Another November, gone
Another November, gone
And yes, I’m a NaNoWriMo winner once more. National Novel Writing Month is becoming an annual event for me, a challenge accepted by novelists around the world, to write at least 50,000 words in a new project. Does this result in publishable material? Are manuscripts completed successfully based on these rapidly-churned out piles?
I know some writers have sold the books they begun during NaNoWriMo. So far, I haven’t. (Psst: that happens in 2012 and then things get going.)
But here’s the way I look at it: every successful endeavor is the result of hours and hours of practice. 10,000 hours, to be exact, if you believe Malcolm Gladwell. I read somewhere that this translates in novel terms to about a million words.
A million words.
Think about that. I’ve had, roughly speaking, about 400,000 words published, so far in my career. That’s, say, 100 articles and essays, a handful of short stories, seven short non-fiction books and one novel.
But I’ve also written a lot that hasn’t sold. Journal entries by the trunk-load (that will NEVER be read by anyone, except possibly some tabloid hack once I’m famous – and very. very dead.) Two more complete novel manuscripts. One almost-complete novel manuscript. A half-dozen half-done novel manuscripts. A handful of novel synopses that may one day turn into something. Or not. Some really bad poetry. A few blog posts.
Let’s say that translates t0 another 400,000 words. That puts me at 800,000 words. NaNoWriMo 2010 puts me at 850,000 words, which means I’m 150,000 words away from that one million mark.
There’s no guarantee, of course, that hitting that magic number will suddenly heave me onto the New York Times bestsellers list, or that I’ll even sell something.
But each project teaches me some tiny thing I didn’t know before. Every manuscript I thrash out through to completion earns me new skills I didn’t have before. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell the stories I yearn to set down on paper, they way I imagine they could be written. And even if I do, there’s nothing to say someone will pay me to publish them.
All I can do is keep pushing forward with my craft, practicing discipline, exercising my imagination, enjoying my creativity.
Moving a Mountain
- At March 19, 2010
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Roxanne Writes On
- 0
Moving a Mountain
Do you want to see what I’ve been working on this past year? Actually, it’s been more like seven years, which is how long we’ve been in this house, but I only got serious about it a year ago. We have a large yard, but it’s built into a rocky slope, covered with loose fill that is the perfect medium for thistle and blackberry brambles. After I discovered that the coyotes had actually made themselves a blind amongst the weeds, from which to stalk our pets, I said THAT’S IT. Time to landscape.
See? Even the snow can’t cover the weeds. It’s very private, and jam-packed with potential… mostly unrealized. My husband estimated that it would cost somewhere between 30 and 60 K to do what we want. (It used to be that any project I wanted to do would cost $700. He just pulls numbers out of his, um, hat, mostly to shut me up.) So I kept imagining how awesome it could look… and quit talking about it.
Until last fall, when I lost it and attacked it myself. With a pick-ax.
Hubby had been largely AWOL, finishing his MBA, and I needed to destroy something. Can’t spend the money to landscape the yard? Fine. I’ll do it myself. Stand back, MBA guy. I’ve got tools and I’m not afraid to use ’em.
I started digging, just far enough to a) realize what a herculean task I’d undertaken and b) make it look actually worse than before, forcing me to finish the job.
Frank, the gentleman who’s helping me reach the finish line, is a Rock Star. See all those large, nicely cut hunks of stone? He hauled them all up there by hand. He cut the beautiful stone steps into the slope and he built the rock wall just below the first evergreen. So now I’m into the incredibly fun part – arranging the plants. Well, I’ve got a lot of grunt-work left; rocks to arrange, landscape fabric to cover, bark mulch to haul and spread… but it’ll be worth it.
What does moving a mountain have to do with writing? Besides the obvious benefit of creative procrastination?
Anyone who’s ever tried to write a book will understand the metaphor immediately. It’s so hard, and once you get to a certain point, you simply have to do the grunt-work to get it done. You can’t believe you started something that is so obviously past your ability to complete. You’re embarrassed because so many people keep asking how it’s going and you have to lie and say you’re almost done, just a few more revisions now, just a tweak here and there and it’ll be ready for submission. Or you start into a hideous, self-deprecating explanation of how your self-esteem has been in the toilet and you doubt the idea was any good in the first place, and your shoulders are seized up so you can’t type, and your publishing house went bankrupt, and your editor is a mean, mean man who doesn’t understand you and THAT’S why the book isn’t done yet.
