The Pitfalls of Prequels: Or, One Way “The Hobbit” Failed Us

George Lucas could tell Peter Jackson a thing or two about the pitfalls of prequels.

I’m only going to talk about one of the problems, and that’s as a storyteller, not as a fan. Because as a fan, I could go on and on, and none of us wants that.

The problem that struck me hardest – practically slapping me in the face repeatedly – was the lack of continuity of the storyline surrounding Legolas and its violation of the pact between writer and reader (or in this case, filmmaker and audience) known as the “willing suspension of disbelief.” You and the author are partners in your own self-deception:  you agree that, for the length of time that you are involved in it, you will believe everything the author tells you (magic rings are real) and in return, the author will not mess with your trust by doing anything so stupid or outrageous (suddenly changing what the ring does) that you can’t possibly strain your credulity any further.

As long as this pact is maintained, fiction works. When this logic is broken, we get a feeling like, “There’s something wrong here” or worse, “That’s it, I’m done with this story.” This can happen when a hero suddenly develops powers we never saw him have in order to save the day, or where a character acts in a bizarre way in order to advance the plot, or a simple question that would resolve everyone’s problems remains unasked (as in every bad romantic comedy ever). You find yourself throwing the book across the room or shouting at the screen in frustration, right?

And so we come to Legolas and his violation of the pact.

First of all, he is simply and quite obviously older, even though these films take place approximately seventy-five years before the events of the Lord of the Rings (LOTR) films. Elves are not supposed to age but unfortunately that does not apply to humans. Poor Orlando Bloom.

But as jarring as his physical appearance was, it is nothing to the betrayal of CHARACTER that takes place.

In LOTR, Legolas arrives at Rivendell as his father’s representative to the Council of Elrond. But at that point he doesn’t show any recognition of hobbits generally or of Bilbo specifically despite the fact that they had had this rollicking adventure together. Because, of course, they hadn’t. Legolas was inserted into the Hobbit narrative when it became a film so that – what? More girls would show up? When is Hollywood going to understand that lots of women love fantasy and sci-fi and we don’t need a pretty face to be drawn in? (Not to mention how many women were going to show up for Martin Freeman. Or for Benedict Cumberbatch’s mere voice. Poor Hollywood. You just don’t get women. At all.)

But worse, unimaginably worse, is the destruction of his innocence. Legolas has two beautiful moments in LOTR when he witnesses death. When Gandalf falls in Moria, and again when Boromir dies, Legolas is stunned like the others, but his grief has a complexity to it: this is an immortal being confronting mortality. He is unaccustomed to it. In fact, in the words of the director/writers’ commentary track, he has never witnessed it before, nor has he witnessed other people’s suffering in the face of it. And give the young Orlando Bloom credit: he displays this bewilderment and awe in his eyes, on his face, in his body.

But wait. Here we are in the Hobbit films and Legolas is surrounded by death. Not just death, but slaughter on a massive scale. At the Battle of the Five Armies, the ground is littered with bodies – elves, dwarves, men and even animals – and when Thranduil, Legolas’ father, walks among them up to his knees in carnage, he is nearly expressionless. Numb. As are we. It’s too much to take in.

Not only has Legolas participated in this horrific slaughter, earlier in the same film, he describes to Tauriel how his mother was captured and killed by the Witchking of Angmar.

This Legolas is fully familiar with loss and death, both mass destruction and personal pain.

This Legolas would not have reacted as that Legolas did when Gandalf fell and when Boromir died. He would have shown a different quality to his sadness. He would not have been desolate in the same way because it would not have been new to him. He would not have been experiencing it for the first time.

This hardened, battle-scarred, world-weary Legolas – this GROWN UP Legolas – doesn’t belong in the Hobbit. He can’t be there, because then he would have been there in LOTR, but he wasn’t. The future can’t be different just because you filmed it first.

You violated the pact, Mr. Jackson.

Perhaps I felt this more because I had just watched all the LOTR movies before watching the final Hobbit movie, or perhaps it’s because of my obsessively detailed memory; perhaps most people wouldn’t notice this change in Legolas’ character. Perhaps Jackson and his cowriters were counting on the latter. I doubt it though; LOTR fans are among the most obsessive in the world.

