Victory!

Plot Problems

Is it OK that for my NaNoWriMo novel, "The Writing Class," I'm making my favorite library the site, and the time last fall, as election day nears, my main character an Obama supporter and campaign volunteer? The "real" writing class took place thirty years ago at a different North side library, and today there's actually a writing organization, Neighborhood Writers Alliance--wouldn't some of my writers belong to that group, not the imaginary one I'm creating? Why would there even be a class at this library when that other organization exists? Am I being lazy with my research? But there's different schools of thought on that--most agree that yes, you have to do research---but not during the first draft, now is the time to let your imagination fly. Besides--although publication is always a goal and dream, that's not what NaNo is about. NaNo is a time to stretch my wings and enjoy writing a massive amount of pages, letting my characters take over and letting reality and real-life considerations disappear, forgetting my pile of rejection letters and the well-thumbed Writer's Market and my other neglected drafts of novels. Maybe my 2009 NaNo work with be salvageable, adding to NaNoWriMo's official list of published works--or maybe only fit for the blue recycling bin out back. Either way, I have fun, grow as a writer, meet a challenge, enjoy reading forums from other eccentric writers, even go to a write-in or two. I will write as the muse directs and forget reality!

Week 1 NaNoWriMo

Shh! Don't tell anybody what I'm writing about for NaNoWriMo because I haven't told anybody yet, afraid that I'll unpop the cork too soon releasing all the fizz. But I feel the need to vent about my noveling experience--and why not vent in the blog I devised for just this purpose?

I'm not sure if I picked the best plot--and I'm not even sure I have a plot! OK, Chris Baty, I know you said no plot no problem--I just hope you're right!

I've always wanted to write about the dynamics of a writing group--the kind of characters it attracts (aren't all writers a tad bit eccentric?), the relationships that form, the secrets that get revealed. In what other kind of class do you discover who is gay and who is straight, who survived an abusive childhood, who still mourns a baby who didn't survive the maternity ward, who was betrayed by a spouse, who survived domestic violence...The list goes on. Sounds more like a group therapy session than a writing class, but there you have it--that's what makes writing groups so volatile. Once I was in a class with two people who had what might euphemistically be called a personality conflict--the guy actually wrote a story where the woman went bananas and commited suicide in an exceedingly gory fashion. OK, that's a little extreme, too strange for fiction, but you get the idea.

I also recall the nurturing environment of a class I took at a library years ago that ended when the grant ran out.

So, this is my fuel. What do I have? A cast of characters, each with his or her own stories bursting to get out, each wanting to be the next Shakespeare. I'm getting to know these people and their stories, stealing shamelessly from myself and (shh!) the people I know. But I have no idea where this NaNoWriMo novel is going!

More NaNoWriMo Musings

My son's 18th-birthday gift is done--a photo album, organized by year, with pages of highlights and memories for each year. All together, about 75 pages of text, and I included cute titles: "1992: Liter Bottles, Pop Cans, and Eating Kittens." No, no, don't call PETA--no animals were abused and I'm a vegetarian. (My son at eight months old, when his uncle brought over some kittens, started putting a kitten in his mouth--probably because it was the same size as his favorite rattle--but his vegetarian mom saved the poor little feline.)

Now--that project behind me (which took much more time and work than expected)--time to plan for NaNoWriMo. Originally I'd thought I'd transform a treatment I wrote for a screenwriting class into a novel--"Homecoming," the story of pollyanna-ish Jennifer and cynical Peter, estranged siblings, taking a road trip to their abusive dad's funeral. Lots of drama there--except I'm not sure if it grips me. Won't it be too depressing? And when I think of plot details, I feel lost in a fog. I don't drive--how can I write a road trip? Jennifer works in a day care center--I did work in a day care center, but years and years ago. Peter is a lawyer--what do I know about being a lawyer, and what kind of lawyer is he, anyway?

