Articles Tagged with: the brave

Smashed

219,276 words in, and suddenly I’m all finished. The big draft, at least. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a private tear of two from my lurking-place in the back corner of the café as I tapped that last word and hit “Save”, either. Whatever that feeling was that washed over me, it was intense, and I liked it. Today was a good day.

There’s a shitload to do now – in a lot of ways, the real work has just begun – but tonight, I rest. Messy, but beast now has a start, middle and end, and a distinct voice, shape and flavour. The rest, from here, is just in the details, the perfectionist’s urge, and blind luck.

The writing part has been so awesome, particularly these past couple of weeks, where it’s been my full-time pursuit. The momentum, rounding the final curve, has been incredible. My first day in the library I cracked about 3000 words, the total gradually rising, until today, running on very little (too excited to) sleep, I crashed through 6000 words to finish out the final chapter and the shorter epilogue. I knew how exactly how it was going to end – the plan drawn up 18 months ago still largely holding true; all I needed to do was stick to it, keep my ass of Facebook, and type.

In the greater scheme of things, patting myself on the back today seems a little bit premature; just a draft. But it’s a first, and anything first deserves it’s moment.

So much work to do now, still. Two chapters I’m determined to turn into one. Minor characters whose stories I forgot to lay the groundwork for in earlier chapters. Important historic strands which only sprung into life once I’d hit chapter eight, now very much needing referencing somewhere in chapters one through seven. Hacky, shitty writing in the earlier chapters which progressively found it’s form as time went on and the narrator found his true voice. A tonne of repetitive words, phrases, errors. Probably around five-hundred too many instances of the word “fuck”. Some of the smaller characters need to be smaller. Some of the larger characters need a bit more three-dimensionality. Apostrophes…

…And these are the ones I can remember, not having read the thing back yet. A mess, to be sure, but it’s my mess, and one which I’m chomping at the bit and rearing to get in and improve upon.

Hope I’ve got a great novel for y’all to read pretty soon. I’ve got a novel now, at least.

I’m tired. School’s out. Time for bed.


One Million Keystrokes

Photo: stevecadman

Photo: stevecadman

I’ve been camped out in the British Library all week, typing like a mad bastard in a dark corner of the café. There are a lot of us there, us mad-bastard typists. I’m most probably not the only person tapping away at a novel either, though from a quick glance around at the MacBooks and the old-school yellowed paper notebooks, it appears that the aspiring novelists still only make up a small portion of the rows.

What’s hitting me, now so close to the end of this draft, isn’t the usual arsenal of self-doubt. It’s not like sitting amongst the shadows of the greats has fixed my punctuation issues or repetition, or that nursing the same £1.90 cup of coffee all day has bought me the literary degree I keep hearing I need to ever be considered anybody. None of that stuff is lurking around at the moment, swept into the darkest corners by the momentum and the pace which I’m now smashing through this beast.

The thing is, I’m having too much fun right now to worry whether it’s good or not. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Part of me doesn’t give a fuck, cause part of me is all about the “Hell yeah! I’ve (sorta) written a book“, which hey, regardless of whatever comes next, is a lot bigger a deal than a million others’ dreams or talked-up talk.

I’m not there yet. Not quite. I hit 200,000 words today, so I certainly hope the finish line is as close now as it tastes, based on how far through the mega-spreadsheet I am. I couldn’t help myself, right on the ding, to take a few and check the stats. It was astounding to see that I swept past the million-character mark a while back, which ok, doesn’t really mean all that much. But think about it: a million of anything, even a thing as inane as fingers tapping on a keyboard, certainly feels like either something, or madness. 

It’s a strange feeling, galloping down the final straight after so long plodding along with the manuscript, stealing a few hours of a normal week, as opposed to the 20 or so I’ve spent writing during this one. I shouldn’t say “final” either, really, because this will most certainly not be the end of work on the book. Quite the contrary, but because it is the first time through the novel thing – and not the last – the milestones feel like they’re worth celebrating.

Not long now. Eyes on the prize.


Writing Yourself In Too Deep

Write what you know“, they said. “Look to your own life for inspiration“, they said. So I did, only to discover there was indeed a story lurking in there. But now, plodding along somewhere in my last chapter (not including the epilogue) I’ve been getting a distinct feeling that perhaps – oh shit – I’ve written far too much of me into the novel.

First-person was always going to be tough not to completely separate, but when the main character is living through a similar major arc to a chapter from my own life – a major chapter dotted with incidents and incitements whose kernels are pulled from my own memories and the collected fireside tales of my colleagues at the time – then complete isolation got tricky. Next time (and there is most certainly going to be a next time, premise and rough plan already being held back while I finish the current opus) I’m going to stay far, far away from anything even vaguely connected with my personal life or personal history. 

Why? Well, not because I’m in too deep. It’s not like there’s been an Adaptation moment where I’ve realised I’ve written myself all the way in. No, our hero still isn’t me exactly. But sometimes he thinks and speaks like me; therein lies the problem. Call me paranoid, but should this beast eventually make it out there and published, there’s enough of my calling-cards in the current draft that people who know me are more than likely going to assume it’s all me. Or worse: know it’s not, but in later years, only ever remember the fictional account of the few scenes which I did lift from real life. Or even worse: I forget how things really were, and only remember the semi-fictional account I put to page. (To be clear: lifted the setup and the scenario, but I’ve mostly let the characters play things out organically within those scenarios, without too much forcing of square pins into round holes). Then there’s the exes, the one-night stands and the crazy germans who I guarantee will read more than their fair share into some of the fictitious-but-littered-with-hints-of-memory events in the book, and very easily become enraged to nostril-flaring, forum-burning proportions.

All sounds a bit presumptuous, self-centered and delusional, but that is precisely my issue: perhaps in a completely fictional universe, I wouldn’t have any of these insecurities bumping around, because hey, who cares? It’s my book, my story. If they don’t like it? Fine. No problem. I guess it wasn’t the book for them. But once that fourth wall has been broken, even just a bit, suddenly I feel more responsibility over how it’s all going to be received. Bad enough that this is my first novel, likely to be torn to shreds time and time as it is, purely for being the first, with all the rookie mistakes.

Which is fine too. I’ve learned a lot, and I can’t wait to get cracking on the next project to put all the new lessons into practice. I don’t entirely regret the inspired by actual events path that was taken, but I don’t think I’ll do it this way again. All the normal writer’s insecurity stuff aside, I’m mostly just sick of spending so much time in my 2003-4 headspace. A fantastic, thrilling, reckless and memorable time for me, possibly the most. But in other ways, the most lonely and self-punishing. And I think what’s bugged me the most during this process: if bits of me weren’t flooding so many of the scenes and situations I think I’d be much more able to switch off and walk away from the character when I’m not typing at my desk. Instead, I’m going to sealed-off places every night, writing them like it’s still fresh and raw; dredging up real shit for the sake of dredging up real shit kinda sucks.

But hey: if it makes for a better book, then whatever. I shouldn’t complain; I should just keep typing, then vent about the murky stuff afterward on a blog. “Write what you know“, they said. So I did, only to discover there was indeed a story lurking in there.