H Y P 3 R G R 4 P H I A

This month marks a year since I last wrote in this journal. That's nothing special. But this space used to mean something to me; and was helpful at different times over the years.

When I first started up with a Livejournal account, there were several livejournalers who I admired for their intelligence and wit, and some of them seemed to be getting to know each other, becoming entwined in each others real lives in increasingly dramatic ways. They wrote about interesting things, and commented in each others journals about literature, philosophy, artificial intelligence, the Singularity. Stuff that I couldn't talk about with my real life friends, many whom I had grown up around and trusted completely, but had less and less in common with over the years.

Then one of the writers I'd been reading saw my journal, and afterward, there was always an invitation for me to get to know some person or another better. I sort of floated at the edge though, barely getting to know a few of them. There were phone calls, an in-person visit.

But then eventually, I did get to know one of them better. There were many late-night phone calls, and I thought I was falling in love with somebody over the Internet. But after a little while, she stopped talking to me. She may have realized how silly we were being.

Later, I was having a bad time, I mean in general, with my life. I decided to use Livejournal's friends-only feature, and to write a very honest and confessional entry. Supportive readers came out of the woodwork, commenting with insightful anecdotes and encouraging words. Almost none of these comments came from the writers I followed closely, some whose journals I followed daily. Instead they came from other writers and readers who I didn't know, who subscribed to my journal.

Afterward, my experience of this personal space was different; strangers from around the world had reached across, and my life was improved because of it.

I developed a habit though, of using Livejournal as a space to lay down my burdens for examination, but then neglecting it when things were going well. And eventually, when Livejournal became more mainstream and real-life friends were using it, I was less tempted to. On the whole, anyone with friends-only access to all of my journal, and with enough time to waste, would have a skewed view indeed.

The time came when things went well for a long stretch. But much later after that, I suffered a few losses and setbacks, each one less convenient than the last. Death...professional failure followed by personal and creative stagnation...almost-requited love (the worst kind). The kinds of events that made previous difficulties seem like trite whining. My life had changed, or at least my view of it; but now I didn't feel like being honest about things, or confessing anything, or examining any of it. And in this case, probably, encouraging words from friends, or strangers across the Internet, would have been a weak consolation.

So what about now? I've already written more than I wanted to or think I should. And I don't know who is writing or reading around here anymore. A few years have gone by in what feels like a few months. I'm not old yet, but I'm not young anymore. My friends are distant, even my family is distant. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a stranger. I've gotten used to things, so I'm not lonely at all. But I know there's something very wrong with this picture. This can't be my life, but it is my life. Things could be a lot worse, so I don't need to jump off a bridge. But I really need to do some things differently, and start thinking about the things I want and still don't have.

Part of my series of blog posts continuing NaNoWriMo: Afterword for 2007. 

Yesterday I emailed and called people who from time to time ask me how the writing’s going. I let them know I’d revived the blog to talk about last year’s novel, and then this year’s novel in progress.

Part of my series of blog posts continuing NaNoWriMo: Afterword for 2007.

After two decades of Writer’s Digest, and associated books featuring interviews with professional writers, and then college studies, writer’s groups and several online newsletter subscriptions for writers, I’ve picked up a lot of second-hand knowledge about creative writing. If I pass it along to you, it’s now third-hand knowledge. I realize that’s hard to appreciate. But here’s something that might make a difference to you. Tom Robbins, author of eight novels, nearly burned his first novel a dozen times before he finished it; but “Another Roadside Attraction” ended up being well received by critics and is still in print after thirty-five years.

Word count: 47,053

We Are Heroes, but We Can't See

Where permanence glides away on wings of
Certitude's disfavor, dissonance and
Circumventive memory, our times' sand
Expansive to behold where rides eyes' love
Ningirsu; Thor; a thousand heroes shove
Inward through mighty doors which mortals band
Together, unexamined, minds unmanned
Sighs vexatious, one hand bare, one a glove 
These are throes, which need not be beholden
We click the remote, tune the dial, look
At a thousand plastic heroes while we
Cling amid the quiet refuse stolen, 
Reside, distracted, delayed, on what took
Fifty-thousand years; heroes, we can't see

Written 3250 c.e. Ballein Ceux, lead singer of Genomenclature. For the Fakolur Foundation, a welfare non-profit for environmentally threatened gengin-Martians.

