Victory

It's almost a week now since the National Novel Writing Month came to an end. I was planning on writing a blog post on deadline day to chronicle my experiences, but there were one or two distractions. One of those happened to be Dragon Age Inquisition, and the others were ... well, no, that was a lie, pretty much every distraction these last few weeks can be attributed to Dragon Age Inquisition.

On the subject of NaNoWriMo, allow me to say this...

I finished my 50,000 word manuscript on the 30th of November, which just so happened to be deadline day. It was a close thing, and all I remember of that previous Saturday was frenzied writing and drinking copious amounts of coffee in an effort to catch up.

But it all worked out in the end. I submitted my manuscript on time. I did it. I was victorious. To paraphrase Caesar: "I Came, I Wrote, I Conquered"...

... And it was glorious.

Let me tell you all a secret. Aside from one short story that I never finished and one novella back in March that, surprise surprise, I also abandoned, it has not been the best year for writing. Probably the worst in a long time, actually. Ideas for stories have always been floating around my mind, random scenes or characters or abstract images that hold no context, but whenever I attempt to put them down on paper my enthusiasm drains away. A couple of days of stopping and starting is usually all it takes for one of my projects to enter the "Beware: Shit Story Ahead. Avoid At All Costs!" phase.

Most of the time I would press on anyway. Not with that particular story, of course, but I usually start working on some other project even though it never amounts to much. I don't know if it's a lack of discipline or laziness or that my writing skills just haven't had enough practice to fully capture what it is I visualise in my mind. Either way, around September of this year I seriously considered dropping the whole writing malarky and taking the time to have a good long think about what I would do instead. Writing has always been very intrinsic to my life, ever since I was about 12 years old, so the fact that it came to this was rather scary.

One evening I found myself reading the blogs of some writers whose works I enjoy. It was midweek and work beckoned the next day; I wasn't tired enough to get some shut-eye, but I lacked the energy to do anything more productive than read random stuff. One writer in particular mentioned on her blog that she used to take part in the National Novel Writing Month, and that's how she started writing her debut novel (a novel that found publication five or so years later). Reading about her experiences was what made me consider taking part in the competition this year. Considering I'd thought about abandoning writing altogether, I still wasn't too certain about it all - second thoughts, and all that - so maybe NaNoWriMo would be a good excuse to see if I still had enough interest in it to write 50,000 words in a month. That's quite a daunting word count for someone that can hardly churn out a couple of pages without giving up and binging on chocolate instead. Maybe all I needed was to approach the craft from a different perspective. Hell, it's not like I've never done this before, either. 2009 proved that I could, indeed, achieve that goal, but that was five long years ago. Things are different now.

So, that was that. November was going to be the final straw, the deciding factor on whether writing is something that I want to take seriously, or whether I would hang up the pen and pad and go down a different road altogether. What that road would be is anyone's guess.

But I gave it a go, nonetheless.

And I finished it in good time. Look! I even got a certificate, akin to a metaphorical pat on the back. Isn't that nice? 

Here's a picture from my NaNoWriMo account, with a dinky little chart showing my progress. 

Pretty neat, eh?

And yes, I have Dream as my profile picture.

And yes, again, my username is Vespasian. I wonder if anyone remembers that?

And for the last time: yes, that big gap where I didn't write much at all? I can explain the reason for that in three words:

Dragon. Age. Inquisition.

I must admit, it still is a source of pride that I managed to succeed a second time, but now the question that needs answering is whether writing is something that I want to pursue further? I've already proven that, under the right circumstances and when I stop procrastinating long enough to actually sit down and work on it, I can reach a reasonable word count each day. Not only that, but, unlike last time, I now have a full-time job, so most of my creative endeavours are limited to late at night or extremely early in the morning.

The answer is simple: yes, I want to continue writing. As Christmas looms on the horizon, I plan on making the most of December to work out where my novel will be going next, and to think about what writing means to me. If I had more details about all this I would share it, but everything's a bit up in the air at the moment.

Now that the competition has come to an end, it still begs the question of what I plan to do with this journal blog thing. One of the main reasons I decided to pick it up again after all those months of inactivity was to talk about my experiences taking part in NaNoWriMo. Now that it's over with, I'm a little stumped at what to use it for. I don't want to descend into the realm of writing reviews that no one reads, as that's no fun. Hmm...

The journal blog thing needs a new purpose...

It also needs a better name than journal blog thing...

Reflections - NaNoWriMo, Day 10

I am sitting at my bedroom desk, an empty mug of coffee to my left and a copy of Ernest Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls next to that. I've surpassed my word count for the day, and have just finished watching the first series of Peaky Blinders. It's moments like these, the quiet moments in the evening when I'm still working out what to do next, that I find myself going back to this journal blog thing. Sometimes I just stare at this blog and try to write something, but then I'll lose the words and I'll keep tapping that backspace bar until all the words are gone and the page is once again empty. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what to write about, but I feel I need to write something so here I am, tapping away and hoping I don't reach for that backspace before I make it to the end.

The National Novel Writing Month is well underway, and the first week has long since passed. From what I've picked up from scouring the website's forums, it's either the second or third week when people begin to lose steam, the enthusiasm that sent them hurtling into this new novel, that initial spark of inspiration. The reality that this is something that must be written one word at a time begins to set in, and the motivation starts to wane. Or so I've heard, anyway. Personally, I have yet to experience that, which is all the more surprising considering how I have a history of discarding new stories after writing no more than a couple of thousand words. No doubt I've mentioned this before, but it's all the more relevant now.