And anyway, just because someone doesn’t notice that you cheated doesn’t make it right.

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A Wrinkle In Revising, Or Why I Haven’t Read The New Pages of A Wrinkle In Time

As you know if you’ve hung around here for any length of time, the single most formative book of my youth was Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle in Time.” Originally published in 1962, it is a Newbery Medal winner and a classic of children’s literature. Simply put, it tells the story of Margaret (Meg) Murry and her quest to find her father who has been mysteriously missing for years. She is aided in this fantastic journey across space and time by her precocious little brother Charles Wallace, a jock named Calvin who has surprising hidden depths, and three odd women who are a fascinating spin on every trio of wise/weird/wyrd women that literature and mythology have ever created. And her dog is named for a character in Hamlet, so, there you go.

I was this close to naming my daughter some version of Meg. This close.

Thus, I was intrigued to find out that the Wall Street Journal had printed some “new” pages of the book. Apparently, Ms. L’Engle’s granddaughter Charlotte had discovered about three pages of writing in an unpublished, typewritten draft and those pages are now out there for fans like me to devour.

The Journal article discusses the political aspect of these pages – how they talk about the seductiveness of security and the danger that it poses to a democracy; highly relevant to our times, no? – but my reaction was much more that of a writer than of a reader.

Oh, God, what if someone found some of my crappy writing – or even some of my GOOD writing – that I had decided to cut from a published novel, and then decided to publish it anyway? After I was long gone and had no say in it?

This is a world of “special extended edition” DVDs (because nine+ hours of The Lord of the Rings was not nearly enough) and outside-the-covers apocrypha (J.K. Rowling says Dumbledore is gay!) and Stephen King’s add-backs to “The Stand” special edition so that the novel now tops 1,000 pages (I’ll admit, I own it but haven’t read it). I do understand the desire to devour more author content, to “know” what the author was thinking about every little thing in the stories that we love. Believe me, I have watched my LOTR special edition DVDs over and over and I always wish there was more. But let’s not lose sight of the creative process either. A big part of writing is knowing what not to say.

Interestingly, the Journal article says “cutting [the pages] was the right decision, one that strengthened the narrative.”

No kidding. You’re making my point here.

She and her editor would have weighed and considered the impact of those cut pages. They would have thought about the blatantly political terms of the section and the heavy-handed message it conveyed to her audience, and they made the decision not to include it, just for that reason. That’s why you edit and revise, not once but several times: to streamline and strengthen your work. To make it the best it can possibly be.

While these pages are interesting as far as they give insight into Ms. L’Engle’s political views, and while they may tell us something about her process as a writer, we need to understand and respect her decision as a writer not to include them in her final work.

I’m glad to see that her publisher, Macmillan, has “no plans to include the deleted passage in new editions.” That is as it should be.

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Lessons Learned From Acting Shakespeare – Part Two

Saturday, March 14, 2015, was the last day of my Shakespeare acting class. It was amazing.

Last week, I wrote a post about my impressions and feelings about the class based upon my experiences in the prior weeks leading up to that final class. This week, I want to add some thoughts based on that final class.

I am not cut out for this whole acting thing.

Let me go back in time, and I think you’ll understand.

When I was in college, I was the stage manager for a production of “The Lion In Winter.” I went to every rehearsal, and I knew that play inside and out – lines, blocking, everything.

One day, the actor who played Alais wasn’t there, and the director asked me to stand in for her in a scene. Easy peasy, right? I had to watch the other actors, say one line, and leave.

King Henry II and Queen Eleanor are having a knock-down-drag-out argument about and around Alais and then Henry says something to Alais like, “Go to my chamber,” and she says, “I’ll be waiting when you want me,” and leaves the stage.

I was so overcome with the emotions flying between the actors that when Robb (Henry) turned to me and said his line, all I could see was the fury in his eyes and I panicked and fled. I was in the wings before it occurred to me that I had a line to say and I had to stop myself from going back out to say it.

So the whole emotional sharing on stage thing is not me. I have a really hard time with it. Letting someone get into my space, or yell at me, or even look at me closely – this is not something I enjoy. When I said that this class was getting me out of my comfort zone, I meant that quite literally. I am physically uncomfortable with the whole concept of being up there and doing these things.

