Thanks to other Nanowrimists on the path

One of the most liberating things about doing Nanowrimo so far is finding out that other writers -- even published ones -- have the same challenges as I do.

In Victoria, local writers are meeting at The Black Stilt Coffee Lounge to scribble away together. I like that place -- my daughter took me there when she was studying at UVic. Folksingers then, like in the sixties. Now I imagine a bunch of writers hunched over netbooks not notebooks, coffee within easy reach. Times and technologies change, but the writing process -- not so much.

I loved reading about the Folly files of John Green. Knowing about them gives me permission to carry on with the story I'm writing, even knowing already that it's destined for my own Folly file. Even so, I feel chuffed to think that this opus can count as one of those early novels that most writers have written. Early novels in drawers I mean, the ones that never see the light of day. So thanks, John, for your part in liberating my words.

Another writer whose pep talk I really appreciated was Lindsey Grant of Oakland. Now there's a scribbler who sees inside the minds of fellow writers, to where the temptation to quit looms large in Week Two. I definitely had a case of the Week Twos, but just as definitely, I'm going to make it to week three, and then week four and the triumphant end. Thanks, Lindsey!

Through the slogging, blogging about Nanowrimo is another lash to keep me going. If I've promised to finish, I must and will deliver; the eyes of the blog watchers are watching me!

Catching up with Nanowrimo

I got behind, and I have to catch up. Fortunately, I am not alone. Writers, they say, need other writers. In this Nanowrimo venture, the writers who are encouraging me are people I've never heard of and never met. Those emails have been a real help.

We all have the same challenge -- getting the butt into the chair and cranking out the words, in a regular fashion, no matter what. Ruthless was the word Elizabeth George used, and I like that. Your have to write ruthlessly, let nothing get in the way.

That way, the words keep coming, and the scenes keep coming. I am several days' worth of writing behind, but I will catch up. I want to and am determined too. This is an exercise, not a brilliant bestseller. The point is to keep going.

By the end of November, I will be among the success stories. All I have to do is produce 50,000 words. No complaining, no excuses. Without fail, 50,000 words of story, coming up.

A plugged nickel

This morning I woke with an old tune in my head -- a Depression-era ballad my Dad used to sing about a man who tries to pay for a donut with a plugged nickel:

"She looks at the nickel and she looks at me, and she says,
This nickel is no good, can't you see?
There's a hole in the middle and it goes plumb through."
"Well," says I, "there's a hole in the donut too."

A plugged nickel. It's an expression I haven't thought about or heard for a long time, though I heard it many times in my childhood without ever questioning its origins.

"It ain't worth a plugged nickel," Dad would say, and we knew he meant the thing he referred to was something he considered worthless.

Our neighbour Homer used to say it too. Men of that era had their own expressions, now nearly forgotten.

Here is the image I formed in my head when I heard the expression as I sang the song this morning. Out in the backwoods, a man in a mackinaw places a nickel on end on top of a tin can on top of a stump and then gets his rifle and sees if he can shoot a hole in it.

If he's a good shot, the result is a plugged nickel.

Patience and faith

All you have to know is the next step. This advice is everywhere, and though I thought I knew the truth of it, I never applied it specifically and consciously to my own life.

But reading or hearing something is one thing and living it is quite another. You don't know something until you live through it. Doing Nanowrimo, I am discovering how the above maxim works in real life.

It's amazing what happens when I sit down to write my story. I work on one scene, and as I press the keys, the next scene flows into my mind. Then, as I complete that scene, another comes in. When no other scenes come to mind, it is time to rest for the day.

I am learning to my amazement that if I can tune in to what Salman Rushdie called The River of Story, I receive the story I am supposed to tell now in small increments.

The rest, like life itself, requires only patience and faith.

Fall down seven times, get up eight times

Image from wikipedia

Today I have to apply the determination suggested by this proverb. The national novel writing month organization, Nanowrimo, is my learning tool. In six days, I have learned a lot about what blocks my creativity. Besides fear, of course.

I'm doing Nanowrimo for the first time; I committed to the idea without knowing the ropes. I was still on Whidbey Island when I created my account, but I couldn't get into the system. It was Day One; numerous eager participants were logging in.

I started to write. After 500 words, my ideas began to peter out, and I was tempted to get up from the chair, saying to myself that it was time to be on the road home. But I refused to be distracted, and told myself I couldn't go anywhere until I had the day's word count.

The view from the window onto the verandah, with its two rockers facing the sea cliff, gave me an idea. I began an new scene, and finished my daily allocation in about fifteen minutes.

Then I came home and returned to work and normal life. The week went by and I didn't write. Mentally I set aside Friday as a catch-up day. I had no errands and no appointments but I got distracted by other undone tasks, mainly stuff that was piled on my desk.

As I did these things, I recalled some of Ivan Coyote's comments at the SIWC -- "You're your own worst enemy. It's your job to find out what works for you. I can't write in a quiet place and I can't write in a dirty house. It takes me 45 minutes to clean and then I can write."

And I can't write at a disorganized desk, I told myself. That was my justification for clearing it. But when it was clear I still couldn't get started. Even a pep-talk email from a fellow Nanowrimo participant wasn't enough to get me to take the first crucial step and begin.

Early evening found me trying to write on the netbook at the dining room table, but that made no sense. Why use the tiny screen when the big one is only two rooms away?

It was after 9 pm when I finally logged on. I was expecting a phone call for a pick-up from the train station, but determined to write until then. I loaded the 1600 words I'd done originally, read the last few lines to jog my memory about what was going on, cranked out another couple of scenes and pressed submit.

Over 2700 words. Great. But when I went back to continue, I discovered something. Once the words are counted, the file disappears. It was my only copy. Today I face the blank screen again, even more behind. Like T.E. Lawrence, I have to regenerate what was lost and carry on.

Purple shoes and disappointment

I sometimes wonder. Am I the only person with wide feet? There must be more of us, but not many. We're a very small market, so shoe manufacturers don't bother to cater to our needs.

I've been looking for some comfortable new shoes that are not boring, not ugly, not black. Just wide. Very, very wide.

Those of us with wide feet have a special kind of radar: we catch a fleeting glimpse of shoes and think excitedly, Those just might fit! Once in a blue moon, they do.

Today I thought I had lucked out. I was early for the dentist, and when I got off the bus on Broadway, I found myself looking into the display window of a shoe shop. I glanced in and saw a pair of purple suede loafers that looked both handsome and sensibly wide.

The young salesman was indifferent. No, he said, they don't come in wide. He handed over the first box, then crossed the store to simper at his reflection in the mirror. I held my breath and eased my foot in. My size, 8 1/2. The left one was perfect; the right hurt.

I asked for size 9. No nines, the clerk reported, and brought out size 9 1/2. Too loose. Maybe a nine in black? Casually, the young man dashed my hopes. No nines in any colour, he said. No hope of getting more. Their season was over.

The lovely purple, the almost-fit -- it was so very disappointing. The good news is, I've become realistic. I'm no longer tempted by any shoes that feel less than fabulous. I'll have to keep looking.

So long, Teddy; Hello Nanowrimo

Today I say farewell to the charming Teddy Bear that sat on my bed here at the Inn and strike out for home, following the less-travelled route: the winding highway that meanders up the island to the bridge at Deception Pass.

On All Saints' Day I call on the saints of writing and my personal muses to guide my hands as I join in a challenge that is going on all over: National Novel Writing Month.

This will be a seat-of-the-pants effort. All I have now is the original idea, and the determination to control my point of view by beginning the first sentence with the word "the."