day blogging challenge, inspired by one of my colleagues at Automattic. So, for as long as I can manage it, I’m going to try to post here every day in April, almost certainly about my experiences with Camp NaNoWriMo. I’ll tag all related posts ‘NaNoWriMo’ if you wish to follow my progress.
So in April, expect to hear a lot of ramblings about the highs and lows of writing a novel in a month. If you’re one of my blog followers, feel free to cheer me on (and provide whatever the writer’s equivalent is to a bottle of water for a marathon runner).
There may also be an occasional photo of my pets. After all, it’s not their fault I’m a crazy writer. 🙂
Thanks to a colleague’s suggestion, this year I took the NaNoWriMo plunge. With less than a month to fashion the concept of a novel, I signed up, drank the koolaid, and jumped off the cliff.
I’ve been writing fiction since grade school, but only in November 2013 did I really start to think of myself as a novelist. And that’s not because I “won” NaNo by writing over 50,000 words, though I did (71,664 to be exact). Nor is it because I “finished” a novel in 30 days, though I did that as well (see below for the synopsis).
I think of myself as a novelist now becase I realize that the art of writing a book isn’t just about putting words down, creating fun characters, and entertaining yourself. It’s actually hard work that requires a great deal of commitment and focus, and many lessons learned along the way.
NaNoWriMo offers writers the opportunity to plunge forth into the alchemical process, providing the crucible where the elements of the world combine within the individual, and through pressure, sacrifice and discipline, transform a person into their inner novelist.
When you start NaNo, and immerse yourself in the craft of writing, the lessons learned along the way are legion.
Writing at least 1700 words every single day is challenging. Sometimes there’s a great idea that’s burning through you and it just has to get written down, even if that means sending yourself an email from the fast food drive thru line. Other days it’s like trying to squeeze out the last of the ketchup. You try and you try and you’re lucky when a drop hits the plate. With NaNo, when the ketchup runs dry, you don’t get a choice: you switch to mustard. It’s those late nights, after one too many beers, when you accept any words on the page. Even if you just write, “this novel is killing me and all I want to do is crawl in bed with my kitties and go to sleep,” it’s progress towards the goal. What’s remarkable is that it’s often just after that admission of defeat when the magic happens, when from your fingertips rushes forth that unexpected scene at a West Texas convenience store with a character you get to meet for the first time.
Writing in a single flow, without taking time to re-read and edit previous days’ efforts, goes against every instinct a writer has. NaNo has a built-in mechanism to prevent tweaking and fiddling: that ever looming deadline and word count total. You’re going to win if it kills you… and some nights, it feels like it might. It’s all about keeping your eyes on the prize, and when you realize that not only does editing kill your momentum, it can shave numbers from your total word count, it becomes a luxury you can’t afford.
In the process of creating your novel, you learn to walk around with a giant, and invisible, butterfly net over your shoulder, ready to snatch up any idea or description or conversation that sparkles and catches your eye. A trip to a Chinese Garden informs a character’s philosophy and decor; a dear friend’s artwork becomes the catalyst for action. And those tiny little interactions with colleagues or Starbucks baristas can turn your entire story inside out.
At some point, perhaps at the kick-off party, in Facebook writing challenges, when searching for a character name within the NaNo forums, or at local write-ins, you discover that NaNoWriMo is more than a writing exercise. There’s also a great community of fellow novelists that offers suggestions, praise, pep talks and word sprints to keep you going. Along the way, after talking to dozens of other writers and reading advice from the pros, you discover that no author is perfect. No writer gets it right the first time. You also revel in the fact that everyone is going through the same hell at the same time, that endless cycle of writing just one more word, but also understand those moments of ecstasy when you get a chapter just right. It’s those fellow NaNo writers who make it easier to reach the finish line.
