Chapter 2: The seven thousand word itch

Back when I worked at a smoothie joint, I used to spend the day doing the same thing over and over and over.  In the summer, a Chicago summer where the humidity is enough to make you think you’re drowning and the sun never seems to set, there would be a rush from around eleven in the morning until four o’clock in the evening.  Typically, this left me putting scoops of fruit into a blender again and again and again, letting my mind wander and having muscle memory take over.  This was my favorite part of the job—the making of smoothies.  It didn’t require much interaction with customers, it came naturally, and because each smoothie was different in some way, it didn’t get too dull.  Strawberries, blueberries, raspberry sorbet.  Peaches, bananas, orange sorbet. Frozen yogurt, strawberries, bananas.  Sweet, sticky bits of fruit flying around, berry stains bursting onto my apron, my hair getting wet with sweat under my hat.  It was the same day in and day out, yet I kept going.  Because I had to—I had rent to pay.

There are plenty of things that are boring that we do because we need to.  Brushing one’s teeth isn’t a thrilling experience, neither is doing laundry or washing the dishes or cleaning the floors.  None of these things are interesting, intellectually stimulating, or anything other than necessary. So why, then, when I sit down to start working on another chapter, do I start to think that those would be far more fun to do than write?

I hate free time.  On the bus, I read or write in my journal (typically, though I frequently find myself staring out of the window at nothing for the whole trip).  But when it comes time to finally put those words to page (screen), it becomes a battle between productivity and Battlestar Galactica on Netflix.  Times that I would spend writing when I was in love with the idea I had for this…novel… are now spent doing the dishes or reading about the history of the word Anachronism on Wikipedia.  It would seem as though the simple answer would be to turn off the internet and just get to it, but there is more than that.

I feel as though I am at this point where I need to step away from what I’m working on.  Like we need to take a break.  “It’s not you; it’s me” I want to say, holding my novel’s hands tightly and looking directly into its eyes, “I just need space.”  Because, unfortunately, everything seems so boring.  Like walking around the same block again and again.  My characters start to make me shudder, their voices grating and pathetic, the place underdeveloped and underwhelming (can something be whelming?  According to the internet, yes.  But it’s synonym is “overwhelm” leading me to believe that this is a word people made up in order to distract me from writing and force me onto the internet.  Also to expose my underwhelming vocabulary).  

I don’t suppose there is anything wrong with working on something else to keep things fresh? I mean, my novel and I aren’t betrothed; we aren’t going steady; I didn’t give it my class ring.  It makes sense that I take time off to keep my brain working, coming up with different stories and problems, and seeing how those can affect my writing as a whole.  After starting a new story, I tried switching up point of view as I wrote, experimenting with an unreliable narrator, jumped around in time, etc. just to try and find something new, something fresh.  But I’m worried that I will fall in love with something else and forget all of the work I had done, all of the original honeymoon period of love and excitement that I had with this novel.  I want to finish it, I want to be with it, but I am afraid I will be lured away by another.

When I started with this idea, I felt alive.  I felt as though I had finally found something I could commit to and could finish.  I felt that, in the words of Adolfo Bioy Casares’ The Invention of Morel, “I am no longer dead; I am in love.” I want this feeling back.  I don’t want to take a break.  I just want to write and be content writing.  Is that too much to ask?

What can I do to keep myself going? 

Chapter 1: How the hell do I start?

Once upon a time- I mean, last night- I stayed up until 11 p.m. working on this… this… novel (I still shudder at the word).  In bed, with the lights off and the door closed, I started hacking away at what I hope becomes another chapter.  You know how everything glows blue when the lights are off, but a computer screen is on?  It's never been a comforting color.  It's kind of a sickly blue, more of a washing out than a wash of color.  But I digress.

I've been working on this book on and off for a few months (since August… maybe July. Four or five months).  But the idea that I had, a character's occupation, I've been kicking around since February.  I had no place for him to be, just what he did.  I thought it was a funny job, something that seemed like it would be rich for some kind of human interaction. I mean, if it does or not, who knows, but that's beside the point.  I'm forcing that, so whatever.

The thing was that actually putting him down into a story seemed to be impossible.  Everything seemed forced.  Every time that I wrote something I had every intention of putting him in, he would wriggle free from my creative grasp and hide away like a frightened animal in the back of my brain. It was maddening.  It's like having a twenty dollar bill in your pocket, but every time you go to purchase something, it turns into lint, only to regenerate once you're away from the store (naturally, in this simile, you were planning on purchasing booze.  Well whiskey, probably, so don't get too upset.)

