So, I did in fact write the Three Day Novel. It wasn't easy, of course, but it would not have been as much fun, ultimately, if wasn't also a bit of a grind. It's an amazing process, one which I highly recommend. You really just have to jump in and let go - my characters started taking over almost as soon as they showed up. I also had some idea of where the story was headed but not completely, so I was relieved that I was able to get it done, and in time.
Here are the basic facts: it was about 80 pages when done (25,000 words), which was the bare minimum I had in mind. It's about a centaur - I mentioned it to my friend Z's father, M, and and he said, "Oh, so it's fantasy?"
"Actually, no." I explained. "It's the world exactly as it is right now, except a centaur appears."
And that is basically what it is. My working title is "What the Centaur Did," but I'm not married to it. I was thinking of "A Centaur Today" but that sounded too much like "The Daily Centaur," and that gets into weird territory.
I am behind on the blog, mainly because when I wanted to blog about being in New York, I was also working on the novel, and it was already insane to write as much as I did; I had things to say during and after the three days, but I had no words left - my brain just shut down. I was non-functional the evening I finished, and so tired. I wanted to move on, take a break, but the funny thing was - my brain couldn't quite stop thinking about the story. I had pushed it so far, I couldn't shut it down. I dreamed it, I relaxed by casting it (maybe Hugh Jackman as the centaur? He has those slight horse-nostrils), I kept adding scenes in my head, and finding them funny or sad or sweet or whatever flavor they had. I did the three-day novel once before, maybe 10 years ago, and I don't remember that happening.
It's true that the sense of accomplishment when it was over - which I had really been hoping would happen - was tremendous. And what's more, I actually liked it. I had to do a quick skim the next day for missing words and glaring grammar issues, and it seemed OK. I found myself enjoying reading it. I had had no perspective while I was writing it - there was no time to reread during - so I couldn't tell if all the problems I was encountering and the solutions I was pulling out of the ether were really happening and would work, or if I was just pushing through and was going to be horrified upon reflection. But it was OK - or maybe I even liked it.
The thing was to have done it. I've said before that art is really just a visible side-effect of the process the artist goes through, and the *process* is what it's really all about. You make art to learn who you are, and how to make more art. You don't make it to *have* (or sell) it; that just happens to have to have happen for it to really have been created. The creative process, we forget, really needs to end with something having been created - otherwise, it's sort of interrupted and aborted and doesn't help. Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, someone once said, and thank God for the internet so we can all self- (and instantly, like here) publish.
Every writer I know - myself included - has fantasies about writing, and they are never about *writing* the thing, but always about having already written the thing. The work isn't very much fun to fantasize about, as it turns out. It's fun to watch in montage, especially with the Smiths or Bach playing in the background, like a nice grainy independent film, and it's also fun to look back on, to think of once it's all over. It's a very romantic thing, once you are done with it. Not that I was trying to get to that point.
It was interesting: when I started to write, it was all about getting to the end. Then as I kept writing, it became less and less about getting there, and more and more about being there in the moment when I was writing - because they was the ONLY way to get it done. I repeat: with only three days, there's no time for doubt, reflection, hesitation. There's only creative courage, dedication, and moving forward.
When the first day was over, I thought, that wasn't too bad. The next day was harder, because when you have just written for the entire day the day before, when you wake up the next morning, you don't want to write. Especially upon first rising. Ugh. The third day wasn't so bad for two reasons - one, the wake up call was easier the second time around and two, I was much more into my story. I was excited. I couldn't wait to get it done.
I was up in Pine Bush, New York - a lovely American small town less than two hours north of Manhattan - full of Republicans, rolling lush hills, lovely forests, small quaint towns, and terrible mosquitoes that had just appeared the week before due to Hurricane Irene. I attract mosquitoes, and also react terribly to their bites. At one point, I had 18 bits - including cheek, eyelid, neck and chin. Oh yes, that's an extra fun thing to deal with when one is locked into a marathon writing session.
The final day, we went back on the train - I wrote the whole time, typing furiously as we rode down with the Labor Day crowd. Back at the SoHo loft, I wrote and wrote. I wrote with classical and jazz on Pandora, or with The Usual Suspects playing in the background. My friend Z & I took a break in the evening to walk down to the Tribeca Whole Foods and get dinner and supplies, but other than that, it was me and the laptop.
I hit a snag near the end, but I think I was able to figure it all out as I went, and with a flurry and rush, I finished at 11:30pm - thirty whole minutes to spare! And yes, it was sweet, so sweet to have DONE it. To have jumped in and come out the other side. The emergence is what it's all about.
The next day was just as juicy, in terms of experience. My boss called to see if I wanted to take on a couple of direct reports (indirect promotion - while on vacation: crazy), and I got in to see The Colbert Report, but that is a whole other entry. But the entire day was just magical, because I was someone who finished a novel yesterday. It was like the day after I first had sex; I walked around the whole next day feeling very accomplished and adult. I guess, in a way, I live under constant self-imposed pressure to create, and so the one day I can sort of really relax and feel like I don't need to do something is the day after I do something really big. I feel that way on Dec 31, because of the 12-hour Circlesinging "Sing For Your Life" event I've talked about, which happens every Dec 30. The next day is a state of grace for me. I pushed something unequivocally GOOD into the universe, and when I do that, I can take a day off.