So far we've reached the 10th day of November, and I am fast-approaching 25,000 words - the halfway mark. This is undoubtedly the best effort I've done all year, and the enthusiasm is still the same as it was at the start. It's weird to see all these characters I planned, made notes about, detailed their back-stories and imagined some of the events that take place in the story, and see them suddenly come to life on the page. Unabashed excitement is the only way I can describe the moments when I introduce one of these new characters during my daily writing sessions, see them speak to one another and watch as the cogs and the gears of the story begin to turn and grind and all the ideas I see in my mind come into shape. 

Okay, sure, it's still the first draft so there is bound to be all sorts of hokey dialogue and repetitious sentences and downright awful prose, but I made a promise to myself before I started last Saturday that I would not go back and re-read my work. That way lies failure, at least for me. One thing I've learned about my writing habits this month, and from what I've noticed about the things I've written in the past, is that I must not edit the material that I have until the first draft is complete and I can declare it's done. If I write a chapter, then spend the next day reading over it, making corrections, hammering and chipping away at every word and sentence until it resembles something pristine and perfect, then I lose that forward momentum and everything - my motivation included - grounds to a halt. Odds are I would then write another two or three chapters and be forced to go back and re-edit all the previous work I'd edited beforehand, anyway. Better just to get a rough first draft down and worry about making the corrections some other time.

Sometimes I wonder what sort of story this is going to be, and what it means to me personally. One thing I am certain of is that I am not writing with the intention of trying to get published. I'm not even sure if I ever want to be published, if I'm truly honest, but I feel like I need to write this nonetheless. It is a project that is making me happy, and causing me no small amount of joy to be able to sit and work away at it when normally I would be doing not a lot of anything. For me, the last few years have been a time of discovery with regards to books. Rather than stay within the confines of one genre, I started picking up stories I never thought I would ever read, let alone enjoy. I took a chance reading material from writers that I would usually just pass by without so much as a second glance when in a bookstore, and I found so much inspiration and enjoyment within those pages. 

So I think that this year's NaNoWriMo is a love letter to all those stories that I enjoyed reading during my less busy moments, where I found solace during the winter, that helped to dispel some of the loneliness, that inspired me, taught me so much, made me feel joy, sorrow, love, hate, anger, beauty, horror, gratitude, warmth and all the other emotions that I could spend half the evening naming but probably exist in some thesaurus somewhere. 

This year's NaNoWriMo is where I take everything I have learned, all of those emotions, bottle it all up, crush it all together into one seething mass and then hurl it at the blank page, and to see what kind of story I've written once those 30 days are over.

Only 20 days and a further 25,000 words left...

Tomorrow...

The National Novel Writing Month begins tomorrow.

Am I ready? Not particularly. There is still always more to plan, but I've long since come to the conclusion that, even if someone granted me limitless time to prepare, I would still never consider myself ready to sit down and write the damn thing.

I must admit, I am a little nervous. While this may not be all that important to others - most of the people I spoke to this month didn't even know NaNoWriMo even existed until I mentioned it in passing conversation - it is a big deal to me. One of the compelling reasons for writing during November is the knowledge that I am not alone; there are almost a million others throughout the world also taking part in this same competition. While I don't usually interact with the forums that much, it is always good to read about how others are faring with the development of their stories. Writing is a rather solitary hobby, but knowing there are others out there that are also standing at the foot of the mountain and staring up at it with equal parts fear and excitement is reassuring.

So, yes! NaNoWriMo begins tomorrow. An entire weekend of uninterrupted writing.

I even thought up a rather fitting title that I think reflects my story rather well:

'The Hollow Man'

... and yes, before you say anything, there is a bit of a T S Eliot vibe going on there. That was intentional.

For the rest of the evening I plan to relax and get a good night's sleep in preparation for tomorrow morning. Maybe fit in a bit of The Last of Us, because everyone knows that shooting zombies in the face while trying to survive in a post-apocalyptic wasteland is always the best way spend a Friday night.

It's also reassuring to know that there will be very few distractions this November that could prevent me from focusing on my writing...

Well, apart from this...

Inspirations

This blog has been rather quiet, wouldn't you agree? No random thoughts, no chit-chat about writing and, most noticeable of all, no incessant demands for coffee. I guess some of you must think that this silence has something to do with me giving up on NaNoWriMo, right?

WRONG!

The truth is the last couple of weeks have been rather hectic. Not only have I been settling into a new job, but most of my free time in the evenings has been dedicated to jotting down idea after idea in preparation for November. You can barely move in my room for all the random bits of paper strewn about the place, all covered with idle sketches and plot stuff!

In short, it has been a busy couple of weeks.

Probably the busiest I've been in quite some time, actually.

I imagine you must think that, what with all this talk of frantic planning, I must be ready for November 1st. Right?

WRONG!

There is still a ton of stuff I could be working on right now, but with only a few days remaining I can only conjure up so much, and I have absolutely no idea what a lot of this story will be about. But you know what?

I'm okay with that.

There have been a couple of times in the past, before I ever took part in any NaNoWriMo'ing shenanigans, where I have spent over a year planning out every inch of a story that, when the time came to write the thing, the project fell to pieces. In my limited experience, I do feel that there is such a thing as too much planning. Over that time I transformed a basic concept into something so ridiculously epic and monumental, with countless characters struggling to throw themselves into the limelight, all the locations mapped and pretty much every aspect of the story sussed out. Yet, after all that attention to detail, there was no way I could get the project up off the ground no matter how hard I tried.

Looking back in retrospect, I suspect it had something to do with how rigid the planning was. There was little room to breathe, and no possibility for a character to make a sudden unexpected choice or deviate from the beaten path without shattering the story into pieces. I chalked it all up to experience and decided that, in the future, I would be a little less crazy when it came to working on an outline. An outline is useful, but go too far and it can be just as detrimental as not making the effort to plan at all.

Then again, it probably had more to do with the story being a bit rubbish. And by "a bit rubbish" what I actually mean is "so putrid even the rats wouldn't go near it". Either way, like most of these mistakes, I learned my lesson.