So while I haven't absolutely decided against "Homecoming," I'm entertaining other ideas:

- boy's diary--historical fiction
- fictionalized story of illiterate deaf-blind man I taught to sign
- online dating service romance between two very different people in their forties
- fictionalized memoir
- a writing group
- coffeeshop friendships
- coffeeshop romance
- Rachel, Benjie, and David--grown up
- an eleven-year-old who's just been evicted with her mom--but eventually ends up in nurturing neighborhood

Do any of these ideas grab me more than "Homecoming"? Alas, I'm not sure--but I'll have to decide soon, as the October clock is ticking!

NaNoWriMo Musings

What shall I write for NaNoWriMo? (For the uninitiated, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, when eccentric writers attempt to write 50,000 word novels during the 30-day month of November.) November 2004: I wrote "Set to Music," a sequel to my first novel, "Roll Call by the Elephants," but I never felt the urge to revise it--what point polishing a sequel when the original is still unpublished? Still, I enjoyed finding out what happened to Nora, Bart, Clara, and gang. November 2005: I wrote "Journeys," a love story about people who meet on the Metra. I was intrigued with an image of a guy who'd spilled coffee on me while riding the subway; he apologized profusely and said he was on the way to a job interview--as a fellow coffee addict, I said don't worry about it. He was so nervous, and I remember wishing him luck. What if that situation, fictionalized, led to a romance? I was also fascinated by how people who rode the Metra together forged connections. One deaf passenger became friendly with the conductor; they'd stand in the vestibule texting each other back and forth; the passenger invited the conductor to his wedding. I tried to write parallel story lines with different sets of characters, but I don't think it worked. 2006 and 2007: Working on my MFA. November 2008: I wrote a sequel to "Rachel and the Cousins," my middle grade MFA novel, eager to have the kids progress from 6th to 7th grade. But my revision attempts flounder--just like revision of its prequel floundered until I started the MFA program. Do I need the terror of peer critiques for motivation? Or do I just need to keep at it, as I am today, Saturday morning sitting in Delicious Cafe with my decaf Americano and my black-speckled composition book and my Neo meta-laptop?

NaNoWriMo 2009 approaches--it's October, pumpkins and fluorescent Halloween witches decorate doorways. Originally I thought I'd write "Rachel and the Cousins: 8th Grade," but Rachel is stuck in 7th grade, vying with new character Cherie for Bobby, still dealing with 9/11 (this is 2001), not sure how she feels about her dad marrying Debbie, still trying to figure out which science fair project to do...So I thought, not this year.

But I've wanted to write a novel based on the plot I devised for screen writing class. "Homecoming" features siblings Jennifer and Peter, opposite personality types who do not get along, but forced to travel together to their abusive father's funeral. But I'm not sure--won't it be incredibly gloomy? I always feel unqualified to write adult fiction anyway--have I ever really grown up? I've had few healthy romances--so how can I write about my characters' loves? Someone asked me recently why I write for children, and her tone suggested that this was curious--why would someone old as me write for kids? But I may be 54--I don't feel 54--I feel like Dena. All the Denas I've ever been are still very much alive in me--especially the little kid Dena. My almost-eighteen-year-old son has good advice--"You're not any specific age. You're not a label. You're Dena." He's had experience with labels, being biracial, always seen as Black, never as Irish American, although he's being raised by his Irish American mom. When he has to check an ethnicity box, he checks "other." He's not a label, he's T.

Can I inject the Jennifer-Peter story with some humor? Can I use my imagination to write about their romances? The Bronte sisters never married yet wrote classic romances; same goes for Jane Austen. And who knows--by imagining healthy romantic love I might attract some into my own life. I see Jennifer having a worthless boyfriend in the beginning but in the end finding a much better love; not sure about Peter yet. And of course the focus of this book is on the sibling relationship.

So, maybe I will try "The Homecoming." Maybe.

