Saturday, October 31, 2009
NANOWRIMO 2009
Fall is in full bloom.
The weather is getting colder, leaves are changing color and what little sunlight I see is decreased even more dramatically.
For some people that means it is game season, a lot of people go to stadiums and yell at these people dressed up weird colored shirts and helmets as people get upset and throw stuff at their tv's. As hard as I've tried I simply do not understand what is so exciting about watching people play when I can do something.
For me, that something is the season of novel writing.
A sacred time of thirty days in which the skies part and the impossible becomes possible. Rules are broken, time is bent, large quantities of caffeine is consumed and stories are written during this month.
National Novel Writing Month (http://www.nanowrimo.org/) is the eleventh annual world wide insane competition that has the goal of writing a fifty thousand word first draft novel in the thirty days of November.
This is an absolutely insane idea that deserves large quantities of criticism and disbelieving looks. It is a ridiculous concept that works however. This will be my third year participating and to be honest I nearly gave up and decided to not write.
The past several years have been absolutely insane and this year has been one medical and social drama after another...and the past week has been especially difficult. Just like every person who never succeed I have every reason to not try...I'm poor, broke, jobless, sick, tired, sleepless, contradictory, confusing, sometimes heretical, oftentimes confused and...so on and so forth.
I can't speak for anyone else...but I know people have their little lifelines that they turn to so that they stay sane. For me writing and music are divine activities that keep me from going completely off the deep end...I don't know how or why...but I have this deep spiritual connection in being able to write to really loud music...I find this almost zen like place where I can shove all of this world's crap away and almost begin to see not just me...but the way in which the world was meant to be.
I can't find the exact quote but Stephen King in one of his novel introductions (one of the Dark Tower books I believe) mentions how writers are inherently selfish creatures that write for one of two reasons:
1.For others.
2.For themselves.
In a lot of ways I feel I fall into the second...that would explain my extreme abuse of the pronouns "I" and "me". I love it so much when I have someone send me a message saying a poem, story or essay I wrote touched someone's life...it made them think deeper or even just made them really angry with me and they wanted to tell me why I'm going to Hell for being a heretic. I mean, some sort of response and commentary is nice...but at the end of the day if I was just locked into a dark room with a word processor and a mixed tape of Daft Punk and The Clash I would write until I passed out.
I'm a selfish being who is still trying to figure out who he is and where I am in this absolutely insane world...part of that process is in writing. Writing itself is an amalgamation of every experince a person has that gets turned into something else. No book you have ever read has simply been churned out in draft...it's an incredibly painful process of rewriting and revising which can last for years...and all of it is in pursuit of some idea of identity.
One of my favorite quotes from the film adaptation of 'V for Vendetta' is that "...artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up."
Although a story has a lot of influence from the writer's own life (see anything written by Franz Kafka or Elie Wiesel if you want a good example of how horror can come from the soul) oftentimes the revising process takes out the fluff and adds in story.
So I could say no to writing...could crawl back into my shell and hurt...or face these demons and laugh at them. Like Martin Luther said "The best way to drive out the devil, if he will not yield to texts of Scripture, is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn."
I am still not sure of myself, where I'm going or if I am going to get there...I just know that there comes a time to draw a line in the sand and push back. This may be a struggle that goes on in my mind and soul...but it is a battle all the same. Maybe it is overly dramatic...but those who have dealt with chronic illnesses know what I'm talking about.
Life isn't always the happiest place to be...and the more you learn the easier it is to become bitter and cynical...but there comes a point to where you just have to let go and be yourself. There is no sense to hold onto false images of yourself because if you aren't going to make the effort to take care of yourself...no one will.
So in a way NANOWRIMO is therapy...just like writing poetry, essays and blogging at 3AM. Just like playing the bass, listening to ska and dancing across my room while my cat looks on in fascinated horror.
I have two novels from NANOWRIMO which are in various stages of rewrite. They form the basis from some rather grand attempt of mine to start a series about the end of the world and a group of heroes royally screwing things up so bad that the world gets taken over. I'm not sure what will become of that series.
In fact I'm still not sure of what I'll be writing about come midnight tonight.
I have several different ideas for stories...but still no real solid idea.
Some possible things I may explore:
-Romantic comedy of some sort.
-A musician (bass player of course) finally making it in a band.