Anyway, where was I going with all this...

Ah! Of course! NaNoWriMo 2014...

The last update on this journal blog thing mentioned that I had some very basic ideas for this project. Lots of disparate ideas with little to connect them, that sort of thing. Thankfully the last couple of weeks have been rather productive and I have worked out the basic premise of the story and several of the key characters that will be integral to the plot. So far it seems to be going rather well, and here's to hoping I can scribble down a few extra bits and pieces in preparation for November 1st.

At this stage I'm reluctant to discuss my story in any detail. It was hard enough getting this far into the blog without crumbling under the pressure of expectation, but when November is underway I might go so far as to provide a little synopsis of what it's about. Until then, I aim to keep it all low-key.

What I will do is let you see what books and other mediums of entertainment have inspired this project.

Quite a list! Some books have been more of an influence than others, but there is no doubting how important each of them have been throughout this entire process.

So yes, there is a plan. Sort of. A very brief one. A basic outline with a massive amount of freedom to allow the story to expand and change if the need arises. There is no chance of planning myself into a corner this time, and the thought of seeing what weird and wonderful choices my characters might make does fill me with excitement. It's almost akin to stepping out into the great unknown, and it certainly feels very liberating. What will be fascinating is seeing what my imagination can create, what stories I could tell in the space of 30 days...

I think it's time to bring this blog post to a close. Struggling to stay awake these last couple of weeks and could do with some tea and chocolate. 

As I have said, time and time again: Tea and chocolate makes everything better.

Ideas

Sometimes in life we reach a crossroads. Take one path and the other closes off forever, but you are always left wondering what might have happened had you chosen the other option.

I came across one those crossroads just a few moments ago, and the decision was one of the hardest things I've ever done...

... Do I write this blog entry, or embark on an evening of binge-watching Supernatural?

You see, my life is often crammed full of such important, life-defining choices. It explains why I am such a social person who rarely ever stops talking.

Yeah, there's no way I could maintain a straight face while writing that...

I could've sworn I sat down to write something meaningful. Then again, in my life and in my stories, you should never expect to read anything truly meaningful or profound. In truth, I have not experienced nearly enough of life yet to be able to offer such an opinion, to bleed onto the blank page and provide some insight into the human condition. Maybe one day I might have something worthwhile to say, but until then I will continue to write strange stories about detectives and aristocrats and supernatural stuff and have a ton of fun seeing what my imagination spawns next!

I guess this would probably be a good time to give an update on how the planning side of things is going. NaNoWriMo is certainly a time to write like a destructive force of nature, but as I mentioned in one of my earlier blog entries I require a rough plan to work by. So, what have I been up to?

Firstly, I have some books I need to get through. One massive inspiration right now is the masterpiece that is Rebecca, by Daphne Du Maurier. Seriously, if you haven't picked this up then you need to reassess your priorities in life. Gothic fiction at its finest; protagonist's inner monologue is truly fascinating, and complements the constant sense of foreboding that hangs over the entire household. It also features an aristocratic manor, because what Gothic story is complete without a creepy aristocratic manor or castle? Just ask Dracula, or Carmilla. I doubt Jane Eyre would disagree, and what about you, Fall of the House of Usher? I was about to add Jamaica Inn to that list, but that was more of a creepy pub than a castle. Slight difference, sure, but it has certainly provided me with an unhealthy fear of the Cornish moors...

The problem at the moment is that I don't really know what sort of story I want to write. I have a loose collection of disparate ideas, but most of them are so vague that I'm not sure how to combine them. Plot is still an unknown factor, and while I do have a couple of thoughts about some of the characters that will populate this story they have yet to take shape or identity, still to develop personalities. So far the planning stage of this project feels akin to standing at the foot of a mountain; one gigantic, impossible obstacle, with an even bigger one behind it that will have to be tackled in November.

I think the best course of action would be to separate the planning into individual segments, rather than look at it as the aforementioned mountain: insurmountable and daunting. Try and work out the characters first, then the plot; I would rather have a flawed story with interesting characters than the opposite. Hopefully once those are planned the rest should follow easily enough. It's something to think about...

What I do know for certain is that it will be focused around an aristocratic family, so expect lots of sketches and notes on the household and its surrounding grounds. It will contain elements of the supernatural, with lots of other weird things taking place that will be integral to the story. Not decided whether it will be set in our reality, or a fantasy equivalent. Not even sure what time period yet, though I do have an interest in the Victorian era. Hmm, questions, questions...

... Everything is a little uncertain at the moment, a little unclear. Once a more concrete idea presents itself then I'll discuss it further. Glad I have a few weeks to prepare!

All this typing has given me a thirst for tea. I need to do something about that.

I could also do with watching some more Supernatural.

A blog post and a couple episodes of Supernatural?

Turns out it wasn't much of a crossroads after all. Who would've thought?

Thoughts...

Tomorrow is my Friday. In truth, as many of you are no doubt aware, tomorrow is not Friday. Not at all. Not even a smidgeon, no matter how hard one may try to wish it. Is it Friday anywhere else on this planet, or in this solar system? Who knows? Maybe? Why are you even asking me?

The point I am trying to make is that, although tomorrow is, indeed, Tuesday, to me it is Friday.

Friday...

The reason for this is that, after tomorrow, I have some time booked off from work. Right now I am sitting at my desk, listening to a bit of music, all the while pondering what to do over the course of eight empty days. London is always an option, but recently I haven't been in the mood to navigate a path through the hustle and bustle of the metropolis. Something quieter is in order, less frantic. I need some time to think, to imagine and piece things together. My mind is a maelstrom of thoughts, doubts, excitement about the upcoming month and the challenge it holds. But it is nothing compared to my current desire to...

to...

