Historically I've used NaNoWriMo as a kick in my arse, to get words out of my head and onto the page. Even if I didn't write anything else that year, in one month I could churn out a book from start to finish and really accomplish something significant. One month out of the year I could juggle the life of a writer, despite having "real" jobs, a family or a home to manage. But even after I began my professional writing career in 2010, the lure of Nano was far too tempting to ignore. For instance this year, after completing four other books, one might think I wouldn't feel the urge to immerse myself in the craziness. I should take the rest of the year off, enjoy the holidays and maybe even enjoy a rare, extended vacation.
But honestly I love the process. Deadlines are great motivators. Without a deadline, you have the luxury on waiting around for your muse to show up. You don't have to scan the skies for that brief glint of inspiration so you can rob it right out of the clouds to harness your own bolt of lightning. You can fit it in when the conditions are perfect, which they so rarely are. "Real life" is filled with distractions that can be far more tempting sometimes than just churning out a set word count every day, which varies in time spent depending on which words, exactly, you're writing. Some days it can take a couple of hours, other days it can take a full day. Setting up a plot, connecting each dot from chapter to chapter, laying the foundation for a book... that all takes time and can be fairly tedious. It's work that goes so far beyond mentally playing in the sandbox and typing whatever words pop in your head at the time. You're creating worlds that come with real rules you must obey, otherwise you create much more work for yourself.
Planning and research are the reasons books can take so long to write, but even then you could have a finished product in no time at all if you piece it out to a certain number of words per day. If we all followed Stephen King's example and wrote 2000 words a day every day no matter what, we'd all be writing 730,000 words a year. That's at least seven, count 'em, seven 100K novels PER YEAR.
Kinda makes 50K in a month seem like child's play.
Bottom line: writers write. NaNoWriMo just means we're not doing it alone.
Some critics have derided NaNoWriMo because it seems unthinkable to finish a good novel within such a short period of time. Whenever you picture a writer in your mind, he's usually toiling hard over his keyboard, tearing his hair out to get THE perfect turn of phrase. This romanticized image of a tortured artist suggests the more time spent on the struggle is the only way to ensure that it is "good." The longer it gestates, the better it gets, right?
Well... sorta.
The books I write today are light-years away from what I wrote two years ago, or five years ago, or ten years ago. If you put the first book I wrote (which took much longer than one month to complete) and put it side by side with the first draft of one of my recent NaNoWriMo projects, the writing that took less time is actually shades better. And the only way that happened was through time, because it gave me something far, far more indicative of value: experience.
That critical time passing HAD to be spent writing. The more you "exercise the muscle" as it were, the stronger that muscle gets. That's a universal law no matter what you endeavor to accomplish. That is the very nature of evolution.
Funny thing about evolution, though. It has a limit posed only by what the thing evolving truly needs. It's adaptive to the situation. If you take a thin piece of fish and cook it on a rock, it'll take way less time than a thick steak. Cooking it any longer than what it needs won't make it any better, anymore than adding more stitches than a dress needs makes it any prettier. In fact, often the reverse is true. The longer we fuss over something, the more we risk compromising its value. Would the Mona Lisa be any more valuable with another stroke of the brush? Would Gone with the Wind be any better with another few chapters spent on sub-characters? Art is way, way too subjective to assign a time limit on what makes something "good." So one cannot state empirically that all NaNoWriMo novels are bad simply because of the limited time it took to write them. If Stephen King tackled Nano, his book would be light-years ahead of someone who has never written a book before. His writing muscle is honed through decades of developing it, and the only way it got that way was because he repeatedly and tirelessly did the work.
The difference between writing for self and writing for a job is that you simply can't afford to wait for excellence to happen in some mystical, far-away future. You do your very best to get the stories right as they come to you, but you have bills to pay. That product, at some point, has got to be "done." They say that art is never finished, only abandoned. You learn that quickly the minute you are tasked to meet publishing deadlines, imposed on you by whoever it is whose livelihood depends on you completing a project.