I am amazed I actually went through with this class at all.

Working without a net is good, but it’s better if you let someone spot you.

Memorization was optional in this class, which was a great stress reliever. As I said last week, these speeches are hard and there’s something so comforting in knowing you’ve got the words RIGHT THERE in your hand even if you don’t ever need them. There are drawbacks, of course: it restricts your gestures and distracts your audience.

However, as I described in last week’s blog, it is not easy to keep all of those words straight, especially under the stress of performance. So our good teacher Anne said that for the performances, we should hand our speeches to someone in the group to prompt us if we get lost.

What a difference that made for me.

Just knowing that Trudy was holding onto my paper for me, ready to supply me the words if I had one of my “Oh, shit!” moments again, made it possible for me to get all the way through without stopping, without blanking out.

I should have known.

It’s always better to have a safety net. You’re better off with a team, not trying to go it alone.

“A little terror is fine…”

That is a quote from my teacher. When she sent us an email detailing the arrangements for the final performances, I had replied to the group, “Am I the only one who is slightly terrified?” She replied, “A little terror is fine – an adrenaline boost, but don’t let it get the best of you!”

At the final class, we did a run through of all of the scenes and monologues before the final performances, and sure enough, everyone had issues.

But then, lo and behold, the guests were allowed in (the CSF Outreach coordinator and some family members) and we ran through it again… and it was marvelous! For me at least, the terror settled into a sense of “You HAVE to do this!”

First you crawl, then you leap, then you fly.

I’ve been trying to think of something to compare this to in terms of the learning curve, and I’ve come up with nothing. In the beginning, it is very slow going, like slogging through waist-deep waves at the ocean. You’re trying to do everything at once and end up doing none of it very well.

Even last week, at the penultimate class, we all had issues – some of us serious ones – that the whole group pitched in to try to fix. What, exactly, does Duke Orsino mean when he launches into the whole “O Spirit of Love…” part of his speech? How do you give a list of things variety and verve? Where, in that long string of words, can you take a breath?

But what is amazing is how suddenly and abruptly we all took a great leap forward. The difference between the final performances and the first read-through – or even the rehearsals the week before – was astounding. We weren’t Oscar-worthy by any means, but we were better than we’d ever been. In control, funny or impassioned or fiendish, we spoke the words and conveyed the emotion and didn’t overdo. We had a long way to go and we knew it, but we had come such a very long way already. We wished for another week – two, three – to keep going: to gain more confidence, to try something different, to keep working and striving…

I know I’m not cut out for acting, that it’s not a calling for me, that the terror is real and I’ll probably never shake it, but being in a group like that, working together, supporting each other through the fear, pushing through the challenges…

That is priceless, and worth every second, and THAT I would do again. In a heartbeat.

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Lessons Learned From Acting Shakespeare – Part One

My friend and writing group member, Trudy (@mabelgygi), convinced me to take a Shakespeare acting class with her. It’s an adult outreach program at the Colorado Shakespeare Festival (@COShakes) in Boulder, Colorado, where I see all my Shakespeare plays every summer. Trudy signed up as soon as she found out about it. She’s big on feeding her creativity and caring for her inner artist, whereas I’m always worried about all the stuff on my “To Do” list and stagnating in routine. But I have pushed myself outside of my comfort zone from time to time in the past few years with great results, and so when she mentioned this class and urged me to do it, I said, “Why not?”

Oh, as much as I love it, when it’s my turn to perform, I sure wish I hadn’t!

I will definitely have more to say about this class after Saturday’s final performances, and probably even more after the class is over and the lessons sink in further, but for now, let me just say this:

Acting is hard.

Not Nobel Prize-level science hard, but hard. There is so much to balance in your mind at once, it’s nearly impossible to keep it all together.

What’s so hard?

Let’s start with the obvious:  the nerves of getting up in front of a room full of people. They always say that people name public speaking as their greatest fear, and in fact, several of my classmates are in this class to improve their public speaking confidence. Once all eyes are on you, your thoughts flee, and your hands feel like parasites temporarily attached to your body. If they stay at your sides, you think you must appear stiff and awkward, and if you gesture, you feel like you must be flailing like an octopus.

