The Word Cloud

 

Edward was sat at his desk, hunched over, pen in his hand scribbling down on a roll of paper, a letter to somebody. Beside him, were several other pieces of paper, all of them addressed to the same person, all of them torn and scrunched into balls. Edward had spent along time writing this letter, for it was important to him. Strangely enough, he found writing this letter more important than work, so much so, that when he entered his shop ten hours ago, he had not opened it. Instead he sat down and tried to finish this letter.

He continued to writ the letter and so far he was happy with it. After writing a paragraph, he checked it thoroughly before continuing. He didn’t want to mess it up. He was so immersed in his writing that when the back door of his shop creaked open he did not hear it.

However, he did hear footsteps moving closer to him. He spun around.

“Who’s there?” he called out into the darkness. “Show yourself! I warn you, I am armed!”

But that was a lie. True, Edward did have a fine collection of swords in the back of his shop as well as three pistols and a rifle at home. None of these however, were reachable, for the sound had come from the back of the shop and Edward’s house was several streets away.

The footsteps grew in pace and soon they reached the door between the front and the back of the shop. Edward felt a strong surge of fear engulf him like a raging fire.

He picked up the nearest thing to him that would come in useful in a fight. Unfortunately the closest thing to him was a sharp fountain pen that would not come in very useful if the criminal had a knife, or maybe a pistol.

Nevertheless, Edward inhaled deeply and quiet as a mouse, he crept across the room so that he was next to the door. When the criminal entered, if they had a weapon, he would stab the quill into their jugular, if not; he would try and knock them out. Since he drew in his breath, he had still not exhaled.

There was a clicking noise as the door knob was turned and slowly the door opened. Obviously the intruder thought he still had the element of surprise. Once the door opened wider, Edward saw a flash of silver and assuming it was a knife he lunged at the intruder, the pen held firmly in his hand he aimed for the jugular with all his might.

The intruder put up his hand to block him and pushed him towards his desk. For a moment, Edward caught a glimpse of his attacker. He recognised them immediately; he also saw that it was not a knife the intruder was carrying, but one of the swords on display in the back of the shop. Edward did not have time to respond, for the intruder charged forward, the sword held in front of him.

Edward yelled as there was a slice in his chest. He fell back onto his desk and he looked up to see the face of his killer. The next thing he knew he was gone. Edward’s eyes were wide open and were looking blindly at the ceiling. His face was contorted in a mixture of pain and shear terror. Edward was dead…

Autumn does seem to have arrived, doesn't it? And it's not just the weather and the plum jam-and-crumpets; across the aspiring writer world, the first thing that's asked once the sand's been shaken out of the beach towels, and the piles of post and pizza menus combed for those dishearteningly fat SAEs, is, 'Are you doing NaNoWriMo this year?

NaNoWriMo, for the unintiated, is National Novel Writing Month. The idea is that those who sign up spend November writing, furiously, towards the standard goal of a 50,000 word novel. The website makes no bones about the focus of the whole thing: "the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality." The website also has busy, supportive forums, places to track and/or post your wordcount, and post some or all of your novel. In NaNoWriMo's home, the US, there's even schools-based Young Writers programme. On November 3rd a great many aspiring writers decide it's not for them, but at midnight on November 30th, a great many other, baggy-eyed, hysterical, triumphant NaNo-ers bow their heads to the smoking keyboard, listen to the shrieks going up from the forums, and wait to receive a downloadable certificate of achievement. 

And, as Autumn follows Summer, if there's a slow news day on the literary pages, a journalist will ring up a big-name agent or publisher or author or six, and say, 'Can you write a good novel in a month?' and the agents or publishers will say, 'No.' And the writers will say, 'No. You can't write any novel in a month. Writing's all in the re-writing, the long hard slog, the professionalism and the craft. You don't understand; it's not just about doing a bit of sitting down and scribbling.' 

I think agents and publishers say that because they dread the slush that's going to pour through the door around 15th December (you need two weeks to sort out the stamps and covering letters), but I think it's also because many of them don't understand how the process of writing works. And the authors certainly say that because it's true, and because every single one of us is sick to death of people saying at parties that they've always wanted to write a novel, but just don't have the time to sit down. (It's right up there with, 'Hoping to be the next J K Rowling, eh?' for inducing homicidal thoughts. Pray it's a finger buffet, not something involving steak knives: though I'll give evidence in court in your defence if you need me to.)