Tuesday was my state of grace day: and let me just say it's a nice thing to go see the Colbert Report in a state of grace. Next entry: I promise, as soon as I can.
Here are the basic facts: it was about 80 pages when done (25,000 words), which was the bare minimum I had in mind. It's about a centaur - I mentioned it to my friend Z's father, M, and and he said, "Oh, so it's fantasy?"
"Actually, no." I explained. "It's the world exactly as it is right now, except a centaur appears."
And that is basically what it is. My working title is "What the Centaur Did," but I'm not married to it. I was thinking of "A Centaur Today" but that sounded too much like "The Daily Centaur," and that gets into weird territory.
I am behind on the blog, mainly because when I wanted to blog about being in New York, I was also working on the novel, and it was already insane to write as much as I did; I had things to say during and after the three days, but I had no words left - my brain just shut down. I was non-functional the evening I finished, and so tired. I wanted to move on, take a break, but the funny thing was - my brain couldn't quite stop thinking about the story. I had pushed it so far, I couldn't shut it down. I dreamed it, I relaxed by casting it (maybe Hugh Jackman as the centaur? He has those slight horse-nostrils), I kept adding scenes in my head, and finding them funny or sad or sweet or whatever flavor they had. I did the three-day novel once before, maybe 10 years ago, and I don't remember that happening.
It's true that the sense of accomplishment when it was over - which I had really been hoping would happen - was tremendous. And what's more, I actually liked it. I had to do a quick skim the next day for missing words and glaring grammar issues, and it seemed OK. I found myself enjoying reading it. I had had no perspective while I was writing it - there was no time to reread during - so I couldn't tell if all the problems I was encountering and the solutions I was pulling out of the ether were really happening and would work, or if I was just pushing through and was going to be horrified upon reflection. But it was OK - or maybe I even liked it.
The thing was to have done it. I've said before that art is really just a visible side-effect of the process the artist goes through, and the *process* is what it's really all about. You make art to learn who you are, and how to make more art. You don't make it to *have* (or sell) it; that just happens to have to have happen for it to really have been created. The creative process, we forget, really needs to end with something having been created - otherwise, it's sort of interrupted and aborted and doesn't help. Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, someone once said, and thank God for the internet so we can all self- (and instantly, like here) publish.
Every writer I know - myself included - has fantasies about writing, and they are never about *writing* the thing, but always about having already written the thing. The work isn't very much fun to fantasize about, as it turns out. It's fun to watch in montage, especially with the Smiths or Bach playing in the background, like a nice grainy independent film, and it's also fun to look back on, to think of once it's all over. It's a very romantic thing, once you are done with it. Not that I was trying to get to that point.
It was interesting: when I started to write, it was all about getting to the end. Then as I kept writing, it became less and less about getting there, and more and more about being there in the moment when I was writing - because they was the ONLY way to get it done. I repeat: with only three days, there's no time for doubt, reflection, hesitation. There's only creative courage, dedication, and moving forward.
When the first day was over, I thought, that wasn't too bad. The next day was harder, because when you have just written for the entire day the day before, when you wake up the next morning, you don't want to write. Especially upon first rising. Ugh. The third day wasn't so bad for two reasons - one, the wake up call was easier the second time around and two, I was much more into my story. I was excited. I couldn't wait to get it done.
I was up in Pine Bush, New York - a lovely American small town less than two hours north of Manhattan - full of Republicans, rolling lush hills, lovely forests, small quaint towns, and terrible mosquitoes that had just appeared the week before due to Hurricane Irene. I attract mosquitoes, and also react terribly to their bites. At one point, I had 18 bits - including cheek, eyelid, neck and chin. Oh yes, that's an extra fun thing to deal with when one is locked into a marathon writing session.
The final day, we went back on the train - I wrote the whole time, typing furiously as we rode down with the Labor Day crowd. Back at the SoHo loft, I wrote and wrote. I wrote with classical and jazz on Pandora, or with The Usual Suspects playing in the background. My friend Z & I took a break in the evening to walk down to the Tribeca Whole Foods and get dinner and supplies, but other than that, it was me and the laptop.
I hit a snag near the end, but I think I was able to figure it all out as I went, and with a flurry and rush, I finished at 11:30pm - thirty whole minutes to spare! And yes, it was sweet, so sweet to have DONE it. To have jumped in and come out the other side. The emergence is what it's all about.
The next day was just as juicy, in terms of experience. My boss called to see if I wanted to take on a couple of direct reports (indirect promotion - while on vacation: crazy), and I got in to see The Colbert Report, but that is a whole other entry. But the entire day was just magical, because I was someone who finished a novel yesterday. It was like the day after I first had sex; I walked around the whole next day feeling very accomplished and adult. I guess, in a way, I live under constant self-imposed pressure to create, and so the one day I can sort of really relax and feel like I don't need to do something is the day after I do something really big. I feel that way on Dec 31, because of the 12-hour Circlesinging "Sing For Your Life" event I've talked about, which happens every Dec 30. The next day is a state of grace for me. I pushed something unequivocally GOOD into the universe, and when I do that, I can take a day off.
Tuesday was my state of grace day: and let me just say it's a nice thing to go see the Colbert Report in a state of grace. Next entry: I promise, as soon as I can.
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