The Month of April . . .

Starting with Camp NaNo, this month got off to a roaring hello.  Thorndale part two is well underway and doing fine!  However, I stalled out in the middle of the month--not from "writer's block," but rather family matters.

Gathering together to clear out an overdue storage unit, the reunion's end felt more like an estate sale.  I dropped my schedule in the wake of such a feeling and focused on the items pulled from the cover of dust.  In it, scattered among half the boxes and piles, barely taped, yet aptly coated in the filth of neglect were things each of us had believed to be lost.  For myself, the most dear is my first novel.  The first one that I dared to complete, I should say.

It is what I consider a fan-fiction nightmare . . . not of sci-fi show or fanciful cartoon or superhero rage from TV/Screen, even a book's characters', but of another outlet just the same.  Fan-fic, being that I was a fan.  Sadly--admittedly--I cannot bear to watch it anymore.  That being said, the fascination still heralds a time, rather phase in life, and one which I devoted so much of myself to complete.

In the last week, I have kept the first notebook of the work close, and the last few pages of the book loose-leafed in a binder on my desk.  Before me, I splayed the pages of an unfinished print out of what I had attempted to type up on an old word processor (also found in time's mire, though the disks have been lost--what little was found, I dare think to be corrupted, but will still try at a later date).

I truly believe that we, as writers, tend our ideas and grown them in different ways.  In a time where I craved to write, but lacked feasible content, back in August or 1998, I sat in the front row of a college math class and dabbled with a few 'characters' of which I adored from fandom.  I even scribbled across their names so that I may write in piece from passing glances.  My instructor thought I kept impeccable notes (as my grade was good), but, oh, little did they know!  Ha, ha, ha.  It was merely writer's fancy; not a love of numbers.

Back then, when ideas were fledgling specters on the wind, I wrote my story out in play/script format--though I left out the Scene locales and used hyphens instead of parentheses for action/notes.  Descriptive narrative was too steep a task.  But, this allowed for growth of an idea and the pages numbering 1-14, soon numbered into the 500s by April the following year--and my goal of writing a novel was now manageable feat.  I did not consider this work a novel for years . . . decades.  It was born from fandom infatuation and not in prose as we all see literary works to be.  So, I believed myself a fool and, over time, this novel lost . . .

Numerous boxes later, a week of inhaling dust, brushing off dead spiders, one mummified rat, and shooing countless, resilient, stinkbugs (they survive bug bombs, just so you know), remorse of a lost work culminated to rekindled nostalgia last night.  At the bottom of a box I was sifting, and beginning to deem trash, lay the missing five notebooks of a dream I had made flesh all those years before.  In February of 1999, I had set down, oblivious to all life but an idea, and rewrote the pieces of a broken story into a completed manuscript (script being the operative word, here).  I slept 1.5-3 hours a day, ate nearly never, and, eight weeks later, had turned eight drafts into a cohesive work.  To this day, my heart and soul lay on those pages.  And it is truly a spiritual experience to visit them again.

So much so that returning to Thorndale after such a reading of the past (and playing old cassettes from those same months or far, far beyond them--talking mix tapes from '88 here) has seemed to be a returning from a pilgrimage.

The untitled work will be retyped, as it lays inked in code (those lovely blocks for spaces and special characters no computer or human can pronounce, between each words, and some letters.  I have 215 pages of this which I have read this week.  highlighters work great in separating the line contents from the blocked interaction--like picking apart the Borg cube).  However, at a later date as well.

This past week has been a greatly awakening experience, one which has restored a deeply confused heart.

~ See you on the bookshelves!

Off to a roaring start on my first Camp NaNo.

3,773 words.  Am finding it most difficult to be unhappy with that beginning.  The fun of it, however, is keeping it going!  This has also gotten me thinking of another NaNo ‘topic.’

NaNoWriMo takes alot of flack for being the challenge that it is.  If you do not find it something which fits in your life, by trying to meet the demands on signup or by merely attempting to reach the 50k on your own (I did this for many unsuccessful years before joining the fray with a username), there is no harm, no foul.  This is a challenge.  Either you meet it head on and conquer or you try and learn.  Not every challenge is suitable for each and every one of us.

But, slamming the gathering as folly or delusion is not needed, if you could not reach the summit.  50k is not a Sunday jaunt through the notebooks, and the challenge is never more than you make it out to be.  I am finding that the Camps allow for more breathing room as the word count is adjustable—so is the November juggernaut, if you do not care about validation.  That, my friend, is a fierce type of freedom all its own.

