Current word count: 3060.
Eh. I still think it is largely garbage, and will probably go into the permanent collection at the Statue of Corrupted Endeavor’s Memorial Library.
And I still don’t feel the block lifting. Maybe it will. Who knows? Many thanks for the encouraging words from all parties, by the way. Which begs a tad of an explanation.
Anyone who has read any of my entries, here or elsewhere, or my massive movie reviews or whatnot, will wonder how in the heck I can say I suffer from Writer’s Block. My Gosh, he just blathers on endlessly about all kind of junk. If he’s got Writer’s Block, Frankenstein is my great aunt Tilly.
Well, have you spoken to your aunt lately? There is a difference. Obviously, there’s nothing preventing me from moving my fingers across a keyboard. No problem there. I’m sure I could, like Jack Torrence, write “All work and no play” etc over and over in a fine simulacrum of formatted text, and I could keep doing that until I had 50,000 words.
But is that a novel? No. It does fulfill the physical requirements, though. I am racking up word count. But I’m not writing, I’m typing. And the line between writing and typing, believe it or not, is a subtle one.
Case in point: in my NaNoWriMo project, two characters were going to agree to a contract. However, my inner editor suddenly made one character reject the offer. Why? I think the reason was, I could stretch it out a bit more if I threw that in. Now, in a sense, it worked because it allowed me to deepen some things and detail the situation. But I wonder how much of what I wrote was simply typed to add word count. Who knows? It may turn out to be a key passage. (I have, as of now, done almost no revising. I have a feeling the best revision would be Edit, Select All, Delete, Save.)
When I write, I want the writing to matter to me. I want the writing to be good, to be something where I might consider reading it (if I weren’t the author). And I definitely don’t want to see the machinery. I recall reading a Dean Koontz book a couple of years ago. Somewhere early on, he had his protagonist walk through a neighborhood, and Koontz started detailing the architecture of the houses. I could see immediately what Koontz was up to–he was padding. I started seeing more and more of it, and I eventually put the book down about a hundred pages in and never picked it up again. It just felt as if none of the events were important at all. That is, I think, one of the dangers of an artificial deadline. Rather than stop when the book is done, you stop when you reach a certain word count or your time runs out.
Those of you who write regularly know that when the writing is going well, when you’re pounding out prose for hours at a time, there’s no feeling in the world like it. Raw creativity is pouring out of you, and you’re caught up in it, and you really feel you’re creating something.
I’m not feeling any of that. Will that come? Good question. There may be some kind of conceptual breakthrough, when I realise what the heck my characters are actually up to. And perhaps what the heck I’m up to.