Over at Twitter, Kim Priestap wrote:
The bad news: my 4 year old daughter has a stomach bug – again. The good news: I’m at 3600 words in NaNoWriMo.
To which I replied, with great compassion:
sorry about your daughter. what is nanowrimore?
Ah…this sounds like fun, but not for me.
I have written three or four complete novels in my life, and trashed all but one of them. Totally trashed, as in not one word still exists.
I have one book still in a desk drawer; I wrote it so long ago, that it really doesn’t work anymore; no one is still interested in Irish Republicans, and technology has completely outpaced my story, anyway. I am not a good novelist. I can come up with a story, but I get hung up on scenarios and dialogues, and the book just gets huge and unfocused, and then, sometimes, I just decide; nah, I don’t like that plotline, let’s make another. I am too capricious to write fiction. Occasionally I can manage one tight chapter, but it will be followed by five loosey-goosey meanderings.
But when I saw the Nanowrimo site, it reminded me of this blurb from my book, which takes place on All Souls Day. And, since it’s All Soul’s Day, I’ll show it to you and you can see why I am not a novelist.
It was her isolated sadness that had driven Keira to seek out Father Will Dunlap. On a cold November morning, as the wind howled, and rain speared down sharply, Keira sought a Mass for All Soul’s Day, a day of especial remembrance of the dead. Knowing the small congregation in town would be emotionally charged with grieving locals, Keira had driven to Dundalk, hoping to catch the early Mass, hoping it would be Will’s Mass, too. She thought she might talk to him afterward…maybe. If he would see her.
It was Will’s Mass, and Keira was struck by the change in him. Since Brennan’s funeral he had clearly lost weight, and grief at the loss of his friend had brought fine lines around his eyes, a look of mature sadness. He prayed the Mass slowly, with great reverence, but his homily was heavy. The church does not mourn, and death is looked upon as a change, not an end. The masses for this Holy Day were all about hopeful promise, but for Will Dunlap, on this day, it was a hard lesson to preach. His own sense of hope felt weighted, like a balloon tied down to an anvil, unable to soar.
Keira sat in the last pew, inconspicuous in a kerchief, and she had cried silently through the whole Mass, her tears washing one after another down her cheeks, falling into her open missal as she prayed for her dead. Brennan Thomas McMurphy. Aidan O’ Connor. Martin Hanshawe. She prayed too for Robert O’ Keefe, and even Myles McMurphy, for if God was merciful, didn’t those two driven, unknowable men require nothing but mercy, endless mercy? Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord, and let your perpetual light shine upon them, may their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God…the mercy of God…the mercy of God…
She had lingered for a few minutes, after Mass, gathering her courage before ringing the rectory bell and asking after Will. When he appeared, Keira felt her knees nearly give way and the priest was forced to drag her into the parlor, whether she was welcome or not. “I’m sorry,” Keira said, as she felt herself guided into a seat, “I guess I’m a little tired.”
“Sit, please, I’ll get you some water,” Will replied, peering suspiciously from the corner of his eyes as he left the room.
It was a chance to collect himself. Keira’s surprise visit had the effect of bringing his own taut and vulnerable feelings right up to the surface of his awareness, and Will was dizzy with an urge to run away. Good, God, Keira had come!
Offered only cursory condolences by a laity unwilling to permit common human grief to their clergy, priests are often forced to find their own way through layers of loss, loneliness and doubt; Will had been tending quietly to his sorrows. He had become comfortable in his brooding isolation, the long bouts of prayer and solitary walks. He had spent a great deal of time sorting out all of the separate stories concerning Brennan, Myles and all the rest. He read the papers and listened to the news, and Will developed a philosophy about the events of July that was one part “God’s will” and one part “shit happens”. It wasn’t, he knew, the soundest theology, but – like a protective wrapper – it delivered him through most days in one piece. Will was not looking for any human consolation that could bring new, human, complications. He sought no new answers; he didn’t want to rehash old questions. It was enough to do his job, say his prayers and tip the bottle with a restraint that owed more to apathy than willpower. It was simpler, that way, and safer. Oh, much, much safer.
But now, Keira had come.
As my Li’l Bro Thom as said, “it’s prose that makes you want to take a bullet to the brain, and not just because it’s trying to!”
I’m safer, clearly, keeping it to 700 words, or so.
But hey, try your hand; have fun!.
“It was a dark and stormy night…”
Well geeeeeez, what happens next?
[Long dramatic confession, absolution. Potato and Leek soup. -admin]
All you need’s a good editor.
Her sadness drove Keira to seek out Father Will Dunlap.
[Heh. And it took the long route -admin]
I tried my hand at being a novelist and like you, I can pump out first drafts and even love doing them. It’s the polishing I hate, the rewriting, the various choices one has to make that grow even harder the more one knows about fiction. So after 10 years of hard work and finally getting a novel published, I am back at journalism.
My ideal scenario would be to have Rumpelstiltskin polish my work for me.
