Me and Mr. Jones

Day two was difficult for me. I did manage to write my first 4 pages, but I also fear that this afternoon I may have to go back and edit it down to about 2. I know that the NaNoWriMo people tell me that I should simply write and save editing for December, but I don’t think that I am the kind of boy who can work when he isn’t satisfied. And that is why yesterday took me so long to get started. First I needed a concept and even a working title. I needed a bit more perspective about the different potentials a novel might have. And I needed to build up my confidence.

So the writing day began in the shower where I conceived of some metaphoric images that would help me set word to page: water. But not just water, the changing physical state of water. How water develops or changes and yet its core remains the same. And that was how I hit upon my title: States of Matter. I would deal with the transformation of my subject, of his time as a fluid liquid person or perhaps a static solid person. I would get a chance to delve into my own experiences with water.

And therein is the real issue, the meat of my conversation with my sister the other day: am I writing fiction inspired by autobiographical instances? Or am I writing memoir? And if I add on to that the context I was reading about in Kundera’s book: am I dealing with the character thinking about his circumstance or dealing with the character reacting to them? Insight or polemic? Psychological or Philosophical? And what will be my plot?

That’s about where I am. Today during work I need to try and sort some of this stuff out. I am mostly concerned with the narrative voice and whether or not I will allow myself to write in first person. I am a little afraid if I do that I won’t be able to get myself out of the book.

Ugh…

Let’s begin this writing adventure with a bit of reflection on the process as it has played out since I made the decision. It is not unlike every major undertaking I have considered over the past decade. The IDEA happens, and then the PREPARATION ensues. My decision to write a novel in one month found me trying to pick which books I could read for inspiration, and then searching for guidance from my sister or other writers I admire. The one key element missing is the actual writing component. I had this problem with my Honor Scholar thesis, and the collection of short stories I’ve been thinking about for years. I have such a well of excitement for these projects, and I am able to flush out the IDEA so completely that it would seem the product is almost ready for exhibition. But sadly, in the past, the product eludes me.

So I gladly gave up yesterday to all of my anxious preparing and talking and strategizing, and am counseling my mind today on the virtues of simply jumping in and getting it all done. I figure 2,000 words a day will be a comfortable pace to keep. I promise to let you know.

In the meantime, let me just record a few of the pearls of wisdom I did uncover in my non-writing yesterday:

1. Talking with my sister confirmed the thing I should have already known: the best way to know more about writing and improve the craft is to write. I had called her to figure out how she attacked the PLOT of things and she said for many years she would always begin where I am now: lots of interesting moments and ideas and memories to explore (“pregnant moments” I called them) but not a real clue what action/plot lay within. And for a long time she would write page upon page with no plot. However, the process did find help her achieve a much finer perception of her own point-of-view and approach to things and she deals with things quite differently. But this all came from writing. This consoled me quite a bit.

2. Although I realize it is a bad habit to get in, I still did find a couple of things I wanted to read as a pace-setter to this writing marathon. Milan Kundera’s The Art of the Novel seems to be a good beginning. He muses on all sorts of ideas and developments and experiments with writing these things and if nothing else it is something that may help me later. JD Salinger seems to be my other touchstone, purely because he seems to effortlessly infuse meaning in description of events.

Okay, well, with any luck tomorrow’s recap will find me discussing the actual words so far. Wish me luck!

So I have opted to sign up for two separate but complimentary writing tasks for the month of November. In the first, represented by the picture above, I have agreed to simply post on this blog every day for the next month. In the second, a bit more challenging, I have agreed to attempt to write a novel (or 50,000 words) in a month. I will attempt to marry the two by blogging about my writing. Is this cheating? I don’t see it as such. But I suppose I’ll just have to type a lot right now and let you know what I think/thought come December.

This is all that I need,
The hours that you and I have known.
Your bones. Your skin. Things to be cherished.
Walking down the street with your arm sitting gently on my shoulder.
Noticing the little things that we happened not to notice before.
Here on this couch or there in the bed while you rest beside me.
The laundry washed, the dishes cleaned,
but what we accomplish is simply being together.
My flesh still hungers for your touch. A kiss. And both are given freely.
With you I lay down in peace and fly like a bird to your mountain.

after it was over
we sat together in the bathtub
while he cried.

he hadn’t considered
that the ramification of my seduction
may be his memory.

as he wept i felt
the water in the tub change from
tepid to cold.

hours before
we sang hallelujah
as we lay together

and i thought
those moments might finally
allow me to breath

yet he sobs
and i can’t stop hoping
to just go do it again.

not requiring a rope ladder, my sneaky feet stealthily lead me down the stairs
and out the door. my parents’ snoring dreams harmonized with
the whir of their window fan. there among the trees, i shivered.

impulse danced with curiosity as i cast aside my shirt and shorts. how to commingle
with the earth? grass blades nipped at my toes, creatures tasted of my skin.
running first, i paused to slow my breath and knelt down in the moonlight.

the earth relaxed, allowing my hands to penetrate into her soft muddy folds.
swallowing first my fingers and and then engulfing every limb, i was not sinking
because i had already plunged. i was gone. my body overcome by release.

effortlessly it shatters
and kicks
and insists that
whatever was happening
should cease.
should cease.
should cease.
should cease.
or perhaps a slight delay…

no. done.

marble sanctuary dressed in esteemed mist,
i stand. away from cold
and need. rotate. stand.
despite the clock,
because of drip,
this womb cocoon pillow release.