Then, there are the words. Memorization is hard enough, especially as you get older (ahem), and memorizing Shakespeare is an entirely different task. I can talk till I’m blue in the face about how his language is in fact modern English, the same language we speak today, but the reality is that his plays are poetry, the grammar is often unfamiliar or tortured to fit the meter, and some of his words are archaic or made up. It’s not like memorizing Tennessee Williams or Arthur Miller. Particularly in the speeches, where a sentence may stream across four or five or six lines, you may not have a place to breathe, and you may forget where your sentence began by the time you get to the end.

Did I mention that the primary focus of this class is for each of us to present a monologue of at least twelve lines?

Once you’ve got the words down, you get up in front of the class and find that words + nerves = rushing. We all are so determined just to GET THROUGH IT that we spew forth a string of Shakespearean babble. The words are all there, but there’s no emotion behind them. Or there’s one emotion:  anger, or surprise, or seductiveness, or depression. No variation, no subtlety, no nuance. Just one big blast of words and feeling, and we’re so relieved we’ve gotten through and conveyed SOMETHING.

And then there’s movement. Somehow, we can’t keep still. We rock from foot to foot while we rush through the speech. We flail our hands (or only one of them), but never higher than chest level. Everything is jittery, small, timid, half-hearted. We know we should be moving, but we’re not sure how much, or when, and we’re deathly afraid of being still. Why? Why are we terrified of stillness, of slowness?

I don’t know, but we are.

The teachers are great. It is we students who have trouble absorbing the lessons: slow down; trust the words; plant your feet; if you’re going to move, MOVE.

In my head, I am Helen Freakin’ Mirren. I own that stage, and I speak every word with passion. I never forget a line and I finish with tears in my eyes…and the audience is in tears too.

When I performed last week in rehearsal, I forgot my words many times, sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end. I did have one moment that my fellow students reacted to really well but I was so surprised by their reaction, I instantly forgot my lines. Ugh. As I worked, the teacher made suggestions, and I tried to make changes, but that meant thinking, which meant losing my grip on something else:  emotional connection, or memorized words, or gestures…

Rehearsal is the key, isn’t it? Doing it again and again. But what worries me is that I’m just doing the same thing again and again, not getting any better.

I’ll let you know after tomorrow’s final class.

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The Perfect Austen Man

I watched “Northanger Abbey” (2007) the other night. Again. Because, why not? How can you resist JJ Feild and Felicity Jones? (And it bears noting that as of this month, two of the actresses in this production have gone on to receive Academy Award nominations for Best Actress:  Felicity Jones and Carey Mulligan. So there’s that, as well.)

After it was over, I couldn’t help but consider — again — Henry Tilney as an exemplary leading man. Charming; intelligent; kind; forward thinking (especially for a clergyman); good humored; gentle, playful and protective with the women he loves:  quite a catch indeed.

Which got me to thinking further:  Austen’s heroes are, for the most part, kind and solid men. The kind of men you can rely on in a pinch. Men who will wait around for you for as long as it takes. Good guys. The kind of men women always say they want.

So what does it say about us, as modern women, that Mr. Darcy is considered to be the pinnacle of Austen’s men?

He’s not a good guy. He’s proud, arrogant and, at times, mean. Seriously:  “I’d as soon call her mother a wit”? That’s cruel to two women at once, neither of whom is there to defend herself, and one of whom wouldn’t have even realized she’d just been insulted. He’s hard to talk to; every conversation is like dragging a donkey cart through the mud. “Forty miles of good road? Yes, I’d say that’s an easy distance.” Ugh. You really want to engage with this for the rest of your life? You’d always have to be on edge, ready to strike back with some bon mot, some sparkle of rapier sharp wit, some devastating comment. To paraphrase Beatrice in “Much Ado About Nothing,” Darcy may be fine for Sundays, but you’d want a different husband for every day wear.