I love your blog. Thanks for your insights and your great links and commentary.
Deborah
For heaven’s sake, Anchoress – this is good! Give us more!!
You may like the books of Edward Rutherfurd- he traces the history of a place by writing massive long books (over 1000 pages usually, but they can be read as a kind of short story anthology) about the history of one place throoughout time.
He is the author of “Dublin” & “Ireland Awakening”, whose subject matter should be fairly obvious.
I’m not a novelist either, or a a salesman! Obviously, as this is hardly the most persuasive & enchanting description ever written…
But I do think you’d appreciate these works. He has one about New York, & several others. I have them all at my mum’s house- keep them there in case I get bored on my visits
As for relationships between Britain & Ireland, past & present, I couldn’t begin to comment. Who could presume to speak on such a massively complicated, obscure doing? Apart from to say that ordinary working-class folk like my forefathers have never had any say in policy, so don’t blame us for anything the government may have done
Comment has magicked away- perhaps it was a bit long. But not as long as the original post
[No magic...your email address was messed up; put you in my spam filter -admin]
Thanks for a sample of your novel. I would like to continue on the next page. I always enjoy your blogs. You are, in deed, very talented. Don’t give up on the novel.
If technology has overtaken your book, it is now either a historical novel or alternate universe science fiction.
Your novel contains the only element absolutely essential to all novels: it leaves the reader wanting to know . . .
What the reader wants to know is unimportant, but the fact the reader does want to know means that you have him/her hooked and that makes your novel a success for the moment. The minute your reader ceases to want to know you have failed, but until then keep writing.
One more thought, write an outline of your plot. It may start with nothing more than where you are and where you want to end up and you may need to add elements later as to how you hope to get there, but the mere existence of an outline will keep you on track and help you to avoid loosey-goosey meanderings.
Then of course, never forget Steinbeck of Grapes of Wrath fame. He once wrote a grammatically correct sentence that took up a page and a half of print, but there was nothing loosey-goosey about it.
[Thanks, you're very kind. The thing really is garbage, though, and the only reason I showed this excerpt was because it mentioned All Soul's Day. I am at peace with inability to write fiction. If I were to try again, the house would never get clean!
-admin]
I’m with Maureen: make the novel a historical novel (set in the 1960′s perhaps?).
And Keira is one of my favorite names! How can you NOT finish a novel about a character named “Keira”?
My dear Anchoress i have a tough enough time doing sculptures and paintings without testing my patience at writing—i wrote to U once before that I thought U were a very good reporter–we can not be everything in life –
God only wants us to be good at what we do best.God Bless
NaNoWriMo: Because the world needs more unedited manuscripts!
That was wonderful! We are left hanging. What happens next?
[Confession, absolution, human reconciliation, renewal...a birth. -admin]
You’d have to look far and wide to find someone who loves to read as much as I do, but write? Let’s say I know my limits and I know I can’t write. Someone has to be the audience and that’s where I come in.
What’s wrong with your excerpt? I was captured, intrigued and more than willing to read a lot more. I did most of my reading from age 5 to 16 back in the 40′s and 50′s and lots of “historical” fiction. Anyone who can wade through James Fenimore Cooper and like it, which I did, is, of course, no “critic”. Used to be a “bread and butter” journalist back when facts were more important than ” interpretive reporting”. Wasn’t a sensationalizer either so never became highly acclaimed. Still, I find nothing wrong with your novel writing and would be glad to read it. I get your wrap-up of what happens but would rather read it in full. Just my opinion and two cents. lois
I have participated in NaNoWriMo every year since 2004, and while it’s not for everyone, I can state without a doubt that it’s had a huge influence on my life. In fact, after my boss saw me writing furiously during my lunch break one November, she decided to create a full-time writing position. Because of NaNoWriMo, I’m not employed full-time as a writer! In addition, I’ve learned not to fear a blank page, not to worry too much about the first draft of anything, and how to accomplish dreams that may be a little bit “out there.”
Even if nothing I write is ever published (which it probably won’t be, because I am not that good), I’m just glad to be able to write for the joy of writing. I didn’t know how to do that six years ago.
Heh. Sorry, typo in my above post. “I am not employed as a full-time writer” should be “I am NOW employed as a full-time writer.”
My typing skills get shot to heck in November.
I did NaNoWriMo. Once. Other years, I’ve been too busy revising or something in the middle, not the beginning, of writing something.
You might prefer NaPraGoMo.
link
The Ironic Catholic (http://www.ironiccatholic.com/) ran this site for the last two years, but seems to be busy with a new li’l Ironic this fall. Perhaps the Anchoress could step into the breach?
I gather that in the old days there were people who were taught to read (so they could receive orders etc) but not to write (because the ruling classes thought there was no point). I sometimes feel like such a person, given that I prey on books, newspapers, magazines, blogs etc. without creating anything of my own
I can’t imagine any kind of sustained output, let alone publication. The most I ever wrote was 10,000 words at undergraduate level (about the legacy of the English Civil War).