Or you keep all that stuff for your journal, write the damn book, then go outside and work on your dirt farm.
I’ll let you know when the book comes out. I’m almost done, just the final scene to write, some character layering, a few plot points to fix…
Until then, doesn’t my yard look GREAT??
The Glamour of Writing
The Glamour of Writing
Animals and writing have always been linked, for me. I work with animals, I live with them, I read about them, I write about them. Fiction and non-fiction.
My writing room is filled with pictures and paraphernalia about our various pets, and orange tabbies feature prominently. They’re not the most glamorous cats, at least the ones I end up with. But they have such great personalities! Right now we have two orange short-haired boys. Bryan, the exception to my rule, is gorgeous. His sleek fur is a rich, deep mahogany in the classic swirled pattern. He’s also about twenty pounds and most (not all, I’m not completely delusional) of it is muscle. Mylos, on the other hand, looks remarkably like my first orange boy, Simon. That is to say, the one that makes people ask, “What’s wrong with your cat?”
As it turns out, there is something wrong with Mylos. He’s got diabetes. Not that unusual in older felines, and definitely treatable. So, he gets insulin injections twice daily and I monitor his food intake and generally keep an eye on him. Bryan and the girls (Tabitha and Sophie) try to steal his food whenever they can, so it’s a bit of a job. But he’s worth it.
What does this have to do with writing, you’re asking? Before I got serious about fiction, I earned my Wheaties writing articles for the veterinary and pet-owning market. (FYI, I made more writing about animal health than I ever did practicing it in hospital. Veterinary technicians are notoriously undervalued. But I digress.) I wrote about dogs, cats, rabbits, horses, donkeys, goats and I think, an iguana once. I covered hairballs, house-training, inappropriate peeing and constipation (are you seeing a thread here?) Dental health, obesity, senior preventive health, pediatric spay/neuter protocols and puppy socialization were all ever-green topics that kept me in cat litter. But I also got some interesting assignments on less-known subjects, such as assessing the potential stud dog, and most memorably, cats that … um…licked themselves. Too much. If you know what I mean. The last, to my knowledge, never saw print, thank goodness. I got paid anyway.
The work was fairly reliable, I met my deadlines and even won awards for my articles. Because I wasn’t practicing as an animal health technician, it also kept me current on medical topics, which allowed me to keep my license. But eventually I realized that I’d rather remove my eyes with a spoon than write one more piece on flea prevention.
So I turned to fiction.
Newsflash: Fiction pays even worse than animal health articles. With non-fiction, you pitch ideas, get the contract, write your thousand-or-two words and wait for the cheque. Start all over again next week. With fiction, you write a hundred-thousand word novel, then pitch it and wait for the rejections to roll in. Do this every year and you’ll be famous before you’re 120. “Fiction,” I moaned, “is so much HARDER!”
I’ve been writing primarily fiction since 2006 and now have around 25 novels and novellas published, plus a couple of short stories in anthologies. I recall those lovely non-fiction assignments where someone asked – ASKED – me to write and promised to pay me for it. I recall the slightly delayed gratification of seeing my words in print. My by-line. “Ah,” I thought, polishing my rose-tinted specs. “Those were the days.” Who are you kidding? the early doubts whispered. You can’t be a novelist.
Typical writer stuff.
Shortly after Mylos was diagnosed, I figured I might as well write about our experience, exercise a few different writing muscles. Fiction was going nowhere at the moment. I hadn’t pitched to the animal health market for awhile; I’m doing the research anyway. Why not get paid for it? Plus, I’d get to interview the top people in the field and ask questions about my very own cat.
Board-certified feline specialists gave me advice and helped me shape a pretty good, if I do say so myself, informative and engaging piece on feline diabetes. I learned a lot about how to give Mylos the best treatment and it was good to touch base with the pet writing world, that small community of dedicated pet-lovers and talented writers.
I also discovered something else: I couldn’t wait to get back to fiction. I kept wanting to add tension, conflict, dialogue and character arcs. Unfortunately, that’s not really what Catnip newsletter had in mind. “Non-fiction,” I reminded myself, “is so much HARDER!”
I’ll probably continue to do the odd article now and then, when the topic strikes my fancy, just for the variety. But that spoon stays on my desk, to remind me of the ever-present threat of DIY eye enucleation.