Darcy needs fixing; he admits as much himself. And we all know that, fancy words aside, he’s not “fixed” at the end of the novel. He’ll relapse and need more work. Authors have made a cottage industry of P&P continuation novels which we’ve all consumed voraciously just to watch the lovebirds struggle to maintain that delicate equilibrium of the final pages.

I ask you, ladies, is this really what you imagine the perfect man — the perfect relationship — to be? A life of constant struggle, conflict and one-upsmanship? Always reminding your man to be his best self? How long before that joy (“And so I might still be if not for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth”) grew into something intolerable (“How long are you going to hold THAT over my head, woman?”).

Consider the alternative. Or, rather, the alternatives.

Now, we can set aside a couple of gentlemen right away. That Edward/Edmund fellow from “Mansfield Park” is distinguished only by the fact that he was once played in a film by Jonny Lee Miller. He’s not nearly as interesting as the Crawfords, and for heaven’s sake, he and Fanny are practically brother and sister! As my niece would say, “Ewwwwwww!” And I’m not big on Mr. Knightley either. He’s so patronizing and paternal towards Emma, and so much older than her, it’s really rather creepy. Plus, he and Emma have this strange mom-and-dad thing going on towards HER father, the whole thing puts me off.

But…

There’s Colonel Brandon, who devotes himself wholeheartedly to the women he loves, even when there is no hope of any return of affection. There is Captain Wentworth, whose loyalty and honor is as central to “Persuasion” as Anne Elliot’s. There is Mr. Tilney, whose virtues I’ve listed above. Mr. Ferrers is rather dull, it’s true, but you have to admire a man who is willing to shackle himself to Lucy Steele on a matter of principle.

Not a fixer-upper in the bunch.

So why, oh modern women, do you go sighing over the difficult, the challenging, the “I can change him” man instead of one of these kind, stable, amiable men?

Oh, right. Colin Firth. I’ll shut up now.

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Research: Finding the Fun

One thing about writing historical fiction:  no matter how much you know (or think you know) about your time period, you will have to do research.

It may be as simple as stopping, mid-sentence, to wonder, “Did the word ‘substantial’ exist in 1485? Or ‘dither’? Or ‘launch’?” Yes, to all of those; no, to “charade.”

It may be something as frustrating as trying to understand just what, exactly, is meant by the word “kirtle,” a ubiquitous article of women’s clothing in the medieval world. Is it worn under or over another garment? Yes to both, sometimes. What is it made out of, and what does it look like? That… depends. All I’ve been able to establish is that I’m pretty sure I’ve been misusing the term.

Last week, I was looking for music. Try to imagine a worse search: in a time when very little was written down, what record can there possibly be for music? And how would we know what it sounded like, or what instruments were used?

Thankfully, the internet has made research a much easier task. Colleges and universities have put their extensive collections of ancient documents on line, so rather than having to fly or drive to search in person, all I have to do is Google and click. It’s freakin’ amazing.

And I am lucky in my friends. I have connections with other writers who are history mavens, research goddesses and librarians, so when I don’t even know where to start looking (as with medieval music), they can point me in the right direction.

I asked fellow historical fiction writer J. Anderson Coats for help with finding a song for my novel. What I envisioned was a scene where my main character and her love interest were (naturally) flirting and he was trying to get her to sing with him. J recommended a few websites to try, and I spent a good part of one afternoon hopping around looking at medieval and Renaissance ballads.

This is more fun than you might think. Or, at least, it is when you are someone like me.

Especially when you find a song called “The Batchelers Resolution” (original spelling) with the subtitle: “Have among you now, Widowes or Maydes,/For I come a woing as Fancie perswades./I must have a Wife, be she Older or Younger,/For I cannot, nor will not lye alone any longer.”

I can’t describe the thrill that went through me. This is so exactly the sort of attitude displayed by Shakespeares’ Petruchio as he waltzes into the square in Padua at the beginning of the “Taming of the Shrew.” There’s even a verse about how he hopes he doesn’t get stuck with a wife who is a scold, because those are just the worst kind of women and he’d hate to be brow-beaten and controlled by his wife but heck, at this point he’d take anything because he just wants to be married already.

Oh. My. God.