Of course, there’s your characters. They are devious and conniving, and rarely share their secret, even when you ask nicely (though, sometimes getting them drunk helps). They also are worse than toddlers on a bad day, because the well-written protagonist never listens to her author or does what she’s supposed to, and she never takes breaks when you do. Her best friend’s going to have a meltdown when you’re in line at the grocery store, and you’re going to learn about her boyfriend’s childhood trauma over beers with your friends.
I haven’t mentioned sleep yet, because there’s no rest for the writer. When your antagonist shows up in your dream casually reading To Kill a Mockingbird, you know the characters have won.
And when that happens? Congratulations, you’re a novelist.
Novel:The Dream Fixers (Based on my short story “The Pink Suitcase”) Genre: Speculative fiction/sci-fi/horror Synopsis: There are a few people, known as dream fixers, who have the unusual ability to visit other people’s dreams and alter them ever so slightly to help the dreamer. When someone begins to cause nightmares so real they bleed over into waking hours, the dream fixers realize they’re the only ones who can stop him. First, though, they have to find him—and he may be closer than they ever expected.
In this short video clip, Ira Glass talks about the craft of writing and how all writers struggle early on with the creative process. He describes how we have great taste, so when what we write doesn’t measure up to what we like, we get frustrated.
The mark of a true writer is the one who fights through the disappointment and discouragement and just keeps going, until one day the writing is good enough.
The most important point is that all writers go through that angst. And as I wind up my NaNoWriMo novel this week (or sometime in the not too distant future!) it’s a point well taken.
(This is a short story I wrote for a four-minute flash talk at the Automattic company meetup.)
My name’s Jake, and I’m a dream fixer.
You know that feeling when you’re in some weird place in a dream, and you don’t know anybody around you or what’s going on? That’s called ‘dream-hopping’—when you go into someone else’s thoughts when they’re asleep. Turns out we all do it.
The difference with fixers is, we dream-hop consciously, going into other people’s dreams to sort things out for them. I get plunked right into the middle of some random dream, figure out what’s going on, fix something, and then hop out again.
I figured out that’s what I was doing one night when, in the middle of a dream I happened to look in a mirror. Rather than my bald head and goatee, I saw this chick with curly brown hair. Freaked me out, lemme tell ya, and I started paying more attention to my dreams after that.
Now you might be wondering, who am I to fix other people’s dreams? What kind of qualifications do I have? Hell if I know. During the day I work at the corner bar and make small talk with people, but it’s not like I’m going to change the world. But my nights are different. I feel like a super hero—though it’s my secret since no one ever knows I was there.
One time I hopped into the dream of a grade school teacher. He’d been really annoyed with this kid in his class, Jimmy, who was always causing trouble: flinging pens, making gross noises, stuff like that. In the dream, I showed the teacher that Jimmy couldn’t read, but he was really good with numbers. I’d like to think the teacher gave Jimmy a little more attention after that. Who knows? Maybe Jimmy’s the next Einsten.
A couple nights ago I slipped into the dream of a ten-year-old boy, right when he asked, “Why did Jessie pack a suitcase full of her favorite things, and then leave it behind?”
In the dream I was Bobby’s best friend. We ran across the park, past the swings and the soccer field, and pulled ourselves under a chain link fence. We ran into Jessie’s yard, and snuck into the house through an open window. No one was home, and all the lights were out. But in the living room, standing like an unopened birthday present, was this shiny pink suitcase.
There was a creaking sound, and a thump, as Bobby flipped open each of the latches on the suitcase. Inside was a fuzzy blue sweater, a few paperbacks, a ceramic turtle. And Mr. Monkeybear. All packed with care.
We spent ages searching for clues. We snuck upstairs, and looked in the garage, and in the tall grass in the backyard, but we couldn’t figure out what had happened to Jessie. Had she died? Been shipped off to Grandma’s? Or was she even now laying in a hospital bed with leukemia? There was just no explanation.
Such things happen to dream fixers from time to time, and I thought I had gotten used to it. My job was just to fix what I could and move on, and not get too attached, you know? But it was different this time.
