This Novel-Writing Thing

So, I said I had decided to aim for that lovely goal of writing a 50,000 word novel within the month of November.  It started out beautifully: the idea came and began to flow as the characters took life and I wrote the 1,667 words I needed a day, enjoying the surprises happening as the plot began to form itself.

I am still writing, but my measly contributions of a few hundred words to the word-count mean that I am seriously behind.  The problem is neither lack of desire or inspiration, but simply time.  It is difficult to work long show days and still have time to write.

Thus I have a quandary: what do I do?

It is incredibly difficult for me not to do what I have set out to do.  Hence I would rather not abandon my goal.  Yet perhaps I ought to put my energy into other projects and let this novel grow more slowly.  Is there any great advantage to writing another novel to add to my files of interesting-but-not-at-all-worth-publishing-and-maybe-not-even-worth-reading works?  I am not sure yet.

There is certainly worth in practicing my writing of fiction, something I have done not much in the past few years.  I do want to see where this story goes.

Still the question remains: should I force myself on to the end and to complete the 50,000 words within this month of which only twelve days remain?

NaNoWriMo 2015

I was not going to participate in National Novel Writing Month this year.  After all, it takes an incredible amount of time and I have not been able to do so for the last several years for that same reason, so it seemed a reasonable decision.  I even vaguely considered not participating as an opposition to the month in which it was chosen or the fact that so many people out there are writing bunk because they can.  Yet somehow the challenge of writing 50,000 words in one month is too much for a writer.

It is a little strange to me to be defining myself once again by the term writer since for several years I was a theatre artist first.  Now I am sinking back again into the old knowledge of writing and the ideas are coming....

So what else can one do when faced with the NaNoWriMo challenge and an idea that just happens to come at the right time?  I said yes, of course.  Fiat.  Let it be!

Hence I am now a little over 3000 words into this epic adventure.  I have a wonderful brother and sister duo each with their own similar struggles.  I have a war setting with refugees in need of care.  I even have a place to put them: this story will go into the world of another story that I have yet to finish writing because it needed more time to germinate.  So I will explore the world a little with this story and see where it leads.  Already there is a mysterious character that promises to reveal something about my female character, if not about the terrible problem facing these people.

There are so many ideas begging!  I am happy to pursue one of them, although sad that I cannot follow them all at once.  It is good, though, to be ready to write, to develop my skill further, and to take seriously something that has always been the fruit of my own need to create something and to explore new worlds than for any other reason.

Some of us just seem to be created to be happy only when we are writing.  Perhaps it makes sense, as it means we are fulfilling our end and hence becoming fully ourselves.

So I had better halt my philosophical ponderings here and return to my writing, for I have not yet written my 1667 or so words for today.  I know at least what shall begin to fill that section of the story, but beyond that mist still lies....

To What Point and Purpose?

Perhaps every writer reaches a point when he wonders what is the purpose of his writing, when all seems dry and fruitless, when he wants to give up but cannot.  I have reached that point.  It may be that my perfectionism has reared its ugly head again, making me realize that, no matter how well I write, my writing will never be good enough.

Surely there is purpose to our writing despite its flaws?  For certainly no one else will ever write what we would and should we fail to obey the insistent call to write, the world would lose some unique piece of its puzzle.

So we must write on, against all doubts, all fears.  We must write even for a purpose we cannot see.

Yet we must not write in vain.  For it is vain if we hold up our first efforts as a work of genius that the world must adore.  Instead we must look lovingly at our frail attempts, smile upon our faults, and carry on.  We must write and write again and rewrite until it is polished—until it is as perfect as we can make it.  For we must not blanket the world with shoddy writing, but with great art.  Even if we find ourselves laughing bitterly at the possibility that we should ever create something great, still we must go on: for if we write on when we cannot, then we know not what realms we shall reach beyond ourselves.

Therefore, begone demons of despair!

We will write on, even if it be futile.  At least for the moment we can stave off the darkness.  We await the light of dawn to shine upon what we have wrought unknowingly.

