Thank you, Chris Baty

Like many people whom are intrinsically uncertain of their ability to perform a given act, yet desperate to do so successfully, I have spent literally decades dithering.  I know I wanted to write a novel, I thought I had as much writing talent as most of the authors who do get published–perhaps even more–and I felt certain that given half a chance I could actually, some day, produce something worthwhile.  But when it came to the reality of the effort, I balked.  It wasn’t the work; writing to me, while indeed difficult and laborious in the extreme (you don’t think so?  try it sometime, if you never have), nevertheless for the most part is a great enjoyment.

No, in the end, it was simply the self-doubt about whether or not I could really produce something as complex as a novel.

Short stories are, in comparison, relatively easy:  few characters, one or two basic themes, beginning, middle, end, finish in a day or two, move on.  But full-length novels are something else entirely, much more than just a story that’s longer than others.  The expectation of the reader–and he or she must be paramount in a writer’s concern; if you’re going to presume take money and time from a person for a packet of entertainment, you’d better damn well deliver–is for in-depth and consistent portrayal of more than one character, at least a handful of sub-plots, well-crafted descriptions of settings, and little, or better, no extemporaneous material, no matter how much it might satisfy your own selfish desires.  And the reader–whether or not he or she is mindful of doing so–also wants to see this all seamlessly and harmonically interwoven into the greater narrative.  Think of a browsing deer, a copse of trees, a lowering sky and the warm yellow window of a distant cottage, all in a fine tapestry depicting the totality of a winter panorama with each element present, unique and identifiable, yet in balance with rather than overwhelming the rest of the scene.

In other words, you, as a writer, has to pay attention to detail, continuity and style, and maintain them all over a mass of words than can number well into the six-figures.  It’s difficult, it’s daunting, and it can scare the living shit out of you, so much so that when faced with the task, you can easily find yourself paralyzed.

Enter, Chris Baty and NaNoWriMo:  NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth.  What it is, and does, are pretty much implicit in the title.  To participate, one must take an idea for a story of a minimum of 50,000 words and drive through to that goal in the thirty days of November.  It’s a simple as that.  But what it accomplishes, for me anyway, is two-fold:  not only did I have to discipline myself to write 1667 words per day, at least on average, but because the time was limited, I couldn’t find excuses to worry about minor plot points, such as whether a character’s actions in one situation might be completely consistent with the nuances of his or her personality as depicted earlier in the work, or if I should name a critical street after This or That figure or feature, or if indeed a certain government office has exactly the mission that I claimed it does.  In short, if a problem ain’t critical, then move along.  This is just first draft, you know.  As Liz Engstrom, another great teacher of the craft, always says:  fix it in the rewrite.

So this year, not only did I reach the goal, I went beyond it, having well over 60,000 words today, the last day of the project.  Better yet, since I’m not concerned at present with all those little flaws that will inevitably arise during the course of a work, I can look back on what I have accomplished, and find that overall, I like it.  And I think others will, too, once it is polished up.  Which means, not only may I actually finish the rough draft–I think 70-80K words will do it–but I am more hopeful than I have ever been that I will then go on through the second, and then final drafts, and after that, seriously beginning looking for a publisher.

Thanks, Chris.  Couldn’t have done it without you.  Oh, and you, too, Liz.