Needless to say, the scene I had planned — the two of them flirting and singing together — is no longer being written. No, there is a very different thing happening now, and I’m still mulling it over:  what his intention is in singing this song knowing she will hear him, what her reaction is, whether he will see her reaction… All I know is, it will enrich the novel tremendously.

Yeah, research is work, but I’m so glad I do it.

 

 

 

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Resolutions

I am not big on New Year’s resolutions. They are almost always recipes for failure. But I have a few ideas this year that are not so ambitious that they cannot be achieved.

1.  Commit to, and carry forward, the lessons of my NaNoWriMo experience.

I got a lot out of NaNoWriMo in 2014. More than I expected; more than just the sloppy first draft of a short novel. I got so much out of it that I had to blog about it twice: here, and here. So, okay, it’s January 5th and I haven’t written A WORD in weeks but I am thinking. Contemplating. Ruminating. And when my kids go back to school tomorrow, I will dive back in. I have a plan. And motivation. And I know I can do just about anything, having beaten that NaNo novel into submission.

Boo-yah.

2. Read the books in my house before bringing in more.

I’ve already failed at this one, since I’ve got three bright, shiny library books on the table over there just waiting to be read. But! Bright shiny new books!

Seriously, though.

There are dozens of books in my basement and dotted around the house that I own or, worse, borrowed from friends. Some of these books I’ve had for years. And I HAVE NOT READ THEM.

This is the year I will remedy that situation.

3. Donate the books I don’t read anymore.

And when I’m done, I will get those books, along with other books on my shelves that I’m just holding onto for various reasons, off my shelves and into someone else’s hands.

Making room for more books. Mwah ha ha!

4. Read a classic.

When we leave school, we tend to leave off the kind of challenging reading we were forced to do there. See, there it is in the word “forced” as in, “I’d never read this book if someone weren’t making me.” I’m no fool, and I understand that I will never, ever read “Moby Dick” no matter how many times people tell me that it’s amazing and well written and… whatever it is. Nor will I read the seven million pages of “Les Miserables” or “War and Peace.” I just won’t. But there is a great benefit to reading challenging works that stretch us outside our usual zones of comfort and complacency.

This year, I will read “Middlemarch.” My background in literature is light on weighty Victorian novels. Plus, a few years back a woman named Rebecca Mead wrote a memoir called “My Life in Middlemarch” which was well reviewed and which caught my interest, but it seems pointless to read the memoir without reading the novel first.

5. Buy new makeup.

Yes, this one seems frivolous, but it’s necessary. I don’t wear makeup every day, or even once a week usually, but still, a woman needs certain basics and I had a vague idea that they should be replaced from time to time. So I checked, and Holy Maybelline, Batman! I am overdue. My most recent purchase of eyeshadow was for a wedding I went to enough years ago that they are already divorced and moved on to other people. I was so proud of myself for replacing my mascara last year (the previous one was probably three years old at that point), and now I find that I’m supposed to replace it every three to six months! So, yeah, it’s time for some new stuff.

What are your goals for this year? What are you excited about accomplishing? Let’s do stuff together!

 

 

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2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,100 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 18 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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NaNo Lessons: What I Learned From A Month Of Writing Really Fast – Part Two

So here we go. More lessons learned from completing a first draft of a novel (albeit a short one) in less than a month.

See that? I’m a winner!

Part Two: What I Learned About Myself

  1. I can get a lot done in 15 minutes.

My classic excuse, perfectionist that I am, is that I just can’t get anything done in fifteen measly little minutes (whine, whine, whine). By the time I sit down and figure out where I was and what I was saying and what I want to say next and get up and fetch my glass of water and turn on some music… Yeah, you see where this is going. Fact is, when you do a NaNoWriMo sprint, and someone says, “Fifteen minutes, GO!” you just start writing, working on whatever you were working on. Your fingers move, your thoughts go with them, and it doesn’t matter if you’re out of water or Pandora stopped playing, you’re gonna WRITE, dammit (I figured out pretty quickly, it helps if you’re mildly compulsive and/or vaguely competitive).

In a ten minute sprint I did over 200 words, and in a fifteen minute sprint, I did over 400. That was the first day. One time, I managed 53 words in the 2 minutes while I waited for something to heat up in the microwave.