... to go downstairs, enter the kitchen, and make myself a hot chocolate. Preferably without milk (never add milk to hot chocolate, you monster). It has been months since the last one.

Not a bad idea, actually. In my mind, indulging in hot chocolate is the first step in welcoming the approach of Winter.

For the first couple of days I think I will stay at home for a bit, or maybe travel to some of the other towns close by. Embark on an adventure of sorts. Explore bookshops and haunt coffee shops, wrap up warm against the chill winds, and just observe and take notes and think for a bit and try and piece November's story together. The story is there, somewhere. The characters are staring out at me, but they lack clarity or substance.

It'll be time to get some Winter clothes soon. Is there nowhere nearby that sells a thick coat in black? Or perhaps a red scarf? Probably for the best; at this rate I'll be wandering through town dressed like a character from The Night Circus. Not that that's a bad thing. Victorian fashion would probably stick out a bit, though. Tophat is probably not a good idea. Now we're getting less Night Circus-y and more Dickensian. Best keep searching. Clothes shopping is such a bore...

I guess the free time will be dedicated to planning. And hot chocolate. Exploring? Why not. There is no shortage of ideas for this project, most of them having coalesced over the course of the last two years or so. It is a pleasant thought, sitting in a warm cafe, laying the groundwork for a novel, sketching the setting, thinking up names for things and the identities behind those names. Sometimes I wonder if there are any other writers in these same places, sipping at steaming drinks, perusing the shelves at bookshops - all thinking their own silent thoughts, minds constructing tales of imaginary places and people? It would be nice to think so.

Tired. Need sleep. This is the sort of stuff I write when I just feel the need to write something. A random collection of thoughts to usher in the end of another evening.

That hot chocolate is sounding great right about now...

Five Years Ago

A couple of days ago I mentioned that I was considering taking part in this year's NaNoWriMo challenge. The more I think about it, the more appealing it sounds; none of this "oh, I'll spend a month tinkering away at some short story" that pretty much summed up my last writing endeavour. No sir! I think something bigger is in order. As November 1st falls on a Saturday, I have the entire weekend to kick start what will undoubtedly be one colossal undertaking. 50,000 words! A challenge! Imagine my excitement now that I can finally make use of all the ideas that have been floating aimlessly through the empty space between my ears these past few years - all the inspiration and lessons picked up from hundreds of books - ball it all up and hurl it at the blank page. November will be a time when I write something to be proud of.

To be honest, this is not the first time that I have felt this way about the National Novel Writing Month. Almost this exact same situation took place five years ago, albeit in a somewhat different setting than now.

So let us leap into H. G. Wells' time machine for the duration of this blog entry and travel back in time, away from today's full-time working pattern, all the way back to the halcyon days of November 2009. My life was different then; university was the main focus of my attention, evenings were spent mostly playing video-games and watching terrible films in the company of housemates, and it was also a time where I was in the process of  acclimatising to a world where I no longer had lip piercings or long hair. It's hard to believe that this took place half a decade ago. Makes me feel old and creaky. Someone throw some more wood on the fire while I tell this tale, and pass me my teeth while you're at it...

* * *

By November I was well into my first year of studying Creative Writing. Well, I say "first year" with extra emphasis being placed on the quotation marks. In truth, it was my second year. I was studying Media Production in my "first first year", but something told me I was in the wrong course when 1) I had no real interest in films, and 2) I was sneaking novels into the lecture theatres, and rushing out the moment lecture ended so that I could read during the 10-minute break before the next class.

It was roughly two months into my new course. During this time, most of my fellow classmates mentioned that they were going to take part in the NaNoWriMo challenge. Considering I had some free time to spare between shooting monsters into the early hours of the morning on Gears of War and trying not to doze off in workshop sessions, it seemed a good time to try and see whether I was up to the task of writing those 50,000 words. It would be good to put some of those ideas I'd conjured up over the Summer to paper, and I set about typing with such enthusiasm that I barely slept for days on end, often foregoing meals and company, intent on transferring the vivid scenes in my mind onto paper. I would write something deep and original and like, totally awesome in every way.

What was the story like, I hear you ask? Well, put it this way: I pretty much ripped off the entire Thief franchise. No, that's not entirely true. I did have a lot of my own ideas. Ideas that made no sense. Ideas that were downright hokey. Awful dialogue (oh, the dialogue! Five years later and the memory of that dialogue still haunts my dreams. Only vast amount of chocolate can silence it.)

Oh fine, I admit it, it pretty much read like embarrassing Thief fanfic, which is not all that surprising really considering how obsessed I was with that series. Most of my evenings were spent stepping into the shoes of Garrett the Master Thief, pilfering shiny objects from unwary aristocrats and zombie things, while smirking at how easy it is to pilfer shiny objects from aristocrats and, you guessed it, zombie things. Seriously, the only thing stopping me from playing that game right this second is that the damn thing no longer works on my laptop. Perhaps it's worried about what might happen if I did play it during the month prior to NaNoWriMo 2014, and is terrified that it would be responsible for unleashing Thief-Fanfic 2.0 on an unsuspecting world...

I finished the challenge over the course of about 10 days, I think. Made it to about 58,000 words before I keeled over and slept for what must have been an entire decade, but was probably closer to about 11 hours. Burned out big-time and had a splitting headache. But y'know what? As cringe-worthy as the story was it had an immense effect on my writing at the time. To use gamer-speak for a moment, it felt as if my writing skills had "leveled up", and I had so much fun writing about the stuff that interested me at the time. While I wouldn't stand anywhere near those characters without making sure I was armed with a can of "anti shit-story repellent" spray, it was one of the most exciting experiences seeing those (cardboard) characters come to life (if "cardboard" translates to "alive"), seeing them speak to one another (Eugh! Someone, bring me some chocolate) and working to an extremely tight deadline. It made me feel alive, apart from when I'd dozed off through sleep-deprivation.