See, that is what they don't tell you. Working writers don't have the luxury of waiting around for inspiration. We are, at the heart of it, manufacturers. Books are our product, and we need product to make profit. A working writer can't just write when the mood strikes or when the conditions are perfect. We have to summon the muse by planting our butts in the seats and willing inspiration to come to us. Exercises like NaNoWriMo train us to do this fairly efficiently. If anything, it was the best training tool for my writing career.
The fact so many other writers join in the fray and can commiserate/support/understand this particular journey makes the process more bearable. For one month out of the year, we're not alone. There's a sense of community that links a lone writer to the rest of the creative community.
I wouldn't miss it for the world. ANY excuse to write is a good one, IMHO.
This year, I decided to write the first book of a new series, THE FULLERTON FAMILY SAGA, as my NaNoWriMo project. But, overachiever that I am, I decided to write ALL THREE books in this new series without a break in between, completing them all by mid-January, so I can release the complete series by no later than March 2014. If I am able to pull off this hectic and crazy deadline, I plan to release each book within TWO WEEKS to ONE MONTH of the other. These are not novellas, shortened to entice you into paying $0.99 per "book" by slicing one book into three separate parts. These are full-length novels with three different, distinct plots to tell one larger story. "Enticed", book 1 in our new series, weighs in at nearly 60,000K words and is about 2/3rds done. It should be ready for release by January 14.
These books are actually based on a monster novel I wrote back in 1995, which was way too much story for a stand-alone. As I reviewed it last year to consider it for publication, I realized that this story would best be served in a series, which I knew I'd have to tackle as a page-one rewrite. Virtually nothing but the timeline of events is transferring over into the new story, which makes it far more contemporary.
It also makes it a lot of fun to write, so the next few months, while hectic, sleepless and crazed, will be absolutely worth it. So happy Nano, everyone brave enough to dare the challenge. And for those anxious to read something new, you won't have long at all to wait.
For your consideration, Chapter One of "ENTICED: BOOK 1 OF THE FULLERTON FAMILY SAGA":
My entire life changed with an e-mail. Granted, my life desperately needed changing, and it really wouldn’t have taken much of a nudge to move me in another direction. I just didn’t expect the 180-degree turn Fate had offered me when I opened my work e-mail that Friday morning right before Spring Break.
Dear Ms. Dennehy: it read.
My name is Drew Fullerton, and I am a prominent businessman located in Los Angeles, California.
I couldn’t stop my snicker if I wanted to. “Prominent businessman,” indeed. Like I had never seen the cover of Forbes magazine.
I wanted to congratulate you on your nomination for Secondary Teacher of the year. Your work with your seventh-grade students in the advancement of green energy has been quite commendable. I truly applaud your forward-thinking and your ingenuity, and the passion you so clearly instill in your students.
My brow furrowed as I wondered what the catch was. Why was one of the most important businessmen in the nation contacting me over a mere nomination?
You probably are wondering why I have decided to contact you.
Smart cookie. No wonder he was worth a gazillion dollars and change.
I am scouting a new personal tutor for my son, Jonathan. He is nine years old, which is – granted – quite younger than students in the grade you teach, but I assure you that he is quite advanced. Too advanced, maybe, given our current issues. Unfortunately, my son has not reacted well in the wake of my divorce with his mother. He has managed to get kicked out of nearly every private school in Los Angeles, and at least two boarding schools overseas. Placing him in a respected institution with this prior record of misbehavior has proved challenging. It is my hope that one-on-one instruction with a dedicated teacher will give him the motivation he needs to remain focused on his education. I have combed the entire country for a candidate who could provide him this crucial instruction. Suffice it to say, it has been a proverbial needle in a haystack to find a professional who could fit my very specific criteria.
This is more than just a job, Miss Dennehy. I want someone who could dedicate their time to my son as both an educator and a mentor. He would be your only student, and you would be expected to engender his trust over a long, hopefully successful, tenure as his personal tutor. This is a pretty drastic change for any public schoolteacher because it includes immediate relocation to Southern California where we live. But we would provide more than adequate compensation, as well as personal, private living arrangements in our estate so you can have immediate and total access to Jonathan on whichever schedule works best for the both of you.