Within and Without

Within each one of us there is a dark chasm, a well of emptiness, a hunger that cannot be sated....

Is it not so?  Furthermore, is it not true that we must strive to fill that hole?  Who can bear to remain still with this emptiness within?  Not I.  Nor few others certainly, especially since many even seem to succeed in filling it, if only for a little while, as they fight the darkness, staving it off with pleasure or entertainment.

Yet nothing ever fills it wholly and therefore nothing ever sates.  We must always have more.  So we go on and on, stuffing in the next good or perceived good and then the next and so on in a continuous stream, striving with all our might to ensure that vacant space has something in it.  We go on, even when we know that nothing will ever satisfy.

An artist cannot do the same.

I do not mean by this statement a literal truth that an artist is unable to stuff perceived goods in to fill this hole; indeed, we are all too ready to try—perhaps even the first to do so.  I mean, more accurately, that an artist MUST NOT.

Rather we artists must point out to others that the hole is there, that we all share this emptiness within, that in this suffering there is yet good.  For if we do not, then who will?

I can look at the world about me and see suffering: then pain rises up within me that I can do nothing.  There are all those hungry, thirsty, worn down by overwork and disease, the sick, the dying, and worst of all the hopeless, the empty, the abandoned....  What can I do?

Then I look at all the greatness of human development and I wonder why we do not set our sights higher.  Why do we not aim for life rather than for death?

For death it is that we move towards often enough, even if that is not the goal for which we strive.  It only takes a look around to see the fruit of this unintended end.  For instance, snorkeling around Kauai shows dying coral and fewer fish as unknown quantities of pesticides poured upon GMO crops leak into the ocean and destroy the ecosystem.  Another example breaking upon the news of late: the tearing apart and selling of body parts from pre-born babies, a so-called business carried out since the 1980s.  And there are many more cases.

As I brood on these things, my heart cries out: why?  Why must this be?

These and other tragedies come from some reason surely—from some perceived good.  It must be that people think only of the gain and not the cost, the profit and not the person, the money earned and not the life lost....

What am I to do with this world?

I can hide in my room, or within the safe bounds of the life I have set out for myself.  I can pretend these evils do not exist, choosing instead to stuff the hole in my face with chocolate and set my mind upon old literature, traveling mentally back to days gone by, and so on.  Oh, how easily I can do this!  How easily I can lean back on my selfishness and pretend to care for none but myself.

Yet even more than one who wants to escape the evils of the world I see about me—even more than one who wants desperately to pretend that there shall be a happy ending within my lifetime—even more than that, I want to add my small part to that which cries out for the truth.  I want my voice to resound through the world—or at least my neighborhood—to say that truth is real, that goodness is real, that beauty is real.  I want people to believe in love, in sacrifice, in the common good.

Sometimes I believe that someone might actually hear my voice and have a change of heart.  More often, though, I believe that no one truly cares about another, that no one would even think of giving up some small convenience for the good of another, let alone a complete sacrifice of one's entire life for others.

Yet, as an artist, I must have hope.  I must speak that hope into the vast chasm between me and the next person.  And I will keep saying with the words of a character known as the Poet: "This is good, but something is better...."

So it is that my hope rises up beyond my cynicism.  It blooms like the tiniest of flowers, waiting to be trampled underfoot or crushed by the cold ice and snow of winter if the sun come not in time.  I want to hope, but I do not want my hopes to be dashed.  So it is that my questions remain:

Am I wrong to even hope that someone, somewhere, might want to hear my thoughts resounding across that great chasm between us?

Am I wrong to believe that if we unite we can change the world, one small step at a time?

Am I wrong to even believe in hope itself?

Dear Readers, I Need You

There are many reasons to write a blog.  For instance, I have heard it is a good idea for an author to have a blog to attract fans.  Also, it is encouraging as a writer to have people who want to read one's thoughts on various subjects posted on the blog and hence perhaps even one's stories.  Yet it is not for either of these reasons that I would like to take up writing more regularly here again.

