The haves, have nots, and the path to self-discovery: Week 1 in Review.

I just put down my pep talk for week 2, and I feel... elated.

The book (No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty, for those who may have forgotten) cautions of some of the stumbling blocks that week 2 presents. Plots ambling aimlessly on toward nothing, characters and dialog that fall flat. Lack of inspiration. Losing steam. I am happy to say that, while I'm aware that this could always change, I am suffering from none of those problems. I was also delighted to learn that on the eve of beginning week 2, I have already accomplished the task set forth for me by the guidebook I'm reading: a major plot point. Something big and exciting has to happen to further the plot. And as of just a few paragraphs ago, it already has.

I recall the beginning of Day 1, when I woke with giddy anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning. This was the day, I thought. I had my ideas, my setting, my characters, and a band of friends standing on the sidelines ready to cheer me on (and to give me a swift kick in the pants when I needed it). I'm really going to do this, I thought. And I knew that just for having the idea, there was a whole slew of people (myself included) who were already proud of me. That was really all the fuel I needed to begin. So I did. Of course, I've had a few moments of fear, and one of near-panic, when I wondered if I had any clue what I was doing, if this would turn out like my many foolish youthful artistic pursuits: ballet class, trumpet lessons, watercolor painting, voice lessons (okay, that one wasn't my fault - the teacher made me cry), flute lessons, and dating a drummer. I went into all of these things gung-ho full steam ahead at first, and quit most of them within two weeks (I wanted to ditch the drummer at the end of the first, but my friends wanted me to hang on for another seven days or so just to be sure). I really didn't want this to be another round of flute lessons. But my big fat mouth has served me well thus far, in that by shouting like the village crier about my intentions at the top of my lungs to anyone who will listen, I've guaranteed myself a legion of devout followers who are doing as they've pledged and encouraging me every step of the way. I've posted my daily progress via word counts and snippets on Facebook, as many of you have seen, and there hasn't been a day gone by when I haven't gotten about a half a dozen "likes" and comments. I'm not writing this for the acclaim, not by any means, but it sure as hell helps keep me going. I'm very grateful that I haven't lost my zeal for this thing, not even a little, but it's a relief to know that when I find myself hurtling at terminal velocity toward some frightening literary abyss from which I may never wish to pull myself, I've got that support network as a backup chute. I'm counting on it to pull me through a day to come when I'm feeling especially low and wanting to abandon the whole thing, if only to say, "Hey, there's people who want to read this. Even if I don't give a fig about it at the moment, I don't want to let them down." And in this process, as odd and clichéd as it may sound, something truly wonderful has happened.


What's happened?

I've inspired. I've had a handful of people tell me that they've got this thing they put on a shelf a long time ago that they're now thinking of dusting off. And that really floors me. Whether it's something as simple as cleaning out the garage or something as huge as getting your Master's degree, every one of us has some project that we've kind of pushed aside, mostly out of the intimidation because we don't think we'll ever really be able to accomplish it. I've got plenty of them myself, this book not being the least of them. I've got a few things I've always wanted to do but never really tried, partially because of laziness or constraints in time or finances, but more so because I was just too freaked out by the idea that I might fail. And failure is a real possibility with anything worthwhile we ever attempt. It's to be expected, at some point in life. And if you're anything like me, you'll fall down a lot more than you fly. Personally, I was just too afraid to fall down. I've always been very hard on myself, and I didn't want to go through the self-ridicule and shame I know I'd put myself through if things didn't work out in any of these ventures. I figure it's probably somewhat the same for a lot of people. So the idea that I may have inspired someone, even just one person, to jump over that huge-ass hurdle, knowing from personal experience what they're facing on the other side, is just freaking incredible to me.

I've structured. I'm not an organized person. Anybody who has ever seen my bedroom can attest to this. I've got papers and books and clean laundry (folded, but not put away) everywhere. I just can't be bothered to put anything where it belongs, because I figure it's just going to be more convenient to pluck it from wherever it happens to land. But every single night, without fail, I've marched myself home to write, forgoing workouts, TV, reading, and any other sort of leisure time, indulging only in a little bit of background music (instrumental only - I find that anything with words distracts me from my own) to keep me company while my fingers pound away at the keys. On a couple of occasions, I have turned down offers from friends to get together, and even ended evenings early in the midst of the merriment (which is often much harder) in order to get back home to my novel. And the funny thing is, it really doesn't feel like that much of a sacrifice, simply because...