The next night, somehow I found myself dreaming again about Bobby’s quest, about the lost girl and the forgotten pink suitcase. Again we pulled ourselves under the chain link fence; again, we climbed into the empty house. I wanted to help Bobby out, but it wouldn’t ‘fix’ the dream if I put a fake ending on the story.
I was still groggy when I went to work the following day. It was slow, and most of my shift was spent pouring beers for Alfred, a lonely dude with three gold chains who camped out at our bar every Wednesday.
The day ran long, and Alfred’s voice became slower as he sank into his seat and his stomach filled with alcohol. What did he dream about? I wondered.
I was at the sink washing out pint glasses when out of the corner of my eye I saw someone new take a seat at the bar, and I heard Alfred offer to buy them a drink. It was a woman, just a bit younger than me, in a blue sweater.
And sitting on the stool beside her was a pink suitcase.
Damn.
It was at that moment that I realized my own dream had been fixed.
Original image as published by the Austin Chronicle. Artwork by Jason Stout.
“Give me the daggers,” he demanded in falsetto.
From the first day he walked into class I knew Mr. McGinty wouldn’t be like our other teachers. Maybe it was because he was Australian, a foreigner. Maybe it was also because he used to teach at a boy’s boarding school. Didn’t he joke that it was going to be hard to adjust to teaching girls? He didn’t do things the way everyone else did, that’s for sure. Instead he set his own rules as it suited him.
We were reading Shakespeare’s Macbeth, and he had assigned us each a part. “It’s a play. We won’t treat it just as cold words on a page,” he explained, his deep accent sending us all swooning.
I wanted to view the play as he did. Maybe that’s why when he chose the other parts, I really hoped he’d let me read Macbeth’s role. But Mr. McGinty always picked Cathy, while he would intone, “Tis the eye of childhood/That fears a painted devil,” having saved the part of Lady Macbeth for himself.
Two days into the reading of the play, Mr. McGinty asked us to memorize Lady Macbeth’s monologue. We were supposed to learn it by heart and then make an appointment to recite it back to him. He said it would show if we really understood the character’s motivations.
What a great chance to prove myself to him, I thought. It had to be perfect — it was my goal to perform the speech better than anyone. To that end, practicing the lines became my sweetest obsession. Over and over I repeated the words: “Come, you spirits/That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,/And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full/Of direst cruelty!”
“Don’t you think it’s a pretty weird passage to choose?” Sue asked me after hearing me recite the speech twice. “I mean, all that stuff about sex and women’s breasts? If you ask me, Mr. McGinty’s a pervert.”
“No, he’s not.” She wasn’t in my class — how could she say something like that? “Look — it’s a really powerful speech. Let me try it again, and I’ll show you.”
Sue shook her head and walked off. She might have been laughing at me, but I didn’t care. It was time for my appointment anyway.
The wooden floors creaked slightly as I walked down the hallway, and I caught my breath. I stopped outside Mr. McGinty’s classroom and silently recited the lines once more. Did I know the speech well enough? My mother did, my friends did, everyone seemed to know it as well as I did by now. But would it be enough? I wanted to prove to him that I was a good as the others — definitely better than Cathy.
The moment of truth came as I stood outside the door. In about ten seconds I’d be alone in the room with him. All of a sudden my throat spasmed. My hands were sweaty. But I sucked in my stomach, thrust back my shoulders, and went inside.
“The raven himself is hoarse–” I began, and continued flawlessly to the end. It was perfect. For two minutes I felt like I was Lady Macbeth.
Mr. McGinty never looked up at me until I was done. Then he scribbled into his gradebook and thanked me.
He gave me a C+. It might as well have been an F.
I hated him.
***
There was no way to know what ingredients lurked within the punch. It tasted horrible but everyone drank it anyway. After all, we were graduating soon, and drinking the punch was a political action, the choice of freedom over parental supervision. Well, that’s how I saw it. Maybe all the others who clustered around the bowl just wanted to get drunk.