Rather it is because as an artist I must put my work somewhere that it might touch someone.  Even if only one person ever reads it and appreciates it, even if I never know that my words have touched another, I still must write.

For an artist works for others.  A writer needs readers.  Having an audience helps to draw one's work forth from the deep pit within that can be both creative and destructive.

We artists are as needy as anyone else.  We want to be loved even more than other people, if that is possible.  Yet rather than ask for that love, for we are often shy, we put ourselves into our work—no one knows how much of ourselves goes into it—and hold it out as an offering of love.  If you can just appreciate a little this work, that is enough.

So that is all I ask.  If you can appreciate my writing here, please do.

Even better than mere appreciation: if something I say sparks ideas, feel free to comment.  I would be grateful to hear your thoughts, your responses, your questions, and even your ideas for future posts.

For I have many topics I would like to address that I might not dare touch here, thinking no one would want to know my thoughts on that subject.  If I know that someone wants my words woven together as a chain for communicating some of these thoughts, I will gladly bend my will to this task.  This is for you, dear readers, few though you may be.

Garden Blemishes

Weeding strongly affects one's perspective on life it seems.  A simple task can lead to deep thought.

For, as I walked back to the house this evening, I found I could not simply walk back as one does with the purpose of arriving at the place to which he is headed.  Instead, having spent time weeding of late, I had to stop and pull each weed I saw.

I did not appreciate the flowers or bushes, nor even the light shining through the trees.  All I could see were the weeds that needed to be pulled, and in this moment of compulsiveness I stooped not necessarily to make the place more beautiful, but to fulfill a duty.  If I had wanted to make it more beautiful, I might instead have turned my gaze upon the beautiful aspects of the gardens.  I might even have changed my perspective to see the whole as beautiful even with the weeds.

Yet I missed the passing beauty of the light that will never fall exactly the same way again, of a garden that will never look the same tomorrow; I missed everything but the weeds.

This is not to say there was nothing good in my weeding.  No doubt the garden really did look better without the weeds.  Also, I found it comforting to thus make my mark upon my surroundings, to fulfill this small duty, to accomplish something that clearly needed to be done.  There is a sort of pleasure in destroying something that is not seen as good.

So the weeds lie there shriveling in the garden now for whatever that is worth...

Take this as you will, dear readers.  I doubt you will need an explanation of this parable, but if you do I will not mind providing it.

The Time Has Come

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot--

And whether pigs have wings.

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

That is the quotation that always comes to my mind whenever I start to say "The time has come...."  In this case, I intended to begun with that statement for the very reason that the time has indeed come for me to return to writing, both here and elsewhere.

Since I started writing seriously around the age of twelve--having wanted to be a writer since I was five or so--I have found it makes my life richer and more meaningful.  I have always had ideas crowding to mind and the itch to write.  I find that when I sit down and put words to paper to pursue the ideas floating through my mind that it makes me happier.  No doubt this is the way of a writer.

Well I have just finished approximately three years of fallow time.  It is good to be a writer again.

This time of dormancy began originally because I had decided to pursue the study of theatre.  I love theatre because it is an extension of my love of writing--a way to make all of my stories live.

I learned an incredible amount in my small drama program, not only about theatre, but about writing.  I had no idea how much I had learned until I came back to the sixth draft of my novel this spring.  I knew that my playwrighting class had taught me a lot.  That was writing, so its potential influence was obvious.  Not so obvious, however, was the effect of everything else I learned about dramatic action and objectives and the theory of theatre and so on.  All of it is combining to make this sixth draft so much stronger.

It is paradoxical that one can become a better writer by not writing.  This is not to encourage laziness or avoidance of writing.  It is true, however, that once one has spent years and years reading and writing and reading more and writing more, all that work needs time to lie dormant before it is ready to sprout forth.

I hope soon--perhaps in a year or less--to have a finished draft to share with the world.  Until then, I hope to resume my random postings on here.  I hope I shall leave you, my readers, with some fruit from your time here.