So I ought to be agreeing with them, and I do, sort of. On the other hand, I know several writers whose published novels started life as a NaNo project. Which just goes to show that it depends what you mean by 'Write', 'Good,' 'Novel' and 'No.' True, 50,000 is too short for pretty much any adult novel to find a publisher these days. But what do you mean by 'Write'? If we're talking publishable, then 'No' stands. But the key to it all is a bit further down in the NaNo FAQ's:

The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly. Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

In other words, thinking quantity, not quality, disarms your Inner Critic: who cares if it's not perfect? 'Write' in this sense just means Shitty First Draft, and if we're in that territory, then 'Good' is beside the point. Good comes later. For now, just keep going! Never mind if your friends are all down the pub, it's only a month, they'll know you love them again before Christmas. Forgotten a character's name/hair-colour/psychopathic tendencies? No time to look back, make a note, keep going. And then on November 30th you look up and find you have a story: it has characters who talk and walk. Sometimes they surprised you, but you didn't have time to argue, you just followed where they seemed to be going. It uses words you'd forgotten you knew, peculiar relatives you spend most of your life avoiding, a deeply frightening thing that happened when you were twelve, and you never told anyone. It has a shape, a beginning, a middle and -- well, you didn't quite make the end of the story but now you know how it needs to go, and there's the Christmas holidays to finish it. And if it's going to end like that, then that bit at the beginning will need a bit of a re-think, but that's okay. And the middle bit, when you'd really got into your stride, now that really is Good, even though you weren't trying to do good writing. Maybe because you weren't trying to do good writing...

No, the vast, vast, vast majority of what's written won't get anywhere near a publishing contract. I suspect NaNoWriMo shows a lot of people that the life of an aspiring writer (which is the necessary prelude to that contract) isn't for them, and in human terms that's as positive a result as being shown that it is. But either way, there's human value in knowing that all round the world, others are going through it too. Writers are by nature solitary: all too often they're also lonely, obsessive and slightly nuts. NaNoWriMo takes all those characteristics, and makes them make sense. If I wasn't up to my neck in other stuff, I'd be sorely tempted to join in.

So I thought I'd write a short story for the first time in ages, and when I didn't get anywhere with it in time for the Guardian competition, well, there's always Manchester, which is a longer wordcount anyway - more my style. It won't get anywhere in the comp, but it's nice to commission yourself, and so on. I flipped through notebooks for ideas, spent a couple of afternoons thinking it out: powerful central conflict; neat, tight situation; small cast; pleasing structure; all strips down nicely to a single, central idea. How about spending the weekend on it? Can't wait. On Monday I'll know if I've got anything worth working on or not.

Then I went for a walk this evening, started thinking round it and round it and...

...it's a novel.

It's unarguably a bloody novel. In fact, it's not just a novel, it's the novel that's been baffling me, because received wisdom is that your fifth published novel should be something different from the first four, and this is. (Always supposing anyone wants to give me a contract by then.)

I wanna write my story. I don't wan't it to be a novel. But it is.

This is my blog - it contains all information regarding the projects I've been working on, the main one being my novel. Please check it out and post comments or email replies.

Thanks

Stephen

http://fallfromgracebook1.blogspot.com/

 I love my non fiction work - the research, the chasing threads, the satisfaction of finding connections and explaining discoveries. I have one book under my belt and am on the second...

But somethings happening in my brain and I am wondering if I ought to give fiction a go sometime. No solid ideas yet - just a feeling, just a tiny spike of green thats breaking through dry barren earth. Do I water this little shoot, speak nicely to it, even play it music with positive vibes - or do I think its just a passing fad, like when I spent £50 years ago on a beautiful red pair of roller skates and was bored within six months?

Until yesterday I havent been able to engage in my research for about a month or so - because of domestic needs, particularly son doing a level resits  - and so my creative brain has been quietly 'resting'. And this morning there was this notion in my head - should I try writing a novel too?

speak to me, wise ones - I want to hear your words of wisdom.