A Gift

I don't have money to give my son a car for his 18th birthday. After working in the social service field my entire life, my son is my walking savings account; all my money has gone into his Catholic school education, kindergarten through high school. (I decided to send him to Catholic school kindergarten for a very illogical reason--paying day care costs as a single parent had been impossible but I'd done it--so, hey, why not Catholic school?). So, no car--but I do want to give him something special. I'm writing him a gift--a keepsake--detailing the highlights I remember of his eighteen years. Will I end up just writing highlights that strike me and leave out ones important to my son? If my son were writing his autobiography, he'd include specifics about grade school soccer and floor hockey and basketball and baseball games, goals and free throws and home runs scored. He'd write of Bulls and White Sox games and the one Bears game we went to, and he'd remember actual scores and names of the opposing teams. Me, I remember the rainbow that splashed across the sky after a rain delay, or the man selling Mexican corn, or the black towels we waved at the momentous blackout game, the electricity palpable as we clinched our division win in 2008. Will my list of memories be standard mom memories, resulting in a book he'll put aside, that gets buried under old textbooks in his cave of a room?

How should I write this gift? At first I thought, a la 100words.com, of writing 100 words for each year of his life. But some years--especially his first year of life--can't be summed up in a mere 100 words. Or should I use bullet points with a snappy sports-like title: "Momentous highlights of the formative first 18 years of T's life?" Should I include pictures? I groan at the prospect of going through the albums stored in my son's room--not only are the albums stacked topsy-turvy in no logical order, the pictures are arranged in no less haphazard way. I remember J scolding me for not writing dates of the back of photos. J, you're up there enjoying some celestial sport, seraphim against cherubim, maybe--take a minute to enjoy an "I told you so." How am I going to look at a shot and remember if Ty was three or four or five? It's hard enough compiling memories by specific year; I've spent the last few days finding and looking through old calendars and trying to decipher my scribbles.

But research is done; I'm going to look at each year at a time. Maybe some years will work better as bullet points; maybe a 100-word essay will be fine for others. If I were a poet, I'd try my hand at an ode! Let me begin.

Writing Blues

I still feel in a writing funk, maybe from my most recent rejection. Although a long Sunday stretches before me, I feel like a puppet with two many chores and interests competing, yanking my to-do strings: reading the Sunday paper, cleaning the cat litter box, reading in "An American Tragedy," straightening up so I can invite Ms. M. over for coffee, helping T. brainstorm ideas for his Theology paper, practicing on "Red" (my violin), and of course writing and revising. Maybe my blues stem from being a Gemini--I want to be a Renaissance person skilled at a zillion things but without the necessary genius or discipline. The green monster of jealousy appears with gleaming red eyes and sharp outstretched claws whenever I read of another writer's successes--especially if they're younger than me--especially if they're related to me. I start bashing myself--"You don't work hard enough, D." or "Who ever said you were talented?"--a total waste of time that scatters any creative force that might actually be brewing inside me!

I suspect that Emerson knew this feeling: "It is the highest power of divine moments that they abolish our contritions also. I accuse myself of sloth and unprofitableness day by day; but when these waves of God flow into me I no longer reckon lost time. I no longer poorly compute my possible achievements by what remains to me of the month or the year; for these moments confer a sort of omnipresence and omnipotence which asks nothing of duration, but sees that the energy of the mind is commensurate with the work to be done, without time."

Work is the only escape ladder out of this funk and into the divine moment Emerson speaks of. So, onward! I'll finish revising Chapter 15 of "Rachel and the Cousins: 7th Grade." Here, Rachel goes apartment hunting with her dad and her dad's fiance--and Rachel decidedly does not want to move from their cozy basement apartment. I'll also work on a gift--shh!--for my son's 18th birthday. I'm collecting and organizing memories and key dates--the date and time when he first tore up something (a cable TV guide), the day he said his first sentence: "This is a sock." Of course I'll have to make some corny reference to the serendipity of this early remark, for now T. is a die-hard Sox fan!

And of course all that distracts me from my writing can paradoxically make it richer--being a mom, being a friend, reading literature and newspapers, playing an instrument. Even cleaning the cat litter box. Life is more important than literature. And as my good friend M. always said, balance is everything.