Several people had gathered at the gate and were giggling loudly. I joined a couple friends who left the patio, our curiosity enticing us to join the crowd.
Mr. McGinty had just walked up the sidewalk.
Mr. McGinty? How did he know about our party? Immediately I swallowed what remained in my cup. Even with all that talk about making his own rules, he was still a teacher, and just like any of the others he could turn us all in for underage drinking.
But no one else shared my concerns. I watched Lizzie spin around, elated. “Hi, Mr. McGinty! It’s so great you’re here!”
Cathy sidled up beside her, a pale blush stretching across her cheeks. Although no one had asked, she explained, “I told him about the party.” He nodded as he pushed the gate shut, and winked at her.
I couldn’t believe it. Then again, what did I expect from the teacher’s pet?
By that point there had to be a dozen girls around him, all laughing and carrying on like he was a movie star instead of our English teacher. Someone even handed him a cup of punch.
What was the big deal? He was just a teacher — he wasn’t all that great. I wasn’t about to make a big deal out of his presence like the others were. I returned to the patio and drank another cup of punch.
Later on that evening my head was spinning from too much alcohol when Debbie walked up to me.
“How are you getting home?” she asked as she bent over to pick up an empty cup. Unlike most of my classmates, I didn’t have a car. “Is someone coming by to pick you up?”
“No, Sue’s taking me over to her house. I’m going to spend the night there.”
“Didn’t you know? Sue wasn’t feeling well, and I think someone drove her home about an hour ago.”
“Great. How am I supposed to get there now?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find you a ride.”
I couldn’t really imagine Debbie going out of her way to help me, and I had just surrendered to the notion of calling my mom when Mr. McGinty walked up to us — to Debbie, actually. I don’t think he even saw me there.
“I’ve got to be goin’ now,” he said to her. “Thanks for the party.”
He started to walk away when she called him back. “Mr. McGinty, did you drive here?”
“I’m all right,” he quickly responded. “I only had the one cup — ”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I was just wondering — she needs a ride over to Sue’s house. It’s not that far from here.”
I looked up. Did she mean me?
He casually tossed his keys into the air, catching them with the same hand. “Ah, right. No problem.”
Forgetting how much I loathed him, I walked with him down the brick path to the driveway. If I had been given a million years to examine that moment I never would have believed what was happening. Mr. McGinty was going to give me a ride. Alone, just us, in his car.
“Where to?” he asked me.
I told him Sue’s address as I slid into the vinyl seat of the old Mustang and fumbled for the seat belt. I was so nervous I had sat on the strap and couldn’t find it.
“Here, let me help you.” He leaned over the seat — over me. I held my breath. “Hmm, there you are.” He handed me the buckle. For just a second his fingertips brushed against my palm — he had just touched me.
As he drove, he asked me if I had enjoyed the party, but my tongue suddenly went numb, and I could only nod. All of a sudden I felt giddy, like I had on the first day of class — I was alone with Mr. McGinty! Far too quickly we reached Sue’s house. How could I just have wasted the whole trip without saying anything? “Thanks for giving me a ride, Mr. McGinty.” It was the best I could manage.
He nodded. “Since we’re not in class, you might just call me Christopher — or Chris, if you’d like. It sounds better — not so stuffy.”
The invitation caught me off-guard. “Okay, Christopher,” I said slowly. The word — his name — had an odd flavor to it, like the bitterness of the first taste of beer. And just as forbidden.
He slowed the car to read the addresses. “Is this the one?”
The brick house with the twin rosebushes was unremarkable but also unmistakable. “Yeah, this is it.” I directed him to turn up the driveway that circled to the back of the house.
When he stopped the car, I unbuckled the seatbelt and turned to thank him, and noted in the dim light that he was smiling. And his hand lingered on the gear shift for a second too long. I wasn’t thinking — the alcohol, I guess — but I moved my hand to cover his.
“What’s this?” he asked, in a different voice from the classroom.