But then, one day while bored at work (which is a desk job monitoring a computer lab.  What the gig lacks in pay, it more than makes up for in writing time) I started writing character descriptions out of boredom, characters I never planned on writing, while playing around with the voice I wrote them in.  I got attached to one, and the description of a drug dealer ended up being the first paragraph of what slowly morphed into this novel.  When it came time to say what the character did for a living, I gave him the occupation I was kicking around, and that was that.  It was basically a free write that gained traction.

Eventually, that original paragraph, and the next several pages, would be cut.  But those (terrible) free written paragraphs gave me the start I needed.

Which is different than I normally go about things.

When a story idea is at the front of my mind and I have things planned out and ready to go, I still find myself stuck on how to actually go about getting the thing written.  The empty space is intimidating, and I've seemed to trick myself into thinking that if the first line is a failure, the rest of the piece will be a failure.  So, how do I start when the thing that needs to just get out of the way is what keeps the pen from contact with the paper?

The same way every five year old ever starts a story that they're making up.  "Once upon a time…"

Seriously.  "Once upon a time" has been my tool for starting to write for the last two years now.  Think about what comes after.  Once upon a time is typically followed with "there was a [character] who lived [place] and there was [a problem]."  It forces the story.  Sure, I don't say "Once upon a time there was a republican campaign staffer in Minnesota who hated his coworker," (probably the worst thing I wrote) but it at least reminds me of the things that are important.  I start off knowing who I'm working with, knowing where I'm putting them, and I know what they're up against.  It also forces the story to start.  And I typically know that those words are to be omitted.

Sometimes I leave them there.  Well, kinda.  I replace them with a more specific time frame.  "Recently," "last week," "two months ago."  All ways that I have started stories.  Shamelessly.

Now, I get to deal with chapters or sections or stories within a story.  Each of these has to have its own start.  But hey, at least I don't have to deal with endings just yet.

I am writing a novel

I am writing a novel.

This, to me, is one of the worst things to have to say out loud.

"I am writing a novel." I say, sheepish grin while the barista looks at me, confused as to why I assume she would care. "I am making art and I think you should know about my genius. Before-- you know-- before I'm famous." It's at this point, the coffee shop growing increasingly smaller, tables and chairs piling up in massive piles underneath me, a funeral pyre for the self-obsessed and pretentious, my face growing increasingly more red, I'm sure, that I realize that no one cares. Sure, I'm writing a novel. So is everyone else. People who can barely structure a sentence are out there right now, slaving over romance novels involving vampires and werewolves, but for some reason I think that mine will be better than everyone else's.

As the barista, still exhausted from the partying her and her super cool, hipster friends did last night (which is something that I envy, being older than I really am and not able to stay up past midnight), I realize that I didn't say anything at all, that the words "I am writing a novel" have only come out in front of people that know full well that novel writing is something that I aspire to do.

It's like a secret society. People who want to make art, but are afraid of being labeled that asshole who always talks about that novel they'll never finish. People who want others to read their work, to give them the tongue lashing or pat on the back that they need or deserve. It's people who hack out sentence after sentence, sometimes planned, sometimes not, hoping that one day, maybe, they can sell their work and other people will read it and feel something. It's people who realize that that might not ever happen.

Writing a novel sucks. I have no shame in the fact that I hate every second of it. Writing-- well, writing I like. I love it. I have a ball trying to make something that I feel in the back of my skull and in the front of my chest into words and then for other people to read those words and feel the things I was feeling. It's a challenge, it's a sport. Writing is great. But the novel… The novel is a form of writing that I just don't even begin to understand. I read them and admire them. I try to dissect them. I try to think critically about the arc and movement of what is going on, and try to apply that to my own writing, but every time I try to sit down and do one, I get lost somewhere along the way and end up with a steaming pile of nothing.

The premise of my novel is not important. What's important to me are the challenges I face along the way. Character motivation, effective exposition vs. scene, how to keep the action moving forward while not stopping the full telling, things I've learned (and continue to learn) in school and whatever pops up along the way. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to offer answers to the questions I have, but hopefully there are others out there who can offer a helping hand.

Let us, the ashamed novel writers, the ones whose families ask what they are doing with their creative writing degrees, the ones who have big aspirations and little support, or anyone who just enjoys struggling with long form writing come together.

But let's not tell anyone, ok? I mean, my novel's not really ready for anyone to see…