For those attempting the mound that seems ill-advised, this test is quite simple.  Write the way which is best for you.  If planning makes the trail easiest and the words flow fastest, then plan.  Never stop.  Make scene cards, lists, bios, notations on the day’s work so that you can fine tune that moment next time you settle in to scribe.  If ‘pantsing it’ is more your style, blank page, no outline, no plot lines or the any such, than, you, those rare, freedom fed muses, write!  And write to your soul’s content.  This is not for the popular notion.  Never was.  It began as a dare for the challenge-ready; those few who banded together to test themselves and meet those like-minded, eager to test their literary prowess.  Essentially, it was a group looking to drink, feast heavily on treats of the chocolate persuasion, or toss chaos into their gullet to match the surmountable word count of the day, and laugh as they did so, cheering each other on with every page.  It was comradery.  A rare bond for such solitary an art.

That is my NaNo, as it is for most every WriMo who signs in to log their chances.  And, how, I have added gastro-chaos to the mix of words (there is a thread for that, can read of other exploits on the forum).

Throwing my name into the madness that is so named NaNo is not done for ‘prestige.’  I do not think there is such a thing in NaNo or the Camps.  We are writers.  We gather for that and that alone.  Winners get fun and ooogle-worthy colours on their yearly badges.  If you test, yet come short (a friend of mine missed validation by seven words—he could have added a sentence and resubmitted, but chose to let the words fall where they may), there are still fun and festive colours to adorn your wall of effort.  I wear a badge for a most miserable of years.  50-some words.  That is it.  That is all of my 1650 written words that I logged.  That was the year after my son was born and I did not contribute to my much needed discipline to meet NaNo as it required.

What it requires is: attention.

In one of my creative writing classes in college, the instructor had tacked to the rear wall of the classroom a sign.  Flimsy poster bord as it may be, it was still a sign.  It stated; simply: Due dates are closer than they appear.  NaNo fears feed on this premise, that the sign was, as it is: true.

Still, NaNoWriMo and its younger Camps, are merely what you make of it.  If you enter into the count wary and timid, it will visit your fears and shortcomings upon you.  That is what every type of challenge does.  But, even the most meek of writers, I have seen, win.  It is achieved in sticking to the goal of one word after another, of the dreams of seeing that graph bar reaching the top, and in the diligence of the writer to keep at it!  Doubt never won a NaNo.

Last year, I found myself homeless (spouse and I, our son off visiting family, whom we joined six weeks later, when work allowed).  I sat down at spouse’s work, the laptop, a notebook, and an outlet to make due.  I could have sat there, let self-pity have the party well stocked and waiting.  Instead, I wrote.  I tried.  Words did not always come.  Some days, 5, 7, 12, 22, others, I pushed and I pushed hard.  I focused all I had into the one thing I could control: my own decisions.  I chose to write.  I demanded I keep my mind on the one thing in life I could conquer, when all else seemed to be failing around me.  On the last day, I had nearly 5k to complete.  On more than two previous days, I had met the word count with 10k, 7.7k.  I knew I could do it!  But, I was scared.  In the hotel room we had scraped enough to pay for for a night, spouse off, they lounged watching TV, stopping to give me support anytime I slumped back from the keys.  At least, when I needed it most.  I scrapped, I pulled, I pecked out the words, dry of all energy and focus left to me.  I was spent and down.  The ticker in the corner of the screen, on the other hand, showed I was making progress.  Four hours left to the deadline, and I had 2.4k left to write.  And hour later, .4k.  I wrote faster with each tick of the word count.  And I validated.  I came up short, as often it does.  Somehow, a few hundred words are continually lost to that device.  So, I wrote.  Anything that fit, just to make it cohesive, and tried again.  Ended with 50.6k to validate with 50,021 words.  And with time left.  But, I had met the beast, and I had won—in a time in life where anyone would be justified to give up and walk away.

But, there is more to NaNo than a mere word count.  There is support.  On their forums, I voiced my dismay, when I wanted to log out of the challenge and leave for good.  Within minutes, of busy catchups and word-sprints and worries of their own, WriMos answered the posts.  They encouraged me—often when I was alone and needed the welcome and warmth of words.

So, yes, NaNo is not for the faint of heart scribe.  But it is what you put into it.  You come in with a dreamer’s heart and want and drive, my friend, NaNo is a golden road to the joy of a lifetime.  And, along the way, people to meet you never knew you needed.  There are potlucks and TGIO parties, Brainstorming luncheons, one Region has a chili cookoff to usher in the first words!

This challenge is merely the front door to a community of likeminded wordsmiths who love a good test, and healthy does of ‘what did I get myself into.’

Welcome to the fray.  We have plenty of paper, pens, and powerstrips.  WriMos, each and everyone…