I've loved. I love so many things about this book, and the pursuit of it in general. I love reading a good story, and the one way to guarantee a good story is to write it. I love the plot. I love the setting. And more than anything, I love the characters. So coming home to spend time with them isn't a chore, it's an absolute pleasure. For a while, I wondered what I would do with them. Should I have the token tough-as-nails woman or the rough-around-the-edges man? A chirpy best friend? A shadowy villain? Well... sort of. My characters do fall into stereotypes sometimes, but what real person doesn't? My protagonist is a lot like me, but she's more suspicious and cynical. My male lead is like many of the guys I've met and gushed over, but more polished. The coworker/friend is like some of my coworkers and some of my friends, but nosier than some, less fashion conscious than any of them, and overall a great deal more likable than you'd expect. The grandmother is feisty to the point of being almost crass, but she's also very motherly and loving. I honestly didn't plan much about these characters when I started out - it seems like a foolhardy thing to start writing a story when you don't know anything about the people you're writing about, but looking back, I'm happy I didn't. I've come to find that with the plot in mind, it doesn't much matter what my preconceived notions about the characters are - I dropped them smack into the story to see what would happen to them, and they've come to life without any coaxing whatsoever from me. In an odd sort of way, I don't feel like I created them, which is why I don't feel at all narcissistic in saying that I do in fact love them very much.

Perhaps even more amazing, though, is what hasn't happened.

I haven't mimicked. Sure, there are small elements here and there inspired by some of my favorite stories and authors. I've got a plot that revolves around time travel and historical events, which is reminiscent of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon that I'm currently reading. There are some supernatural elements as there are in the Twilight series, which I read over a year ago, but really only bring themselves to light now because they were just so bloody popular, and I was afraid of inadvertently aping some of their qualities thinking it'd guarantee me a bestseller. I guarantee you, though, all of my characters (with a minor exception) are 100% human. There are no bloodsuckers or werewolves. And the methods of time travel behave a little differently than they do in the Outlander series. I knew from the beginning that I wanted a character to travel from centuries ago to the present day, but I struggled with how I was going to get him here. The idea hit me like a ton of bricks one day, and I have found, much to my delight, that for every idea I've had, there's been a bit of history and science that grounds it. (And no, I don't believe that the concepts I'm going to present in the story actually work, but there are a number of scientific facts and belief systems swarming around the concept that I think I could legitimately pass off the idea that it could happen.) Most fortunately, though, I've found that the ideas are enough unlike any of the ones I've read before that I can feel satisfied that I'm not repeating anyone else's work.

I haven't compromised. As I mentioned earlier, there have been many times where I've received invitations and offers from friends to do anything other than noveling on a few different nights. Each time, I politely declined, citing my reason. I'm really not ashamed that I'm giving up on bar-hopping or movies or simply socializing to spend time in front of my computer, which is a big thing for me. I used to be thrilled just to be invited out. Now, I figure, there's always going to be another invite. And barring a serious economic downturn, the bars will still be there next month. Although given the recent state of the economy, it's certainly possible. But I'm willing to take the chance on it. I've also forfeited participating in something that I was really excited to do at first, but when I realized that it might get in the way of my writing, I had to let it go. It wasn't an easy decision to make, but in the end, it steels my resolve even more, because I think things tend to feel worth a little more when you've had to give things up in order to get them.

I haven't failed. With each day, I've not only met, but exceeded my word count according to daily goal presented in the NaNoWriMo book. At this rate, I'm going to easily exceed the arbitrary 50,000 word count by the 30th day, although I'm mostly concerned with the actual progress I'm making. I don't want 50,000 words about nothing. I'm currently trying to blend quantity with progress, and I think checking in with myself daily is keeping me on track with that. I'm taking this thing one slow, steady word count at a time, and now, at the 1/4 checkpoint, I'm doing remarkably well.

I've had a lot of minor catastrophes in my life leading up to this point. Nothing earth-shattering, mind you, but things that affected me deeply and caused me to think... a lot. I doubted myself. I blamed everything that was going wrong on my own inadequacies, but I didn't really do anything to stop it. I guess I somehow figured that blaming myself was enough, and that if I thought so little of myself as to think I was incapable of fixing the problem, that would somehow rid me of the responsibility. It really only led me into a spiral of sitting around idly and waiting for things to change. Any idiot could have told me that they wouldn't, not for the better, anyway. But as is my firm belief, you can tell someone that the sky is blue until you're... well, blue in the face. But until they actually look up and see it for themselves, they're never really going to hear you.