I was shocked. Seriously? That’s how much I could be doing if I just sat my ass down and stopped fussing? I have wasted the equivalent of years in fifteen minute increments. No more.

As the month went on, I decided that the sprints weren’t really for me, given the material I was working on (it’s a little hard to “sprint” your way through Shakespeare). But knowing that I could do 1,000 words in an hour freed me to be positive and, quite frankly, joyous, when I would sit down to write. I’d get up at the end of a session and think, “Oh, that didn’t go so well,” and check my word count and, surprise! A bad day was suddenly 1,800 words or 2,100 words. Sorry, kiddo, that is NOT a bad day in any way, and as anyone knows, positivity feeds on itself just as negativity does.

2. My obsessiveness can be a problem.

I wrote 3,200 words one Sunday, along with cleaning the garage and preparing for school visits to two separate schools (a presentation on Shakespeare and a creative writing lesson). And put away groceries (that my husband and son graciously shopped for). And roasted a chicken and mashed potatoes and spent time with my kids that didn’t involve lectures on cleanliness or the state of their grades. But when there was a quiet moment in there — when my husband and son were watching the Broncos, and my daughter was taking a shower — I thought, “I could be writing again. Or I could read ahead in the play and figure out what to write tomorrow. But I should definitely keep writing. More. Writing. Must. Keep. Writing.”

This kind of single-minded focus was a real asset when I was a lawyer, and it will also benefit me someday when I am working on a publisher-imposed deadline (keeping the faith, folks!). But sometimes, mid-NaNo, what I needed to do is relax.

3. Now that it’s over, I miss it..

It was fantastic having a goal to reach for, something that gave my days purpose and focus. I loved being connected to all those other millions of people across the globe, as well as to my own little community here in the Boulder area, not to mention how it drew my writing group closer. I loved the tweeting, the Facebooking, the support and the cheering each other on.

And, I’ll admit it, I was competitive. I always wanted to be the first. The one out in front on the word count between the three of us in my group. I think I was behind in word count that first weekend and never again. It drove me.

Since I finished, I’ve been tweeting with the hashtag #NaNoWithdrawal, because that’s how it feels to me. My characters are still moving on in my head and my heart. I’m a little bit in love with my hero, and a little bit entwined with my heroine. I want to get back to them. I want to smooth out their rough edges, resolve the things I left unresolved, let them be more deeply connected (which I suspect they’re doing behind my back)… I miss them, and I miss the process. I’m trying to move on to other things, like Thanksgiving and some revisions to FINDING KATE, but my NaNo novel doesn’t want to let go.

So that’s me. This is what I’ve learned. It can be very important, in writing and in life, to try something different now and then, to challenge yourself, to question your assumptions. To go to places that are dark and cold and wet and scary and try to discover something there.* That – as much as writing a 50,000 word novel – is what NaNoWriMo is about. I’m really glad I did it.

*See that? Four easy adjectives in a row (four words) connected by “and” instead of commas (four words). That’s eight words in very little time (because I didn’t stop to think of more challenging or appropriate adjectives like “dismal” or “terrifying” or “dank” (oh, here I go again). The mantra of NaNo is “you’ll fix it in the edits” and so I shall.

Here’s to lots of revisions in January. :)

 

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NaNo Lessons: What I Learned From A Month Of Writing Really Fast – Part One

I finished NaNoWriMo. I completed the word count goal with 51,219 words on Friday, November 21. Twenty-one days. My story is not finished, but it’s an acceptable first draft. I can see revising it into something worth reading; I can see a fourth or fifth draft that’s 75,000 words and that’s worth querying.

This is fantastic. Tremendous. Huge.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!

You’ve heard me complain about NaNoWriMo before. I still think it has some problems. Like, seriously, November?

But I am so glad I did this. I found out so much about myself and my creative process that I never would have learned without forcing myself outside my comfort zone (a place I DO NOT like to be). I learned that I can live without Facebook, and it can live without me. I learned that when I am busy, I get more accomplished (we all know that, right?).

In fact, I learned so much, it’s all too big for one blog post. I’m splitting it up into two.

