Out of ideas

Let’s try this once more, with the caveat that whatever I write now will be not much like whatever it was I wrote before. Mea culpa for writing when tired and bah-humbuggery in the first place. And so on.

It is now not quite three weeks since I stopped typing, punched the air above my head with both fists, and squeaked ‘yes!’. You’d've thought the entire experience had had time to settle. Actually, all that did happen was certain sections of my brain, the ones used for sustained sentence construction, shut down altogether and I spent two weeks at work explaining that, you know, the thing, anyway, it was, wasn’t it? So I haven’t really had much of a think about the NaNoWriMo achievement. Not until I told myself quite firmly that I needed to write something sensible about it, if only so that I could think about it and work out what I did think about it. [You can see what she means about sentence construction shut-down, can't you? - Ed].

After much ferreting about in the ante-chambers of my subconscious [which was fun. More gin, please] I came up with the following. Make of it what you will.

1. The kitchen did not crash through the floor under the weight of unwashed crockery and unlaundered laundry. My husband is a pearl amongst men, and does all the ironing in any case, so this should not necessarily have been an unexpected bonus, but it is nevertheless a little disconcerting to find out how not very vital one is to the running of the household.
2. Nevertheless, I am the better cook.
3. I am perfectly capable of a sustained creative effort. I just need deadlines and people’s expectations and such. This explains how I came to write a thesis, and had yet to finish a novel. It’s also slightly embarrassing; whatever happened to being a self-motivating grown-up such as the one I insisted I was in my job applications? Anyway, deadlines are not the sucking dry of the pith of creativity at all, and clearly my Muse is a donkey that runs on wallops and a running commentary of emotional blackmail.
4. Writing is the cure for just about everything. Plot stalled in the fast-lane, making foolish coughing noises whenever the engine is switched on? Get out and push. Keep writing, even if all you are writing is ‘well, obviously, I need A and B to have a big row here so B can storm out in preparation for the next chapter, but A has no motivation, so what don’t I know about A? Ho hum. My feet are cold.’ It will eventually catch and you’ll be off again, winging down the highway to the end of the chapter. Ditto, if you think your lead character is boring, or you can’t imagine anyone wanting to have sex with him, or you realise on page 78 that character C should have been introduced on page 2. There is nothing morally wrong in writing ‘NB, C at scene of murder,’ in caps and carrying on.
5. The Editor will shut up eventually if promised full control of the redrafts and veto on who gets to see the manuscript. [It's my job, woman!]
6. I spent many happy hours hiding references to Metaphysical poets in the novel. Good Christ Almighty, what is wrong with me? [I could a tale unfold.. oh, never mind]
7. Writing about unrequited lust, incestuous desires, squalid sex between people who don’t like each other much, and riding crops is not only great fun but worryingly easy. [See? Fretful porpentines are the least of it].
8. I did promise myself, and insisted to the Editor, that I’d deal with the rewrites after, yes, after Christmas. This has not stopped the novel dancing about in my forebrain these past two weeks, demanding more and better jokes, several new characters, a rearrangement of the sub-plot, and fresh underpants right NOW. Once you’ve started, you can’t stop. To be borne thoroughly in mind.

Hello, Editor here. I know some of you don’t like me much – thanks for ruining my suede loafers, by the way – but you’ll have to lump it. I am here to announce the unprecedented success of my very own little writery person.

Reed hit the 50000 word finishing tape at approximately one a.m. Greenwich Mean Time and was so bewildered she staggered woozily on for another 472 words before being fielded by the support team and hosed down with lucozade.

She is spending today medicating herself down off her caffeine high with paracetamol and ghost stories.

Normality will be restored over the weekend.

I thank you

The other night, as I fought and tore and wrenched myself closer to the 30000 word mark, my husband came over, bringing me a cup of tea. He stood behind my chair and I leaned my head back against his manly solar plexus and sighed. He stroked my hair.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

I waved my hand vaguely at the word-count widget.

‘I miss you, you know, in the evenings,’ said my husband, wistfully.

I smiled. How sweet of him.

‘Of course,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘I miss the computer too.’

Look! I’m very nearly exceedingly half-way there! 24205 words!

[Er, Reed, honey, it's day 20 - Ed]

Yes, but I’m practically half-way there, which is very cool indeed.

[Yeah, verily, my feet are freezing. But you've already used up two whole thirds of your days allowance.]

So I’ve only got 25000 words to go!

[In ten days.]

Well….

[That's 2500 words a day.]

Err…

[And you've been managing 1250 words a day and whining your head off about it.]

But…

[So now you have to double your output.]

*Distant sound of weeping*

[Sheesh.]

The thing is, I don’t like my main character much. I don’t even get the luxury of loathing the poor sap. I just… don’t like him very much. He looks interesting, he has an interesting job and an interesting scar and an interesting heart-rending dilemma to be getting on with, but he seems to have all the personality of a lettuce.

Which all adds up to a giant quagmire of blah in the centre of what otherwise, if I say so myself, would be quite an interesting detective story.

Please, please tell me, what makes a reader care for a character? What makes a character interesting? It’s clearly not a colourful past. This character’s past is positively lurid. And I just. Don’t. Care. It isn’t the pangs of a complicated love-affair. He’s in love with the main suspect. I. Just. Don’t. Care. How can so much happen to such a steaming non-entity?

I’m going to go play with the coffee machine. It won’t help Lead Character sparkle, but it might stop me biting my own arm off in sheer bafflement.

Writer’s block.

I’d swear, but I haven’t the imagination to make it worthwhile.

This is not beginning with quite the flair and panache I was hoping for. Day four of 30, I should have written 6666 words already. I have written 4850. Underperforming just a tad, that’s me.

[Never mind that now. You have an entire first chapter in which one of the main characters doesn't appear at all, which if my memory of police procedural serves me right, means the entire first chapter is screwed. We need to re-write - Ed]

I think you are missing the point. The point, the actual POINT, is to write 50000 words by midnight, November the 30th. Quality is not an issue. Really, it’s not.

[But the bloody woman isn't there! And you just left it and went on to the bit in the library with the dumb cat! Which, by the way, also sucks, and the cat makes me puke, so when you've put the woman back into the first chapter, and thought of a good joke about wellies, you can go and remove the damn cat. Replace it with a spider plant or something, no one will notice.]

No. Because we agreed. I am not back-tracking and re-writing anything. We can deal with nauseating cats and vanishing inspectors after Christmas.

[Well, go back and correct your typos, then. They're getting embarrassing.]

No.

[Christ, but you're no fun at all. Can't I even go through and change all the real place-names to imaginary ones?]

I have to write 1666 words every single damn day! I can’t waste time and energy faffing about with your fucked-up perfectionist whining! You can have a go at the bloody thing afterwards! We had an agreement! I am not going to correct ANYTHING until after Christmas!

You can see why I’m lagging behind already, can’t you.

[Nothing to do with the insistent blogging, then?]

Oh, just sod off.