* * *

One experience in particular sticks out in my mind, one that has brought about equal parts amusement and facepalm-ness ever since. It was nearing the end of November. It might even have been sometime in December, just before we all broke up for Christmas. Either way, it was very cold. Very Winter-y. An event called the Creative Writing Society gathered every week in some old Tudor-esque pub across the road from the university. Students and lecturers, or even just people wanting to discuss the writing craft or listen in on the workshop sessions, met up in some pokey room at the back of the pub for a couple of hours. If you were expecting this to sound a little more clandestine, then you will be disappointed; none of us had to wear ceremonial robes or engage in mysterious joining rituals, but then again I only ever went to one meeting so who knows? From what I could tell from the proceedings the idea was that people would read out a page of their most current project and receive praise or constructive criticism from the group as a whole. It was a promising idea; writing is a solitary craft after all, so being able to communicate with peers and other like-minded people can be a good thing. Sometimes working in a vacuum is not beneficial, and considering that I, Frank Burtenshaw, King of all Loners, am saying that then it must mean something.

At the time I and some of the others in my class decided we'd read our work aloud to the group. There was some time to kill before the society gathered to be all creative and society-ish, so a few rounds of drinks and conversation would do well to alleviate the needles of anxiety I was experiencing at the time. I am a solitary person by nature, so the prospect of talking out loud to a group of people - worse, reading out stories to random faces for the first time in forever - was downright terrifying. Everyone took their places; both my lecturers were there, as well as some old faces from my previous course from the year prior. There were a mixture of people from some of the higher years that wanted to showcase their material, as well as a few elitist snobs here and there to add variety. Not a massive crowd, but enough people to keep things interesting.

I can't remember all the details, but I do recall puffing out my chest, brandishing my freshly-printed manuscript and reading out my magnificent story in a trademark sonorous voice. In retrospect, I might have been a teeny bit tipsy, so the effect was probably louder than I had hoped. I unleashed this masterpiece of literature upon the crowd, gaining momentum with every sentence, confident that I would receive adulation and applause for this piece of work that I had produced during my first foray into NaNoWriMo, smiling to myself at how well the words flowed from the page. The group listened without saying a word. I reached the end of the manuscript, ending the final sentence with a flourish, and waited, victorious, as silence descended like a pall upon those present. I waited with them, still smiling, excited to hear their response.

They tore me to pieces.

It was brutal. Though I've forgotten most of the feedback I received, the general consensus was that it was a complete and utter disaster. They butchered every sentence, every piece of dialogue, and poked holes in all descriptions and the character motivations. Though humiliated at the time, it was during the following day, upon re-reading my manuscript, that I realised that I was the one who had butchered every sentence, every piece of dialogue, and that most of my descriptions were flawed and made no sense, and the character motivations unrealistic and two-dimensional. That experience alone taught me the importance of editing a story from a rough first-draft into a coherent story, and it is something I still continue to learn with every project that I work on. The knowledge that just because I churned out a novel in less than a month it does not necessarily mean that it is good. It takes dedication, patience and a ton of practice to improve the craft, and the one thing I should not have done was read this travesty aloud without having taking the time to meticulously edit it. Still, it was a mistake that left its mark and, like all mistakes, I use it to better inform my next projects so that they will hopefully be better than the last. There have been other situations like the one above, but this sticks in my mind the most because of it's proximity to NaNoWriMo.

* * *

Thankfully the time machine was able to bring us back to the present day - October 2014 - without leaving us stranded in Morlock territory, so allow me to say one thing before I bring this blog entry to a close. This year's NaNoWriMo will be an entirely different challenge to the one I took part in five years ago. The rules are the same, but my situation is different. Unlike my uni days, I am now in a full-time job with less free time to spare, so my evenings will need to be split between reaching my word count for the day and continuing to read and research. Also, since late 2012, I have read through hundreds of books in an attempt to explore the types of stories I would never have even given a chance back in uni. I am in the throes of a literary Golden Age, eager to learn all that I can and always seeking to discover new things. My interests, my personality, my reading tastes: all completely different. I am not the same person I was five years ago, and I have a feeling that this year's NaNoWriMo will reflect that.

So, what's the plan? I have just under a month before the challenge begins. That gives me some time to plan and prepare myself for the month ahead. No matter what happens, the story begins, one way or the other, on the morning of November 1st.

One thing is definitely for certain: I won't be complaining of boredom anytime soon!

One Months' Time

At the time of writing this it has just gone 11pm. During any other evening I would be winding down for the night, preparing to get some shut-eye. Right now, however, I feel the need to tap-tap-tap away and write a couple of things that have flitted through my thoughts. What better place than on this blog, hmm? I knew there was a reason I created this thing, even though it has been somewhat neglected as of late.

An interesting month is fast approaching, one that I have been considering for the last few days. More on that in a second. Let me build up to it first. Recently my free time has been rather lacklustre; my reading has slowed down, my writing has atrophied and most of what little time I have in the evenings is spent slumped in a chair, chocolates within easy reach with one hand and endless mugs of coffee in the other (for, as you should know by now, everything in my life somehow relates to coffee) and numbing my mind with the second series of Arrow. Which is awesome, by the way. Nothing wrong with watching Arrow. To tell the truth, I switched over to it a few months ago so that I could laugh at how awful I thought it would be, how terrible and cheesey and something else worth writing in Italics. Turns out it was a lot of fun to watch, so much so that I have sat through both series' so far and feel a bit giddy that the third series starts in a few days. How to make a crime-fighting comic book vigilante even more awesome? Give him a bow

The point I'm trying to make is that I don't do much during my free time. I'm bored. I haven't written as much as I'd like. Most of what has been put down on paper has turned out to be nothing more than a pile of pretentious shit. Not just pretentious: pseudo-pretentious! I don't even know what that means, but it sounds appropriate. What I need is a project that I can really sink my teeth into, something that will inspire me and, I can't stress this enough, to not take myself too seriously and instead have some fun. If I'm not enjoying what I write then how can I assume  anyone reading it would feel any different?