Never performed due to artist's irresponsibility, noncommittal behavior, and late night partying and fraternizing with lowlifes, genmod punks, thugs, and fleshbots.

No big surprise there!

This 200th Anniversary of Resettlement, Port Robinson's Red Day Parade, together with over 100 other Mars Republican districts, celebrates a greener, more civilized Mars!  :)

Sponsored by SolOrg and your friends at the Universal Church.

Word count: 44,627
This entry was edited after NaNoWriMo 2007. See below for note.

Featured in Chapter Nineteen: an entirely italicized paragraph, wherein the protagonist considers the likelihood of artificial women built complete with female problems... right before remembering that such problems have been solved for several centuries. What?

Malcolm Forbes said, "Diamonds are nothing more than chunks of coal that stuck to their jobs." That's a cheesy line. Too bad, then, that it's a fact. It's time to lay some preemptive logistics on the table. The excerpt featured on my Nanowrimo profile is a large one, and it's only about half of what's been written (Note: minutes before December this was further reduced to two chapters); but, how would you know for sure? What if I'm lying? I have my detractors, as well as my supporters, and they're the same people. No one wants me to fail, but some people know a good bet when they see one; and it is very unlike me to finish a novel. Even in a year.

Well someone is going to have to clean their own bathroom. On the 30th -- as soon as the last word has been typed and verified via the Nanowrimo website -- I'm going to post the entire document on my website. It will stay there, warts and all, for exactly one week. Crappy passages italicized for later evaluation will be covered with white text, enabling proper use of italics (no effect on word count; you can even highlight/color to read).

Word count: 41,941

What bores me or depresses me in novels?

Half-complete thoughts and intimations of the narrator's inside knowledge (i.e. authors who forget about their audiences on their road to catharsis).
Characters who are aware of the reader or the author (doesn't apply to the first-person perspective).
Horses. Ponies. Dogs. Kittens. Middle-management.
Simple protagonists who are rewarded in the end for staying simple.
Characters who don't seem to want or need anything, really.
I want to like the Victorian era more than I actually do.
Overly quirky main characters and psychotic main characters.
Moral-driven stories thinly veiled as character-driven stories.
First-person-perspective characters who think too much (these characters can be interesting in the less-torturous third-person perspective).
Any novel that does not push the story forward with every page.

Only four of these have slipped by me and into my novel! Not bad! Chapter Eighteen is up.

Word count: 38,841

Ever say something stupid, wish you could take it back? Noveling could be your playground. In chapters Sixteen and Seventeen, I began using italics to set passages aside for later evaluation by my Inner Editor, who has been drunk on some park bench for the past few weeks. Some of these sentences and paragraphs aren't necessarily plot-derailers, they're just incredibly out of character or cheesy. Following are a few quick notes on embarrassing, italics-causing, character development pitfalls I've discovered during my noveling adventure. Someone with a degree in English or creative writing could prescribe preexisting terminology for these. Since I only have a degree in excuses for not having a degree, I'll have to make stuff up.

General relative tea: The moment a character is conceived, he or she begins maturing and having tea parties with other characters. They live in subjective time, which passes faster than normal time, resulting in conversations on-stage that would seem "too early" for characters that have "just recently met". Italics!
Character attention disorder: Author leaves the room, but his fingers keep typing. Characters stand around and chat for two or three chapters. Most frequent during word-count marathons. Not author's fault. Italics!
Empathic interference: Characters leave the room, but the author keeps typing. Suddenly, everyone is hooked on 21st Century references, and thinking and speaking exactly alike. Italics! Also, may lead to...
Tourette's syndrome: Characters realize their world is fictitious, lacking real social consequences. Italics!