The email went on to detail the six-figure salary I could expect, along with a very generous benefits package, should I sign the contract for exclusivity for at least one year. These terms would be negotiable in the future, depending on how well I managed to detour the junior heir from his current road to ruin.
It wasn’t a Nigerian promising me I won some International lottery I had never entered, but it was close. I was supposed to believe that one of the richest men on the planet had resigned himself that a servant of the public school system three states away should educate his son? Clearly this was a scam, and I, for one, didn’t buy it. I clicked out of the email without reading any more.
I closed my laptop, drank my last little bit of tea and padded softly into my tiny, cheerful yellow kitchen to rinse out my cup and set it in the dishwasher with the one plate, one fork and glass leftover from dinner the night before.
I was at school by seven o’clock that morning, preparing class for the day. Normally I would organize lesson plans and fill the blackboard with instructions on what materials needed to be studied for which examination. But this particular day I knew I couldn’t corral my excitable group of teenagers if I wanted to. Spring Break was that necessary part of the year where we all could put a stop to the endless monotony of homework, studying and tests and just recharge the batteries for the week. Well, that’s what it meant for them. For me it was a matter of spending the week cleaning out my apartment or taking care of plants and pets for my colleagues who would use this precious week of freedom for family vacations. I also had a stack of books I wanted to tackle. That was really the only vacation that I needed. My library card was old-school, but it was my first-class ticket to anywhere in time and space.
A short knock caught my attention and I glanced toward my classroom door, which was partially ajar. I saw her sky-high hair before I saw her face, but I would have recognized my best friend Nancy Gilbert anywhere. “Hey, girl. Please don’t tell me you’re going to be here all week.”
“Can’t,” I offered with a sardonic grin. “I’m going to be at your house, watching the dogs, the cats, the gerbils and whatever plants you haven’t killed with your notorious brown thumb.”
“You could still come with us,” she said. “Think about it. Five days in the Caribbean. The cruise may be sold out, but you could probably bunk with the kids. It’d be a slumber party all week. They’d love it.”
I couldn’t help but smile. All four of her kids had adopted me as Aunt Rachel from the time they were born, and I lavished attention (and gifts) on them at every available opportunity. I had no one else to spoil, so they cleaned up big time whenever Aunt Rachel stopped by to visit. Despite how fun a tropical cruise with my favorite people sounded, the simple truth was I looked forward to this week to myself even if Nancy could never understand why.
“Thanks, but no thanks. These hips do not belong in a bathing suit. And have you seen my legs? They glow in the dark.”
She waved her hand. “Stop it. You’re gorgeous. And fuller figures are in now. You’d probably know that if you, you know, ever went out on a real date.”
I suppressed a sigh. Here we go. “Nancy…”
She held up her hands in defeat. “Another battle for another time. At least tell me that you’re coming to my party tonight.”
My eyebrow arched. “Do I have a choice?”
“Nope!” she chirped happily before she twirled and headed off to her classroom down the hall. I had to chuckle to myself. My best friend was certainly irrepressible, which had drawn us together in college. She was the one who got me the job in Grand Prairie after my life fell apart three years before, so I really did owe her for helping me piece my life back together. Only now she had decided that I needed to find a man as the final stage in my healing process, and it was an ongoing battle between us these days. I wasn’t ready to date again, and I doubted sincerely I ever would be.
Once bitten, twice petrified. I was kind of like an unyielding block of fossilized wood, and about as exciting.
I had a sneaking suspicion she was going to use her “Bon Voyage” party as one more excuse to set me up, and true to form, that was exactly what it was.
I arrived early, to help out, and she dragged me to her bedroom to ply me with makeup and jewelry. “Black, Rachel?” she complained of my simple dress. “It’s like you’re going to a funeral.”
“I like black,” I told her as she did her best to gussy me up for her big party, which… by no small coincidence, was full of eligible bachelors. I glared at her over the spiked punch, and she just shrugged her shoulders innocently as if it was all a happy coincidence.
She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me from possible suitor to possible suitor. “This,” she said, as we came to a brief stop in front of a tall man with sandy brown hair and a mustache, “is Phil Monroe. He’s a biology teacher at the high school.” I gave her a side-eye glare at her ever-so-slight emphasis on the word, ‘biology.’
