Novels are a collection of ideas and images and characters and philosophies and stories, all twisted up in a blender until all the bits come together into a coherent series of words that we recognize as a book.
These words then get wrapped up in their cover like a Christmas present, with shiny and colorful paper that includes the title and author.
Some books have fantastic covers, others… not so much.
Dear followers of my blog (and all others who find your way here),
I’m curious to learn what people like to read online, and what they value from a blog. Are they looking for news? Humor? Family updates? Cat photos? Recipes? Celebrity gossip? Thought-provoking fiction or in-depth analysis of issues?
With that in mind, I have a question. If you could follow only one blog, what blog would it be? (It can be hosted anywhere, and doesn’t have to even be a WordPress site.) Or, if that question is too hard, answer this: is there a blog for which you read every post as soon as you can?
Then… tell me about that blog. What’s interesting about it? Why do you like it? Why would you recommend it to someone else?
Please let me know about your favorite blog in the comments.
(Also, no fair promoting your own blog, because I know you read that one!)
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.
(all photos by Jackie Dana)
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.
“The Pink Suitcase” is © copyright 2013 by Jackie Dana and may not be reproduced without permission.