My biggest problem - other than impatience - is that I often feel that I need a deadline, a cut-off point, an imposed limitation that will spur me on to focus more than I normally would...

... which leads me to the so-called "interesting month" I mentioned earlier. I will give you a hint as to what it is:

NaNoWriMo

To the uninitiated, that would translate to National Novel Writing Month. A challenge to write 50,000 words starting from the November 1st and ending on November 30th. So far I'm still rather on the fence about it. Most of this evening has been spent jotting down a few disparate ideas, trying to gauge the kind of story I might like to write if I did decide to take part in the challenge, but so far I'm not sure. I suppose it would provide a deadline, even if it is the illusion of one, and it would give some purpose to this otherwise aimless blog. Plus it would be good to try talking with other members of the NaNoWriMo community and see what they are working on. Hmm...

One month to plan something, followed by one month to write a story roughly the size of The Great Gatsby...

How hard could it be...

Wanderings

I took a trip to London yesterday. I'll be honest, a big part of me would like to say something profound (or pompous, as is often the case when I try to be profound) about how I wandered the streets of the city, breathing in the atmosphere and basking in the sights and sounds, searching for the ever-elusive muse in the hopes that she would bestow upon me the inspiration for a new story, or some nonsense to that effect...

The truth is, I needed a new pair of shoes. It has become quite a serious issue with me this past week. Enter any high street shop in my town and ask for anything larger than a size 11 and watch as the staff back away, glancing at their colleagues in fear at the very mention of the mythical "shoe-size-that-must-not-be-named". By their reactions you'd think asking for a pair of shoes in a size 12 would inadvertently result in summoning Cthulhu or some other cosmic monstrosity from the depths of the Topman changing rooms. Anyway, where was I going with all this...

Allow me to deviate from my usual blog entries about the writing process and instead regale you with the random events that took place during my afternoon in London. I'm sure there will be something related to writing somewhere in all this, but let's get on with it...

* * *

The National Gallery was at the top of my list of places to visit (disregarding my search for shoes). I often feel a sense of peace when exploring the galleries and examining each of the paintings, taking a note of the artists' names so I can search them up upon my return home. Even standing outside in Trafalgar Square, with my back to Nelson's Column, I find myself impressed by just how majestic the building, almost as if it is a remnant of classic antiquity.

Sadly the sight was spoiled somewhat by a blight of mimes - one of which was dressed as Yoda, oddly enough - resting upon long canes while sitting cross-legged in midair. I'll be honest, it took me far longer than it should have to work out the secret to that trick; initially I thought they must have amazing upper-body strength to keep themselves suspended for hours on end in that position. Yes, common sense was never my strongest attribute...

The paintings themselves are still a source of wonder to me. More often than not I can spend hours studying the detail that has gone into each, all the while attempting to comprehend how they managed to create such beautiful masterpieces. Considering I know next to nothing about the craft of painting and what it entails, all I can do is provide my own interpretation of what I see on the canvas, and the thoughts and emotions they invoke for me. There is one painting in particular, by Thomas Gainsborough, that would remain in my thoughts for a long time and eventually go on to form the basis of my current short story. Allow me to explain how...

(Cornard Wood, near Sudbury, Suffolk

1748, Thomas Gainsborough)

What I see in this picture is a glimpse of the English countryside almost three centuries ago. If you went to that location now you'd either find this forest and the glimpse of distant fields bisected by a motorway, or a generic housing estate dominating the horizon. This painting offers a glimpse of a time long ago, and while it may no longer exist in the same way that it is depicted here, this landscape has forever been immortalised on canvas, as if the very soul of that place has been captured by the artist and exists within the painting. No doubt anyone with a modicum of knowledge regarding art will scoff at my interpretation and state how wrong I am, but that is my personal thoughts on the matter.

Sometimes I wonder what other people think when they see these paintings. I guess for the time being I will never know, considering the only other person in the immediate vicinity was slumped against a chair in the centre of the gallery, fast asleep for the entire time I was there. Never mind, then!

* * *

My final say on the gallery: there are signs on the entrance that state "no photographs". Naturally, everyone took photographs. I think the staff should take advantage of this phenomenon and place a giant label on the big money box in the entrance, stating "whatever you do, do NOT donate!" Would it work, I wonder?

* * *

Most of the places on my list to visit were within walking distance. Others required travelling by tube. Climbing those eternal escalators are tedious at the best of times, without the hundred or so posters on either wall advertising nothing but bottles of Strongbow. Halfway up it became almost hypnotic. Three quarters of the way I could have sworn there was some grand cider conspiracy afoot, to lull unwary tourists into the nearest bar. By the time I reached the top I was rather surprised I wasn't tipsy just from the influence...

* * *

The bargain bookshop in Moorgate is a strange place. It possesses an almost magnetic force that draws me to it the moment I step off the train at Liverpool Street. Many times I have found some wondrous treasures there that I would have dismissed elsewhere. It was with some pleasure that I approached the shop, with a long list of books that I knew they had in stock and that would provide me with enough reading material to last me until next century.

The damn place was closed. Closed! The nerve of it all. I could see the books through the window. So close, but so far away. With a heavy heart I proceeded onwards, with the knowledge that there was a giant Foyles bookshop waiting for me in Shaftsbury Avenue that was bound to be open.