Phil offered his hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he drawled easily. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I’m sure,” I murmured with a polite smile.
Nancy looked triumphant as she made a speedy departure that was about a subtle as a wrecking ball. “If you’ll excuse me, I have more guests to greet. Don’t have too much fun without me, you two!” she winked before she danced away, leaving the both of us in an awkward silence.
“So you teach at the high school,” I offered first.
Phil nodded. “I’m also assistant coach with the football program,” he said with a proud grin worthy of any Texan when it came to the subject of football.
“So you work with Greg,” I said, referring to Nancy’s husband.
“One of the best guys on the planet,” he said and I nodded my agreement.
“They’re the best,” I said begrudgingly as I spied Nancy out of the corner of my eye. She was keeping a close watch on our interaction, probably waiting for me to blow it – again.
“I hear that you will be housesitting for the week,” he said as he studied me hopefully. “Maybe we could go out for a cup of coffee or something.”
I smiled politely, but inside I was seething. Nancy was so determined to set me up she was planning reconnaissance missions even while she was away. “I don’t really drink coffee,” I murmured easily as I stepped out of the unwanted conversation. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Monroe.” By using his last name instead of his first name, I firmly established any further intimacy was unwelcome. He looked bewildered as I set my drink on a nearby table and made a hasty departure.
Nancy was on my heels by the time I slipped through her front door. She chased me down the sidewalk toward my car. “Rachel! What happened? What’s wrong?”
I spun on her. “You, Nancy!” I finally yelled. “You are what’s wrong.”
She was dumbfounded. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help!” I snapped. “Not with this.”
She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Rachel, it’s been six years.”
My eyes hardened as I stared at her. “So what? Ten years, twenty years… no amount of time can fix what’s broken, Nancy. Time can do a lot of things, but it can’t raise the dead,” I finished flatly.
“No, Rachel,” she agreed. “It can’t. But you can. Do you really think this is what Jason would want for you? To be alone?”
My chin tilted. “Neither Jason or I had a say in that, did we?”
Nancy softened. “Rachel…”
I spun away from her before I started to cry. I hadn’t cried over Jason in a long time, and I didn’t want to start now. If I started again, I feared I may never stop. “Find someone else to housesit,” I said over my shoulder as I headed to my car. “Maybe your good friend Phil.”
Nancy ran after me. “Rachel! I’m sorry!”
My eyes met hers before I got into my car. “Me, too.”
I slammed the door and gunned my engine before I sped away.
I was still an emotional wreck by the time I got home to my empty, darkened apartment.
I tossed my phone onto the table after silencing the ringer. Nancy was frantically trying to get ahold of me, perhaps finally realizing how far she had pushed me this time.
You would think, after all these years, she would have known better not to bring up Jason to me, especially to manipulate me into doing something I had told her in a hundred different ways that I didn’t want to do. I silenced my phone and went into my bedroom to change.
I got even angrier as I scrubbed the makeup off of my face. She had truly outdone herself to “fatten” the lamb for slaughter. I took a hot shower and emerged ten minutes later in my fluffy robe. I stomped angrily toward my computer to fire off the email I had mentally crafted while I furiously rinsed away all the pretense of the evening. When I opened my email, Drew Fullerton’s proposition sat right there on top.
Los Angeles, I thought to myself. Fourteen-hundred miles, give or take.
Maybe I was ready for a change… a really, really big one.
I ended up writing only one email that night, and that was to accept Drew Fullerton’s invitation to fly to L.A. for an interview over Spring Break.
Sure, it sounded too good to be true. Why would some business magnate like Fullerton want anything at all to do with a secondary schoolteacher from Texas when there had to be hundreds of acceptable teachers much, much closer to home?
It was a paid vacation no matter the outcome of the interview. More than that, it was a break I desperately needed right when I needed it, like it had landed on my lap on purpose.
For once, though I had no reason whatsoever to trust good fortune, I’d give Fate the benefit of the doubt.
I could only hope the bitch wouldn’t screw me over again.
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