I licked my lips. “Is it okay?”
“I don’t know — is it?”
My whole body suddenly felt like it was carved in stone. I couldn’t move even to nod. My eyes were closed, and I could feel nothing but the warmth of his hand under mine. This was so unlike me, so out of character. I finally managed to say “yes” though it was a miracle that he heard me.
I heard the soft crunch of upholstery as he shifted his weight. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I opened my eyes to the darkness. His left hand had moved up my arm, his fingertips teasing the hem of my sleeve, and goosebumps erupted along my arm. With practiced ease, he slipped his other hand from under mine, and when it was free he put the arm around my shoulder.
It was perfect, the stuff of dreams. I had waited for this for a long time.
***
Behind the locked door I scrubbed away the red stain of lipstick and all the rest of my makeup. Alone in Sue’s bathroom, I couldn’t figure out how to turn my clothes right side out, and even putting on my pajamas became a challenge. I washed my hands and my arms, scrubbed places that he had touched me, and as I did so, water spilled everywhere. Every force in the universe seemed to be working against me.
When I was done I dared another glance in the mirror before I opened the door. I scarcely recognized the face that stared back.
What had I done?
He told me I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened between us. I’d have to keep it from my English class and all my friends. Otherwise, he said, people would get the wrong idea abut me.
***
As I took my paper from him, I glanced down at the grade — a 97%. When I looked up at him, he smiled. “You’re showing remarkable improvement.”
After class I tried to slip out with the others, but he called me back. As I stood there, staring at the floor, he remained in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. “I expect you know why I asked you to stay behind?”
I gripped the edge of the desk. “If you mean last week — I didn’t mean for that to happen, you know. It was all pretty unexpected.”
“Aye, it was.” He looked at me as if sizing me up. “There’s no harm done, though, was there? I assume you were discreet, as we discussed?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.” Who would believe it anyway? “As far as I’m concerned, it never even happened.” I could feel my face burning with sudden embarrassment.
“More’s the pity then, because I was hoping to invite you to a party on Sunday.”
The direction he had taken the conversation caught me unprepared. “A party? What if someone sees us?”
“You’re not ashamed to be seen with me, are you now?”
I looked down at the paper with the grade glowing red in the top margin. With everything that had happened, I hadn’t even studied. “I really shouldn’t — I mean, you’re my teacher.”
“We’re both adults. No one here can tell us what to do outside of school.”
***
Had I really agreed to this? I asked myself as I followed him up a flight of stairs. “Who’s having the party?”
“Neighbors,” he offered with a wink as he reached the door, where instead of knocking, he slipped a key in the lock.
This was his home? I didn’t know how to respond, so I just nodded.
His living room was sparsely decorated. There was a sofa and chair, a glass dining room table, a few CDs stacked by the stereo. A golf calendar was thumbtacked to the wall but there were no other posters or artwork.
I was struck by how ordinary it was.
Christopher handed me a bottle of imported ale and then sat next to me on the couch, very close, and put his arm around my shoulders. When I tried to make small talk he lifted my hand and began kissing my fingers.
“So you never intended to take me to a party, did you?” I asked.
“Shh–” he pressed his lips against mine, his kiss forestalling any discussion.
Don’t be a baby, I chided myself. Wasn’t this what I wanted? But when I opened my eyes, Christopher had disappeared. All I could see was the teacher, Mr. McGinty, his face contorted and sloppy, his body soft and out of shape. And he wouldn’t let me go.
He never expected me to fight back.
***
Everyone noticed — it was impossible not to notice. He had a black eye, dark and swollen. His cheek looked like a plum. Nobody said a word when he walked into our morning assembly, and none of the other teachers approached him. Things like this didn’t happen, not at our school. Teachers were supposed to set a good example for the students.
He and I never spoke again outside of class. I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about him. And for my term paper I chose to write about Lady Macbeth, and I got an A.
I think he was surprised that I had understood her character all along.