* * *

I made a decision to walk most of my journey. There are so many interesting and strange sights to observe when you mingle with the crowds that you would otherwise miss when travelling by tube. Quaint little cafes that served up dinky little cups of coffee no larger than a thimble (I know, absurd!). Restaurants stretched in every direction, from the most expensive where I did not dare glance at the prices, to not so nice establishments that would probably render you comatose with food poisoning if you so much as walked through the front door. And the street musicians! Some were great, while others howled like banshees as they hammered away at out-of-tune acoustic guitars. It was an experience, to say the least.

All this walking made me feel like one of my favourite writers, Charles Dickens, who was known to traverse the streets of London in his day and observe those around him. The only difference being that he was a master at writing, whereas my talent is more or less non-existent. And I don't dress nearly as suave as he did. Nor do I have his epic beard, or his encyclopaedic knowledge of London's streets. Seriously, if it weren't for the maps posted on every street corner I would be halfway to Paris by now and still be none the wiser. Okay, so I guess I'm nothing like Dickens. Bit of a silly comparison, really...

* * *

The ever-elusive muse/shoes notwithstanding, I knew with certainty that I would not escape the city without enough books to fashion my own raft and float down the Thames. Forbidden Planet was on my next stop, but as chance would have it I took a wrong turning and ended up on the same street as Foyles bookshop (totally a coincidence, I assure you. Probably). It is a rallying cry to all readers out there, the promise of pretty much every book that you can imagine. Needless to say I couldn't wait to look around. I approached the entrance...

... only to discover that the shop had closed down.

Closed down!

This isn't even that funny anymore. Whitewashed windows and signs recommending I go elsewhere. Disappointment! Sheer soul-crushing disappointment. Words cannot even describe it. Waxing frustration for a good minute or two, I weighed up my options and, dejected, made my way to Forbidden Planet...

... only to pass the Foyles Bookshop that was open next door. Next door. As in, next door to the Foyles bookshop that had closed down. Now I know how those guys from Inception felt. I must admit that I was overcome with relief, but I did feel rather foolish. Thankfully I cast aside my confusion and bought some books. Books! Books everywhere! Books as far as the eye could see. Books I've been meaning to read for a while now. I have a lot of reading to do...

In truth this picture is a bit of of a lie. I later had a look in the Waterstones in Trafalgar Square and picked up Heart of Darkness and The Bloody Chamber. Why I didn't get them while I was in Foyles, you ask? I cannot answer that; it is another mystery for the ages.

* * *

My adventures are nearing the end. I completed my quest and found a rather nice pair of shoes in Topman. The staff there had no fear of summoning Cthulhu at the mere mention of size 12 shoes, despite my fears to the contrary, so all's well on that front. Not only that but I found a fedora. That's right, a fedora. At least I think it's a fedora. It certainly looks like a fedora. Every so often I forget that I am not Philip Marlowe: private investigator, and it's during these moments that I end up buying fancy hats. I shall wear it with pride, damnit!

* * *

I am writing this during a storm.
The rain lashes the gardens beyond the windows of my room.
Lightning sears the sky.
A perfect atmosphere for stories.

* * *

Forbidden Planet is one of the most amazing places ever. They are currently celebrating Batman's 75th anniversary and the store windows are plastered with scenes from the comics. I do have a love for Batman comics and was on the verge of picking up a copy of Arkham Asylum (the graphic novel, not the video game) but changed my mind at the last minute. The art style is something to behold; both unsettling and disturbing in the way that it reflects the insane minds of Arkham's  super criminals that Batman faces on a regular basis. Plus it was drawn by the same guy that designed the Sandman covers - a series that I love. Maybe I'll pick up a copy of Arkham Asylum some day...

* * *

It was a good day. Visiting the National Gallery reignited the waning enthusiasm I was suffering from with regards to my latest short story, and it felt good stocking up on books for the rest of this years' reading. Things are progressing rather nicely.

Writings

My second blog entry in as many days. Didn't see that coming, I must admit, but there is a very good reason for the sudden desire to throw my thoughts out into the void once more.

I started writing my short story today.

I know, I know ... shock! gasp! can it be? Everyone stop what they're doing, Frank is writing again! All joking aside, it's a big deal for me. Half the time I rarely make it past the second page without losing interest in what it is I was writing about. Most of that was due to a lack of planning and not really having a clear definition of the kind of story that I wanted to tell, or how best to tell it. They always end up abandoned and cast aside for the literary vultures to feast upon.

Today was different. I had a plan. I knew the characters (as far as one can know them before putting pen to paper, anyhow), the themes and all the other intricate details that I would need to breathe life into this new creative undertaking. It was all there, in a small notepad, within easy reach.

So, it begins at last...

I sat down at my desk, pen and pad before me...

I opened to the first page, a blank page...

And then I realised that the notebook I'd got some weeks prior was faulty, and by faulty I mean the pages were upside down and back to front, the margins were also upside down, the bookmark was on the wrong part of the book, the elastic thing that keeps it closed was on the front rather than the back (which just looks odd from an aesthetic point of view) and pretty much everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Hardly a good omen for my first day of writing. How, I hear you ask with mild disdain, is it possible to come across a supposed faulty notebook if all it consists of is lines? Very easily, it would seem.

Thankfully I had a spare empty notepad. Perfect. Nothing would prevent me from immersing myself in the creative endeavour that has hounded my thoughts this past week or so.

I sat down and opened to the correct page. I lifted my pen...

You know what would go well with writing? A cup of coffee. I'd already had a nap to refresh my otherwise flagging senses, so why not some caffeine? I got up, wandered downstairs and helped myself.

Fine, fine. Third time's the charm. I sat down for an hour or so, initially umming and erring and tapping my pen against the table while attempting to conjure up a suitable name for my lead character (I hesitate to call him a protagonist, for reasons that will become abundantly clear one day). But no sooner had I happened upon a name I sat down and wrote, wrote some more and continued to write until I could write no longer.