-A guy so immersed in the world of an online RPG his life takes on a surreal quality where the lines between reality and fiction blur so totally that he isn't able to distinguish between reality and the role play relationships in a game.
-The sequel to that previous idea that a friend jokingly said she would write and my sequel would involve the two in a relationship and trying to make things world while a zombie uprising happens.
-A third book in my as of not yet series,
-A sort of play on the sniper character from the game 'Borderlands' I've been playing recently with my best friend James.
-A surreal first person story about a guy who wakes up in his apartment and is unable to escape (think Silent Hill like psychological horror).
-All of the ideas mixed together with an extra helping of George A. Romero zombies sprinkled in.
Goodness...I don't know.
Time is ticking away and the word count is looming in the distance as I stare it down and I am readying my sources of caffeine and my determination to win this.
As a last note I want to thank my brave friends who have decided to embark on this crazy venture with me...it's always nice to have people along when you are busy loosing your mind!
Onward to noveling victory my friends!
The weather is getting colder, leaves are changing color and what little sunlight I see is decreased even more dramatically.
For some people that means it is game season, a lot of people go to stadiums and yell at these people dressed up weird colored shirts and helmets as people get upset and throw stuff at their tv's. As hard as I've tried I simply do not understand what is so exciting about watching people play when I can do something.
For me, that something is the season of novel writing.
A sacred time of thirty days in which the skies part and the impossible becomes possible. Rules are broken, time is bent, large quantities of caffeine is consumed and stories are written during this month.
National Novel Writing Month (http://www.nanowrimo.org/) is the eleventh annual world wide insane competition that has the goal of writing a fifty thousand word first draft novel in the thirty days of November.
This is an absolutely insane idea that deserves large quantities of criticism and disbelieving looks. It is a ridiculous concept that works however. This will be my third year participating and to be honest I nearly gave up and decided to not write.
The past several years have been absolutely insane and this year has been one medical and social drama after another...and the past week has been especially difficult. Just like every person who never succeed I have every reason to not try...I'm poor, broke, jobless, sick, tired, sleepless, contradictory, confusing, sometimes heretical, oftentimes confused and...so on and so forth.
I can't speak for anyone else...but I know people have their little lifelines that they turn to so that they stay sane. For me writing and music are divine activities that keep me from going completely off the deep end...I don't know how or why...but I have this deep spiritual connection in being able to write to really loud music...I find this almost zen like place where I can shove all of this world's crap away and almost begin to see not just me...but the way in which the world was meant to be.
I can't find the exact quote but Stephen King in one of his novel introductions (one of the Dark Tower books I believe) mentions how writers are inherently selfish creatures that write for one of two reasons:
1.For others.
2.For themselves.
In a lot of ways I feel I fall into the second...that would explain my extreme abuse of the pronouns "I" and "me". I love it so much when I have someone send me a message saying a poem, story or essay I wrote touched someone's life...it made them think deeper or even just made them really angry with me and they wanted to tell me why I'm going to Hell for being a heretic. I mean, some sort of response and commentary is nice...but at the end of the day if I was just locked into a dark room with a word processor and a mixed tape of Daft Punk and The Clash I would write until I passed out.
I'm a selfish being who is still trying to figure out who he is and where I am in this absolutely insane world...part of that process is in writing. Writing itself is an amalgamation of every experince a person has that gets turned into something else. No book you have ever read has simply been churned out in draft...it's an incredibly painful process of rewriting and revising which can last for years...and all of it is in pursuit of some idea of identity.
One of my favorite quotes from the film adaptation of 'V for Vendetta' is that "...artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up."
Although a story has a lot of influence from the writer's own life (see anything written by Franz Kafka or Elie Wiesel if you want a good example of how horror can come from the soul) oftentimes the revising process takes out the fluff and adds in story.
So I could say no to writing...could crawl back into my shell and hurt...or face these demons and laugh at them. Like Martin Luther said "The best way to drive out the devil, if he will not yield to texts of Scripture, is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn."
I am still not sure of myself, where I'm going or if I am going to get there...I just know that there comes a time to draw a line in the sand and push back. This may be a struggle that goes on in my mind and soul...but it is a battle all the same. Maybe it is overly dramatic...but those who have dealt with chronic illnesses know what I'm talking about.
