What I love most about the internet is that it makes it easy to do things that you didn’t even know you wanted to do.
For example, I just published an ebook.
Oh, did I mention I also made a promo film for it? Enjoy the short film, then head over to my publications page to find out how to get a copy for free.
Yup, free. I like you guys so much that I’m giving it away until December 21, 2009.
Darien put a hurried red ‘X’ through an old ladies picture. Deftly swapping his pencil for his cigarette, he called out to no one in particular: ” Three in a row, New York Times. Getting close, getting close”
The lunch room was a sketch of muttering and rustling papers as the other players upped their game, rushing to fill their own obituary bingo cards.
“This world needs more drinking on the job,” said someone from the Industrial sector.
“And school bus crashes,” Mal, from Juvie chimed in.”How come those things never go off of bridges as often as they do on TV? I can never catch a damn break.” He tossed his WSJ in the trash and snapped his blue pencil. “Screw it,” he said. “We all know oncology has the inside track here. What’s the point for the rest of us?”
“Bingo, my funky be-yotches,” Alistair called out, as if on cue. Three weeks straight for the oncology department. “Two lines anyway, courtesy of Mr. M. Beller, 1930 – 2009.” He folded his LA Times and grinned.
The buzzer went off. The Reapers shrugged their cloaks back on, grabbed their scythes, and trudged off to work. Mr. Hanley was at the door, handing out afternoon assignments as they filed out.
“Just one measly little bus crash. That’s all I ask.”
Darien put an arm around Mal’s boney shoulders. “Chin up,” he said. “I have a good feeling about the Midwest. Those farm kids are getting bored and mean faster and faster these days.”
I came, I saw, and I got conquered.
Before committing to National Novel Writing Month, I sat down with the calendar and a calculator. Given my oddball work schedule and various and sundry commitments, my daily word count would have to exceed the magic 1667 per diem. I was looking at 2631 words per available day. Some days I just made the count, some days I surpassed it, and other days I fell monstrously short. In all, I wound up with just over 27,000 words.
Am I upset that I didn’t hit the magic 50,000? A little bit, but not much. You see, I had a secondary goal. I wanted to see what I would learn about myself as a writer.
My preferred format is the short story, and I was nervous about attempting a novel. Could I organize that much material? Would my fingers seize up from the typing? Did I have any ideas worthy of a novel length story? The only way to find out was to do it, so I did. Here’s what I learned:
I have a very short long term attention span. After two weeks, I missed my other activities. I like to keep up with technology and gadgets, dabble in a little coding, and muck about with new software. When I got my Google Wave invite, I lost it. Total geek-o-rama for 48 hours, and I loved it. From there, it was back into the neglected feed reader to get lost in bits and bytes about neuro-plasticity, artificial intelligence, my beloved Android phone, and cartoons. I thrive on switching gears.
I missed my reading time. All output and no input makes Trev a dull boy. Ideas beget ideas, and stories beget stories. If you want to stand on the shoulders of giants, you need to make the acquaintance of those giants. Around week three, I threw in the metaphorical towel and picked up novels by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and TIm Dorsey. I’m back in my happy place, and I like it here. I already have two new short story ideas & revisions for another existing project.
There’s more than one type of writing. The physical act of writing, putting the words on the page, is one of them. The other is the creating and organizing part, the imagination game, as I like to call it. The act of figuring out the who, what, where, when, and how of your story. The latter is my favorite part. I simply like making stuff up. NaNoWriMo’s emphasis on the former was a challenge. I found I squeezed out some interesting ideas under the weight of deadlines and daily word count, but I had to leave them unshaped and uncared for while I chased the mighty 50k. This bugged me. I felt a real need to balance the typing and the creating.
Along the way, I discovered some tools, some tricks, met some new and interesting people, and had some fun.
Was National Novel Writing Month worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? Maybe. Will I continue to edit, revise, and build on the 27000 words committed to the hard drive? Yes. But first, I am finishing my book.
Another from the Six Sentences Archive to finish off National Novel Writing Month. This was originally shared January of 2009.
When your crouched in an aisle in the back of the poorly lit corner of the university library, surrounded by 2 years worth of the Journal of Pop Music, you’ll know. You’ll know because you will look up and see a woman in a simple paisley peasant skirt and a mom-knit sweater, her frizzy red hair corralled by a sky blue hair band. She’ll hike up her skirt, sit in the middle of the aisle three feet away, and pull her own year’s worth of journals off the shelf. She’ll tell you she’s researching the influence of Latvian bugle calls on house music, and asks what your searching for. You tell her Indonesian punk rock, circa 1992 and she raises an eyebrow. Then she smiles, pushing her constellation of freckles into new patterns. Pulling her backpack to her side, she removes a tupperware container of home made cookies, pops the lid and offers you one.
During National Novel Writing Month, I am highlighting a selection of my contributions to the 6 Sentences Social Network. This was originally posted in March of 2009.
I notice the orange cones that mark a ladder sticking out of a manhole cover, and I look because I am the curious sort.
A head and shoulders emerge, the eyes darting about like a rabbit at the mouth of a well hidden hutch. The worker sees me and calls out “Hey mac – you got a screwdriver on ya? maybe a dime or a jack knife? Something, anything to turn a small screw and make an adjustment to the gear ratio before this city starts losing time . We might miss the next generation by almost a month.”
I pull the lining of my pockets out, signaling my lack of relevant tools, and pose my own question: “Are there really alligators down there?” The city worker looks at me and shakes his oil smudged head in bewilderment.
“Some folks will believe anything,” he mutters descending the ladder.
During National Novel Writing Month, I am highlighting a selection of my contributions to the 6 Sentences Social Network. This was originally posted in March of 2009. It was in response to a prompt from Anthony Venutolo
It used to be a nice place
Somehow, without anyone noticing
It became a soap opera with a good wine list.
Double shifting due to the new kid
double fisting at the bar after his first paycheck,
My aching feet and complaining knees support an
invisible willingness to clear plates and fill
water glasses with a smile.
In the few quiet moments while
they chew, sip, and nod I lean
against the oak bar and observe
eyes bounce from table to table like errant
ping pong balls.
Some put on their church clothes
Spend too much on food they can’t pronounce and don’t appreciate,
trying to convince themselves they aren’t Ralph and Alice.
But they are. Even quality tailoring
can’t hide that.
Some travel in packs, teeth glistening
armoured in tafeta, rousching, designer denim, and satin pumps
convinced they are doing battle with someone other than themselves.
They arrive as warriors, and
go home slaves.
Table, booth, or bar
it makes no difference.
Everyone that walks through the door
feels like a movie star because
it’s our job to make them feel that way.
When the chairs are up, the floors
glisten with mop streaks and the bleach
in the air stings my eyes.
I will go fetch Lisa the sous chef, from the kitchen.
Hand in hand, we catch the last train home
Our pockets fat with 15% of the dreams
the dreamers dreamed tonight.
