Reaching a Lull.

Sue Grafton was right on time with this week's pep talk:

...Many writers begin their novels with a burst of enthusiasm. There's a measurable outpouring of time and energy...This hype, this glorious feeling of Omnipotence sometimes continues unabated until Chapter Two. By then, most puzzingly, I might notice something is a miss. You may find yourself in a similar position at this point in the game. Whether you've written a thousand words or ten thousand, you may find yourself faltering. A little note of doubt may creep into your consciousness..."

Well, yes. A little note of doubt has crept into my consciousness. I'm still wondering if my plot is strong enough. If my events are logical enough. Every chapter, I'm describing someone doing something I don't know how to do: how do you plant a tree? What's it like in the hub of one of those big construction diggers? Later on, I'll have to talk about nuclear fusion. Or is it nuclear fission? I'm deciding that a rare astronomical event is necessary to bring my dark horse out of the sky's shadows, and, you guessed it, I know *zilch* about astronomy. It's going to take months of research to get this all exactly right.

The honest truth is, I get to this point with all my projects, the bloom is gone off the rose, and the amount of work ahead and the meager skill I have become glaringly obvious. Things seem daunting, and a cup of coffee and then bed are more attractive options than working on the project (in this case, the novel).

Scene and Structure has really turned my head around, given me concrete pointers on how to up my game. I'm re-examining each scene, seeing if there are ways I can bring out or introduce conflict, or clarify the cause and effect from moment to moment. I'm getting little glimpses here and there, trying to tighten the bolts down on my plot. I'm not sure it's there yet.

I'm also not sure there's a point in starting again - I know I'll need at least one more draft before this story is fully readable. But, I just realized in horror that I'm only approaching Chapter Four, and there are twelve looonnnng chapters ahead. I must put some speed on.

My work week ends today, and I'm putting Chapter Four (7000 words or more, if all goes well) on deck for tomorrow. It's the least I can do with the whole day free, I suppose. I'm recommitting to see myself through this lull.

It's 11:11 on 11/11.

Ha!,
jul

Crazy.

I am sitting here at work, trying not to go insane.

For the past few months I have been a camera lens, struggling in and out of focus every minute. I like to think that I'm moving daily toward the life I want, but I also know that I am lazier than I should be.

How do you reconcile that?

Dunno.

I'm just walking around the office, trying to cajole the most busy people into pointless conversations. Sometimes it works, and I succeed in wasting time.

NaNoWriMo isn't loaning me a Neo this year, so I had to take matters into my own hands and try to get one from somewhere else. Seconds ago, I won a Dana on ebay, and I plan on juicing it up. Just how?, maybe you're asking yourself? Heh, heh. Details to come. But I will say, it involves fire engine red. Rrrooowwwwrrrr.

I am poking at the novel plot.

It's still not a plot, as such, just a loose list of characters that I plan on throwing into a soup. I'm not sure if it's going to fly, though. Namely, because you usually need a plot to get a novel off the ground.

So the question of the moment is: How do you take someone potentially reprehensible and make them sympathetic, or even, hilarous?

It's been done before, authors with more skill than myself. The example that calls to me most at the moment is A Confederacy of Dunces, the funniest book I have ever read. Just brilliant. Both Martin Amis and David Foster Wallace have managed to pull off humorous, intelligent ensemble pieces that were Lit Fic-cy, so there isn't a ton of action happening every minute. How do they do that?

I am reading greedily, but not for pleasure. Last night I had to slow myself down...after finishing The Autobiography of Red I tried to move straight on to Nabokov's Despair without a breath. I had to stop, dizzy, like I'd just been running down a hill too fast after eating too much. I feel like I'm cramming for exams, needing to take in as much good writing as possible before November 1st. My fingers itch to write right now, just to get back into the habit of slinging words together again, but I don't want to take a chance on writing something that might end up a part of the novel.

Because that's cheating.

Exams, indeed.

And why do I start every sentence with 'I'? That's not good form at all.

jules