At some point, I looked up. This endeavor is about more than me writing something that may or may not pop up on bookshelves across the country, or taking a thought that's been in my head for months and putting it down on paper. At this point, it's become about me proving to myself that I really am capable of a few worthwhile things, and that there are actually things I can manage on my own, and that once in a while, if you ask for something, you just might get it. In finding something like this that's worth pursuing, that gives back twofold for every bit I put into it, I've become painfully aware that there are some things I've been pouring my heart into that are utter and complete dead ends. I've made some bad investments of time and effort in the not-too-distant past, and while it's very hard for me to let go of these things that just didn't pan out, I realize that for every minute I take away from one thing, I'm pouring it into something even bigger.

Ahem. Sorry. (Why was I ever worried about a word count?) If you've made it through my sickening proselytizing, I applaud and thank you. As something of a reward, I've compiled my daily snippets for your perusal:

Day 1:

“I tell you what,” she called over her shoulder. “Give me a
half hour with you – a case of Avon samples
and a box of Ogilvie… you’ll be a new woman.”

“And a prime candidate for my own hosting gig on the
Home Shopping Network,” I muttered.

Day 2:

“Well, Officer,” Marge said playfully, “He was about six feet tall, between twenty-five and thirty, with dark hair and deep brown eyes…”

“So was the Unabomber,” I said pointedly.

“Honey, that was no Unabomber,” Marge said, flipping a hardcover edition of Great Expectations open and scanning its barcode. “That was Prince Charming.”

Day 3:

I found myself with a rather ridiculous vision of Alexander Kendall, wild-eyed and savage, ripping the precious ledgers in half with his bare hands. In my mind’s eye, he tore open cardboard boxes with his razor-sharp teeth, emitting a growl as he shredded registers and rare books. I was forced to laugh. “Yeah, right. Even I think I’m being ridiculous on that one.”

Day 4:

The stars above began to swim in large circles, faster and faster until they crashed into each other, shattering the heavens in a celestial explosion. Had he been able to look then, he would have seen a tall, young, dark-haired Englishman staring after him, his lips parted in awe. Intelligent though he was, this Kendall would never inherit the wind as he had done.

Day 5:

“I’ve not really done this before. I should hate to think that my inexperienced workmanship would leave you stranded at the roadside somewhere along your homeward path.”

“Why do you always talk like you just stepped out of finishing school?" I asked.

He threw his head back and laughed. “Forgive me, Miss Chapman. I am merely a product of my upbringing. From this point forth, I shall make every effort to act the complete scoundrel.”

Day 6:

My fingertips grasped the ring, feeling the solid weight of the metal in my palm. It looked rough in a way, and it was obvious from its slight imperfections that it hadn’t been engraved by a bit of machinery, but carved by the practiced and patient hand of a skilled artisan. I stared at it for a moment, attempting to understand the symbol that had been engraved on it, which was nothing like anything I’d seen before. I turned it about at a few different angles, but it wasn’t making any more sense to me than it had at first glance. “What is it?” I asked finally.

“A lion,” he answered, “Passant, to be precise. It is a symbol of valor.”

“Sounds like something you take pretty seriously.”

His nod was solemn as he turned to me. “I do.”

Day 7:

The memory of two days prior slammed into my brain with full force, to the extent that I absently lifted my free hand to my forehead. I had sat, legs curled under me in the safe haven of the archives, flipping through the photo album detailing the Croatoan dig. Among the many articles and pictures of the artifacts found, one of them had been missing; that displaying the insignia ring. And so had, I recalled belatedly, the ring itself.

I also recalled Alexander conveniently being at hand to assist when my tire was flat… for what purpose? A tiny knot of dread began to flourish and grow in my stomach. I’d not only allowed him to help me with my car, but to follow me home. He’d paused to admire my mother’s photo in the hallway, and what else? Gran had mentioned treasures in the attic. Was he now under the (albeit greatly mistaken) impression that there was something of value there? My breath caught in my throat. Ted had mentioned the horses he had stabled near Bennett. Did he mention where they lived? My mind scrabbled frantically for the answer.

No, but I had.


...And that, my dear friends, is week 1. As always, I thank you for sticking with me through this. I couldn't have made it this far without your gentle proddings. And now... on to week 2.