So here I stand. Or sit, as truth would have it. I have made a small bit of progress into the opening scene that I had painstakingly planned yesterday evening. What are my thoughts on it all so far? Though still early days, once again I am stumbling upon the same nagging sensation I often suffer upon writing the first draft of any story. What I put on the page never seems to reflect the mood, the atmosphere or the general image I have in my imagination of what the story should be like. It's superficial and lacks the subtle nuances and depth that I had hoped to get across. I can't comment on my characters yet as they've only made a brief appearance so far, but the prose itself feels a little forced, a little unnatural, as if I am subconsciously saying "You know this will probably be scrapped and rewritten in the second draft. It better be. Stop using so many adverbs. Adverbs are not your friend."

I am still confident, however. Even more so than when I started, as hard as that is to believe. Perhaps the plan is what is keeping me focused, knowing that I have a faint blueprint to work to. Also, I'm learning to be patient, and to not beat myself up about the fact that this is only a first draft. This is raw, unrefined prose without the polish or the very detail that will make the project into the thing that I always imagined it could be. For now, I'm going to get the story down any way I can and worry about the corrections in the later drafts.

So far, it just feels good to be writing again.

Plannings

It's taken the best part of a week, but I can finally announce that I have finished the plan for my first short story. Seriously, it's been a long week of pacing up and down my room for hours on end, pen in one hand and empty notepad on the desk nearby, talking to myself in an attempt to work out what sort of story I want to tell and how best to tell it. There have been moments when the ideas have poured from my mind in such a torrent that I could hardly get them down on the page fast enough, and my main concern above all else was worrying whether I'd be able to read the illegible scrawl that pretty much sums up my handwriting. Other times I would find myself wandering around the house in frustration, trying to throw out possible scenarios and abandoning them just as quick, consumed with the knowledge that there was a story knocking around somewhere within the cobwebbed recesses of my mind, yet for the life of me I couldn't find the damn thing. One of the most common sentences during these moments is usually something along the lines of: "It's not working. It's all shit. All of it. Shit!" If it wasn't for the continual supply of tea and being able to unwind by killing darkspawn in Dragon Age I don't know how I would have coped! But the first stage is over with. The planning is done. Despite the ups and downs of the whole process, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

One of my main faults with regards to writing - at least the one that I feel is the most prevalent, though no doubt there are many others - is that I am impatient. Very impatient, in fact. It's weird, really, considering I need to have most of the details at least present if I am to have any hope of writing something that doesn't end up as some awful miasma of cardboard characters, plotholes the size of small craters or just something so putrid and unreadable that my writing skills end up being worse afterwards than when I began. For me, planning is key. Yet most of my past experiences are littered with times when I might as well have said: "Y'know what, I want to write something awesome and I can't be bothered to put the effort into planning. I have this great idea, only one idea, but it's so good and I'm sure it'll turn into a novel..." *two paragraphs later* "...It's not working. It's all shit. All of it. Shit!"
Who knows what this story will be like once it's written - until I sit down and work on it then there's no way I can talk about it - but it's been a lot of fun just sitting into the late hours of the evening, jotting down even the most minute of details that will hopefully have an effect on the narrative, even if it's just to provide a greater sense of immersion or depth for the reader.

So now comes the hard part: the writing. I'm more excited about it than anything else. Considering my recent reading habits it will probably come as no surprise that it is heavily inspired by Gothic fiction and a few other influences thrown into the mix. Got a brand new notepad waiting to be unwrapped (that's right, I'm writing this story by hand) and an entire evening ahead of me tomorrow to get started on this thing.

It might also be a good idea to hide both Dragon Age and Game of Thrones for the next couple of weeks. It's going to be a tough enough task as it is without having to deal with distractions of that magnitude...

Beginnings

I have created a new journal blog thing. Again. There's a surprise if ever I saw one, considering I have a history of starting a blog, writing a few posts and then letting it fall by the wayside while some new interest takes my fancy. The reason behind this is that I have never really been all that comfortable talking about myself. Most of my interests are rather solitary; reading into the late hours of the night or thinking up stories for no audience but myself, so much so that I feel that talking about it to others often removes some of the charm and wonder I experience while immersed in those activities. Stories are a big part of my life and the books I have picked up along the way have taught me so much, often affecting me on both an emotional and personal level. Or maybe I'm just strange, and these are merely the ramblings of a guy trying to think of the best way to start his blog journal thing before the motivation drains away...

The reason for starting this journal blog thing (one of these days I'll think up a decent title, but for now it'll suffice) is because an important time in my writing life has finally arrived. After reading and studying hundreds of books for inspiration something has finally clicked in my mind - like unlocking a door within the recesses of my mind, a door that has always been present but remained hidden until now - and for the first time I feel I have a general idea of the kind of stories that I want to write. It's still very early days, and my writing talent (or lack thereof) is laughable at best considering how little practice I've had since I left uni, but now is the time to put pen to paper and write like a crazy person until the day I hone and polish that idea into a style that will be unique to me.

So think of this journal blog thing as my companion while I write; a place where I can muse on different topics that interest me, vent my feelings and discuss all manner of things. Maybe people will read it, maybe they won't, but it will be good to get some of my thoughts down on paper and get into the habit of chatting about the things that I am passionate about, or just talk about life in general. Most of this weekend and the evening next week will be a time of frantic planning (seriously, I've stocked up on coffee and Belgian chocolates, so I must be serious). I have a basic, yet unrefined idea for my first short story, so it will be good to see how it will progress in the coming weeks.

Another thing that I find exciting about all this? There are only two paths for me to follow, and my actions will determine whether I work hard on my craft and hopefully make something of myself in the distant future, or fall into my old lazy habits and watch in dismay as my literary interests fade into dust and ruin before they even get off the ground...

You know me, I pride myself on being such a confident, optimistic person.