NaNoWriMo, Day 28: "Dirt"

I went to bed at midnight last night.

Midnight.

When was the last time I went to bed that early? I can't recall. I'll have to consult my house's security camera videotapes to figure this out. What led to such a lovely treat, such wonderful unconscious bliss for a world-record (for the month of November 2007 at least) six-and-a-half straight hours? Why, I'm glad you asked. This sentence led to that:

Spreading out before them, nothing but permafrost and dirt, a few sad, small patches of green, and on the horizon only water.

A simple, harmless sentence, buried in the middle of a paragraph describing a helicopter lifting off from an island in the Canadian arctic, carrying my main character and three other people. And it is significant only because the word "dirt" was the 50,000th that I had typed in the course of writing Son of a Saint.

So, I've made it to 50,000. Big huzzahs and celebration and champagne, right? Well, not really. After I had changed the logo (in the right column) to the winner's logo, changed the progress bar to the purple badge, and updated the numbers, I couldn't help but continue cogitating on the enormous holes in my story, and how I might be able to build up enough words around the walls to make those holes small enough to only be able to fly a Boeing 737 through. It's not quite a Pyrrhic victory, but it's also not any time to stand at the dais and beginning my Nobel acceptance speech.

You see, here's where the marathon comparison finally breaks down: When I hit mile 25 of the Chicago Marathon, I summoned up every last bit of strength I had and channeled that into my body to get me across the finish line at a sprint; as some volunteer with a few kind words slipped the finisher's medal over my head, I had nothing left, and knew that I wouldn't have to seriously think about running for three weeks — or ever again, if I chose to.

I've definitely picked up steam here at the end, pouring out over 10,000 words in the last four days. And all signs indicate that I've crossed a finish line. But I know I have to keep running — probably for another 20,000 words or more — in order to complete a first draft. The good news is that I haven't had any lactic acid building up in my brain, as it did in my thighs during the marathon. So, provided I can find a solution to my literary quandaries (and I will!), I will keep running until I have a complete first draft.

Then I'll get drunk. Okay, just kidding. But that's what writers are supposed to do, right? When in Rome . . . .

I got a nice email last night from a fellow NaNoWriMo'er who won a couple of days ago. We had communicated before it started, talked about getting together in local cafés to motivate each other, our laptops back-to-back. But that was the last we contacted each other until she was over the hump and saw that I was close, and then she finally wrote me to cheer me on from a distance. She summed up a lot of my feelings in her congratulatory email this morning:

My goal for NaNo was primarily to train myself to write faster. I've never understood the "shitty first draft" concept that many writers advocate, because I've never been able to turn off my internal editor. I also hoped to be writing a literary novel. Well, I made the first goal; even if my first draft isn't finished yet. it sure meets the sniff test in many sections.

However, this will never be litfic. It's an airplane book, a beach read. Heavily plot-driven. I can live with that, especially if I actually finish it. I can imagine doing NaNo again only if I do keep working on this one.

I, too, characterized Son of a Saint as literary fiction, but it is far from that now. I feel like I'm just learning about my characters. I feel like I'm finally at the point where I can write some cogent character studies, a thorough plot outline. And in the process of going through this behemoth (Microsoft Word says it currently stands at 149 pages) a second time, I can start to infuse it with the kind of potent descriptions, nuance, wit and scope that I have convinced myself I'm capable of creating. (We'll see, Bailey.) The best part about this month is that as it winds down, I'm still hopeful. I don't hate my novel, even in the sorry condition it's in, and best of all, I don't hate writing.

But I'm not certain I'll be doing NaNoWriMo again. Yes, Catharine Amanda, thank you for your comment in my last entry, but I can't guarantee you that I'll be by your side next year when you take this on. Unless you want to ply me with bribes. Actually, I'm not the one who deserves the bribes: the one you need to be talking to is Laura, who has been a saint this month in giving me the time and space to do what I've done.

And thanks to the many of you who have sent me comments, both here and in Facebook, along the course of this month. You can all have autographed copies of my book when it's published. Which should happen around December 3rd. I just need a literary agent and a publicist to each call me, agree to represent me, and begin putting together the book tour. I mean, how hard could this be?