It’s the 31st of October, which means that tomorrow I will begin a 30-day marathon in which I intend to write 50,000 words (or more) and complete a new novel.
So I suppose these last less-than-24-hours are for me to admit a few things to myself (and to you).
1) I have about two chapters outlined. Which is nowhere near as much of an outline as I’ve had for my novels in the past. Except Dark Unicorn… but that was in 2008 and I’m not entirely sure that I still have the capacity to pants my way through an entire novel.
2) Tonight at midnight, Starkid will release their new Star Wars parody, and it’s very likely that I won’t be able to stop myself from watching all of it instead of writing.
3) I don’t have any money. Which means I can’t buy this awesome -yet overpriced- beautiful hat, which I suspect doesn’t really have much to do with the era I’m writing about (I’m too lazy to check; don’t judge me) but with which my fingers would fly because it’s so amazingly inspiring
4) My novel has no title. Which is pretty terrifying, if you ask me, because people keep saying “Oh, you’re writing a novel! What’s it called?”, to which I respond: “Umm… Untitled?”. And for some utterly obscure reason that I cannot comprehend, I feel the need to call it If my eyes were blue. Which is weird. Because it has absolutely nothing to do with anything, and I don’t wish my eyes were blue, either.
5) I don’t really have a novelling soundtrack set up, either, which I’ve had in the past… my only obsessions are Lo-Fang and a couple of other random songs, which I’m sure I’ll quickly grow tired of after listening to them on repeat for over two months.
6) I’m slightly terrified. But I know I can do this… I think. I’ve done it before, so I can do it again. And I think that if I just force myself to keep writing, I’ll be able to successfully produce enough gibberish that can be later rewritten and polished and refined until it bleeds.. and be turned into a beautiful, meaningful book.
I now gift you an excerpt of what I call a ‘Character Interview’, which is basically where I write myself into an encounter with my characters and interrogate them about what they’re doing. Desperate times call for desperate measures… such as self-insertion.
“So,” I say presently, taking my notepad and balancing it over my crossed legs. “I need you to tell me what happened in May.”
They share a glance. Otis is still looking at her by the time she turns back to me with a wry smile. “It’s a lot of information. A lot happened very quickly… and I think you already know the answer to the mystery.”
“I do,” I concede. “But what I don’t know is which steps you took to get to the answer. Also, I’m confused as to how your families are involved in all of this,” I lowered my voice. “And the government.”
Otis has his eyes on me now, and he’s reaching into his pocket.
“He has pictures,” Evie explains. “And… well… it started with
This is where my document ends. Because, evidently, neither Evie nor I know how it started. If that doesn’t show the state my novel is in at the moment, I don’t know what does.
But, as C.S. Lewis said…
“Peter did not feel very brave; indeed, he felt he was going to be sick. But that made no difference to what he had to do.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia
And indeed, I do feel that I’m going to be sick. But it makes no difference. This novel needs to be written, and I will write it.
Oh, and happy Halloween.