Word count: 35,174

The best thing about today is that 35,174 makes the remaining 14,826 look more manageable. The worst thing about today is its 1,081 words.

There are five days left in National Novel Writing Month. I believe I can write 14,826 more words. The dilemma of not-enough-story has long-evaporated. Too-much-story, and too-little-time have long replaced it. Today, for once, my biggest challenge wasn't writing a bunch of words. It was unplanning a bunch of unwritten words. Scattered across my five-page outline, there are whole sections of demolished sets and unemployed actors. They will not go in the trash. For now, though, into the Great Recycling Bin they go.

There are sentences and paragraphs in chapters Sixteen and Seventeen that I have already recognized may not belong in the book. I have italicized several of those passages for my Inner Editor to deal with later.

Word-count wise, it's uncomfortable to wrap up the evening with barely 1,000 words. But it must be done, I have to sleep, or else tomorrow will not be any easier.

Word count: 34,093

What, to me, makes a good novel?

A story that evokes feeling, characters who inspire people to action.
The demonstration of philosophical ideaologies by believable characters.
Science fiction that entertains without sacrificing science for fiction.
A balance between character development and plot progression.
Main characters who are easy to relate with, who evoke sympathy.
Secondary characters who are quirky/colorful/morbid, who evoke laughter or shock.
Third person narration that is privy to the mind of the protagonist (but not utterly omniscient).
A healthy sprinkling of random oddities and educational facts (I picked this up from Moby Dick).
Intelligent narration, unpretentious protagonists, vice versa.
Main characters and close seconds who are at pivotal moments in life.
Vulnerable characters who discover their strengths.
Strong antagonists who discover their vulnerabilities.
Cliffhanger chapter endings, book endings that leave some interpretation to the reader.
Science fiction that explores popular culture and subculture.

Word count: 31,333

"He glanced ahead and saw the light at the end of the tunnel. It grew quickly as it sped toward them."

What a note to end on for the night. Let's do some quick math.

In order to write 50,000 words in thirty days, you could divide it into thirty, 1,667-word segments.

This would lead to 38,341 words written on the twenty-third day. That would leave only 11,659 words to go.

But I'm 7,008 words behind, which leaves me 18,667 words to go.

Weekends are the best time to catch up, and there are four in November. And this is the last one. This is the only time I'll ever write it, or say it during NaNoWriMo this year: I have doubts. Know what I mean?

That is all the acknowledgment I'll pay it. This weekend is going to be very, very productive and myopic.

Word count: 30,063

The phone call I mentioned at the end of the first week, I haven't brought it up because it would be more courteous not to mention names. But it's worth mentioning something about it. During the first week, I was full of inspiration and hubris for my noveling adventure. I coasted on that initial rush of adrenaline, until it tapered off into the use of words like slogging and wading to describe my now less-than-novel noveling adventure.

Before slogging had rooted itself more firmly to my vocabulary, I called relatives, and friends, and said, "Hey, I'm doing this thing, and if I screw it up, I'd like you to think of something worse than noveling for me to do."

This has long been a suggested tactic. It works. Within a week, I committed to house painting and bathroom scrubbing. Even if they don't care about your novel, some people will let you scrub every square inch of their bathroom if you fail. Some people will even leave it to become dirtier, and dirtier, until the end of the month. This is how I know there are people willing to help me, and all sorts of other things, to grow.

Word count: 28,426

Today (tonight, this morning) is a huge disappointment, because I wanted to write 3,000 words or more and be asleep by midnight. Still, I am not so disappointed that I won't be able to sleep for five hours, wake up and down a Red Bull (or two) and merrily feast on a bunch of Thanksgiving crap with my awesome relatives. I'm going to do that because I deserve it. Writing a novel isn't the only responsible thing I'm doing this month that requires some effort and discipline. But these thirty days of blog entries are about National Novel Writing Month, the most treacherous, thankless deadline ever.