Part One: What I Learned About Writing

  1. I can write really fast.

I have always been a “wait until the muse strikes,” meander through the manuscript kind of writer. That is a big part of why I have not been published up until now. If I don’t feel it, I can’t write it. (That, and perfectionism, and fear of rejection, and all that other crap.) But whatever. It’s all excuses. This exercise taught me that words are words, and excuses are just excuses. Stick the words on the page and to hell with everything else. I prefer editing anyway.

  1. I don’t enjoy writing really fast.

I plunged into this without a lot of planning. Usually, I spend a lot of time in the planning stage, getting to know my characters, understanding the world they live in, deciding what motivates everybody, what my themes and subplots will be, reading my source material several times… I did not have time for any of that. At the end of Week 1, I still hadn’t finished reading the play once. Not one read-through. I mean, I’d read it before and I knew how it ended, but I hadn’t done a close reading for writing purposes. Crap! I didn’t know what my characters looked like, much less the sounds of their voices. And when you don’t have those things, it’s extremely uncomfortable to sit down at a computer and just start writing. Decisions have to be made on the fly and while I’m making them, I’m second guessing them. In one scene, I think my main character’s growing up was like this; but in another scene, I’m going in another direction, and I know that at some point (ahem, revisions), I’m going to have to have a clear vision for this. Again: Is the abbess kind and sympathetic or mean and antagonistic? We’ll have to figure that out in revisions, won’t we? My skin crawls at this kind of “sure, go ahead, just write it now and sort it out later” thing.

  1. I hate — I mean, really hate — not editing as I go.

Soooo, I haven’t completely turned off the “IE” as the NaNos call it (the “Internal Editor”), but I have silenced her pretty well. She still manages to say things like, “Warm? Really? How about ‘tepid’ or ‘mild’? Or even ‘lukewarm’?” She controls the backspacer on things like that. But on the big things, the sentences and paragraphs I hate? Nope. She gets the muffler, the gag, the silencer. I have repeated the same word within a paragraph or even the same sentence. *gasp!* I have left false starts in place. *groan!* I rewrote a paragraph where somebody arrived somewhere because I didn’t like how they got there, but I DIDN’T DELETE THE FIRST PARAGRAPH. *the horror!* Because why waste my time? I’ll get it in the second draft. And maybe I’ll combine the two, or find something I liked in the first one and take it in that direction, or maybe I will follow my gut and delete the whole thing but THAT’S NOT A DECISION I NEED TO MAKE RIGHT NOW.

Notice all the caps lock there. I’m still convincing myself of the merits of this process.

One of the things I don’t like about NaNo is that it encourages this kind of thing, which I think, over time, would lead to some bad habits. Can’t think of the right word? Write down five words, and you’re that much closer to your word count. Oh, you just wrote “I feel…”? Don’t worry about it, you’ll get in edits. Normally, I would never let these things stand. But I can now see the merit in just moving on, just getting through, knowing that I’ll fix it later. And I will. (The fact is, a lot of people won’t, and that kills me. The whole “free coupon to get your NaNo novel printed” thing kills me. Oh, please DO NOT print/publish your NaNo novel. It sucks. Trust me.)

  1. I may prefer to write by hand but I don’t need to write by hand.

I have this conversation with my kids all the time: there’s a difference between what you need and what you want. I just never thought to apply it to my writing. This whole “I have to…” was simply bullsh*t that allowed me to define the parameters within which I could not begin a necessary task, i.e., procrastinate.

Yes, I still think the worst thing in the writing universe is the blank Word Doc that sits there taunting you with a cursor blinking ominously at you over and over. But you know what? If you type some crap like, “It was a dark and stormy night when my main character walked into the room and threw a duck at her mother…” that’s a totally acceptable way to begin because NO ONE WILL EVER SEE IT. This is a first draft so who cares what it looks like? It will be revised and rewritten until it is unrecognizable from where it began, and that’s a good thing, so just throw some words at the page and get started.

There is no way in hell I could have written 2,000 words a day by hand. No way. In hell.

Anyone else out there a NaNoWinner? Still working at it? What have you learned? Did you enjoy it, hate it? Never do it again, or can’t wait ’till next year? I’d love to hear from you!

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