Life isn't always the happiest place to be...and the more you learn the easier it is to become bitter and cynical...but there comes a point to where you just have to let go and be yourself. There is no sense to hold onto false images of yourself because if you aren't going to make the effort to take care of yourself...no one will.
So in a way NANOWRIMO is therapy...just like writing poetry, essays and blogging at 3AM. Just like playing the bass, listening to ska and dancing across my room while my cat looks on in fascinated horror.
I have two novels from NANOWRIMO which are in various stages of rewrite. They form the basis from some rather grand attempt of mine to start a series about the end of the world and a group of heroes royally screwing things up so bad that the world gets taken over. I'm not sure what will become of that series.
In fact I'm still not sure of what I'll be writing about come midnight tonight.
I have several different ideas for stories...but still no real solid idea.
Some possible things I may explore:
-Romantic comedy of some sort.
-A musician (bass player of course) finally making it in a band.
-A guy so immersed in the world of an online RPG his life takes on a surreal quality where the lines between reality and fiction blur so totally that he isn't able to distinguish between reality and the role play relationships in a game.
-The sequel to that previous idea that a friend jokingly said she would write and my sequel would involve the two in a relationship and trying to make things world while a zombie uprising happens.
-A third book in my as of not yet series,
-A sort of play on the sniper character from the game 'Borderlands' I've been playing recently with my best friend James.
-A surreal first person story about a guy who wakes up in his apartment and is unable to escape (think Silent Hill like psychological horror).
-All of the ideas mixed together with an extra helping of George A. Romero zombies sprinkled in.
Goodness...I don't know.
Time is ticking away and the word count is looming in the distance as I stare it down and I am readying my sources of caffeine and my determination to win this.
As a last note I want to thank my brave friends who have decided to embark on this crazy venture with me...it's always nice to have people along when you are busy loosing your mind!
Onward to noveling victory my friends!
I never knew I could be so pissed off at myself for doing the right thing.
I...God just help me to get my head on straight.
Remind me why I'm alive.
I can pray...I can stay at a distance and separate myself so I'm not destroyed by my wayward heart.
I don't have to be subjected to every whim, every struggle and allow it to cause my heart so much pain. I'm here to serve but allowing myself to be destroyed serves no one and is a disservice to You...myself and those I'm here to help.
I just...have such a struggle with trying to do the right thing...for the right reasons...I don't suppose any of us ever come to You for the right reason, right Lord?
I just...I struggle...I need to communicate in my mind...but it's none of my concern...what happens will happen without me around. Life existed before and after me...I'm living and dying apart from billions of people...the few I come across are just fleeting moments that will be gone just as soon. It hurts but that is reality...that is everything...here...gone...forever...
It hurts...but I can...I have to survive.
I...God just help me to get my head on straight.
Remind me why I'm alive.
I can pray...I can stay at a distance and separate myself so I'm not destroyed by my wayward heart.
I don't have to be subjected to every whim, every struggle and allow it to cause my heart so much pain. I'm here to serve but allowing myself to be destroyed serves no one and is a disservice to You...myself and those I'm here to help.
I just...have such a struggle with trying to do the right thing...for the right reasons...I don't suppose any of us ever come to You for the right reason, right Lord?
I just...I struggle...I need to communicate in my mind...but it's none of my concern...what happens will happen without me around. Life existed before and after me...I'm living and dying apart from billions of people...the few I come across are just fleeting moments that will be gone just as soon. It hurts but that is reality...that is everything...here...gone...forever...
It hurts...but I can...I have to survive.
I'm so...so tired of hurting.
Can't we just get along now?
Without the pain?
The only thing worse than the pain is the feelings of...
Locationless, meaningless and drifting apart as it were.
Do you see it?
Do you really see?
Can you feel?
Really feel this coming?
It's not like I ever really believed,
believed in you
or trusted what could be real
or self assured in the night.
Everything is just drifting
and fading
and ripping apart.
Soon, so soon
I can be free.
Can't we just get along now?
Without the pain?
The only thing worse than the pain is the feelings of...
Locationless, meaningless and drifting apart as it were.
Do you see it?
Do you really see?
Can you feel?
Really feel this coming?
It's not like I ever really believed,
believed in you
or trusted what could be real
or self assured in the night.
Everything is just drifting
and fading
and ripping apart.
Soon, so soon
I can be free.
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