That begs the question, why do it? But the thing is, it's nigh impossible to answer that kind of question without feeling as though I'm being asked to argue its merits. Which is ridiculous. Obviously, I don't have time to argue. I'm writing a novel.

If you're doing this, you know what it's like to find encouragement in places you never expected, and to find it missing from places where you felt sure it would be. But the awful truth is, you have to write 50,000 words in a month to appreciate the difficulty of writing 50,000 words in a month. The other awful truth is, Thanksgiving is there to get people to buy products from grocery stores. Your family and your friends, on the other hand, exist all year round. Always have. That's more than you can say for your novel. Also, encouragement is for sissies.

Word count: 26,121

Since this novel will be written in 10 more days, and that is woefully torturous, I need to shake things up.

The blinds presently swung open to bathe the room and its tapestries, bookshelves and marble statuettes in late-morning teal, and Sally the flight attendant lit up like gleaming chrome and Ballein just wanted to plug in.

Chapter Fifteen is up. It's the future and the protagonist totally has sex with an android.

Ok now that I'm halfway there, let's decide on a better title. These are my top ten choices.

1. Labyrinth
2. Forest of Gumps
3. Master of Orion's Arm
4. The Bathroom (the font should be large and important looking)
5. qwer asdf
6.-10. Beer

Word count: 23,046

Chapter Four could precede either Chapter Five or Fourteen. So, Chapters Four and Fourteen are now up.

Chapter Fourteen is where I lose control of the story. I thought it through and wrote it. I definitely was conscious of writing it. But I wasn't irritated with myself afterward, I was irritated with my protagonist. I had a guideline, I had plans. I had an escape route.

I'm finally over my head. It's going to take a hard swim to break even by Thanksgiving, assuming I want cookies, egg nog, stuffing... mmm. I am probably at least 10,000 words behind. I don't want to know.

Word count: 21,042

The scenery (or lack thereof) wasn't designed for symbolism, but it is symbolic. The characters run from empty stage to stage, each devoid of props and backdrops. Their worst nightmare becomes a benign and empty shell when confronted.

Chapter Thirteen begins a major transition, set just before the protagonist escapes from a plotless, gray prison. But where is he escaping to? Well, somewhere with better scenery. Unfortunately, it is overdone and probably easily misinterpreted. It is also full of little. This I can't explain, especially for such a long chapter (har). I had no idea I was doing it.

Chapter Thirteen really sucks. But there's a lot of it and that means I'm closer to 50,000.

Word count: 20,032

Today's lesson is, loving your creation can stifle it. It should have been no surprise, I grew attached to my novel after the character sketches. Then I wanted to handle them slowly, with care, because a big rush would have been disrespectful. Then, someone reminded me that a big rush is exactly how I got this far.

I remembered that my characters aren't knitting or playing chess or baking cookies, and they don't have time to sit and think for half an hour about what to do or say next. So neither should I.

So I took the baking mitts off and hit 20,000. Good night.

Word count: 18,123

Sometimes I feel like it, sometimes I don't feel like it, and then there's everything in-between. If I'm serious, there can be no difference, it should make no difference.

Word count: 17,022

One thing I should have, I think, is a reaction I want to get out of the reader. Two of the best teachers in this area, right off my head, are/were Stephen King and Kurt Vonnegut. I don't read much King. Vonnegut wrote two of my favorite science fiction novels: Player Piano and Deadeye Dick. It was so funny, the way he spun morally infused yarns, that I was okay with getting bopped over the head with his rubber mallet of social criticism. Vonnegut wrote that fiction is like a practical joke, like telling someone their pants are on fire, "making people care, laugh, cry or be nauseated or whatever by something which absolutely is not going on at all."

Care, laugh, cry, nauseated. Humph.

THE MYOPIA TO-DO LIST: Make at least one reader,
1. Care
2. Laugh
3. Cry
4. Nauseated

Chapters Eleven and Twelve are up. A lot of careless grammar, but these chapters were fun to write.