By Margi Washburn
This was my fifth year to try and become a novelist in one month. I failed four times.
There were reasons, or excuses, for the times I didn't make it. Most of them were because I didn't have enough faith in myself. The story stunk, I hadn't prepared an outline, that sort of thing. It was never because of a lack of support, that's for sure. I can't imagine a more enthusiastic guy than my hubby. True, he has an ulterior motive; he seems to think that any book I write will become a best seller and we'll be able to retire with more money than we'll ever spend. He's too cool.
This time around I met with fellow scribes Susan, and her daughter, Emily. We wrote at McDonald's and the Pizza Hut, and we had a blast. There were few rules for our one-month odyssey, but one strong suggestion was to refrain from surfing the Internet in order to concentrate on the journey ahead of us. Susan and I tried, but when both places offered free Internet service, we couldn't help but jump into cyberspace for a few minutes. We called it research, a vital ingredient for any good novel.
Sometimes we sat and watched customers, and unashamedly eavesdropped on their conversations. It helped if the man, woman, or child was acting silly or was dressed a tad freaky; it added more padding to our starving stories and we took advantage every chance we got.
The first Saturday was dreary, windy, and cold. I forgot my CD player, and I spent too much time admiring Susan's new laptop. I couldn't help it; that was the coolest computer I'd seen in a while. I wanted to know if she'd had it built especially for her, and she had.
I did much better writing away from home. Maybe it was Sarah the pup, or the imposssible-to-ignore reruns of Law & Order, but I had to get away from the house. Once in a while I went to the library, but being around so many newspapers, magazines and books can be distracting. Besides, the library still doesn't have a coffee shop and I simply cannot write a novel without boatloads of caffeine. I'd hate to be the one and only patron kicked out on their rear for smuggling a thermos of coffee into the stacks, though a candy bar or two has made its way in from time to time.
The usual distractions for November came up, and some that were anything but usual. At the beginning of the month, the most vulnerable time to start something as time-consuming as this, our family lost one of its own, and we stopped to grieve for over a week. Thanksgiving came, and we took the time to celebrate, although this year was far different than any that came before. For one thing, instead of turkey, we had meatloaf and potato salad, two of my specialties. We gathered around a small kitchen table and gave thanks, sincerely and with a few tears.
Even though Susan, Emily and I only met twice, we continued our novels on our own, whenever we could find some spare time. It doesn't matter how much time we spent together, only that we did. They and their family had the usual and unusual interruptions too, and yet they continued the journey.
Last Sunday night I was at a little under 46,000 words and it was around 7:30. Normally, I don't head to bed until around 10, but I had to ask if it was all right to go up early and work on the book. Hubby didn't bat an eyelash at being saddled with Sarah, so I headed to the computer with the secret determination to finish that night.
When I sent the finished novel up to the verification site at 8:59 p.m., and the words, "you won!" appeared in front of me, I burst into tears and couldn't see the computer screen for a few minutes. I kept wiping my eyes, but they would fill up again. A certificate for the winners was available with a click of the mouse, so I printed a couple of them. They will be framed, but I had to bring one to show to the newsroom here at the paper on Monday.
Oh, the title of my novel is, "Old People Shouldn't Adopt Dogs", and it's a page-turner. The main character, a baby-boomer, tries to maintain her sanity despite being surrounded by a multi-generational dysfunctional family. She experiences a variety of jobs, all of which include a number of memorable bosses and co-workers.
The hard part is done, the writing is mostly over, and now the revision process begins. I just wish I could bottle the feeling that came over me so completely Sunday night.
Maybe I'll try to capture it again, next November.
This was my fifth year to try and become a novelist in one month. I failed four times.
There were reasons, or excuses, for the times I didn't make it. Most of them were because I didn't have enough faith in myself. The story stunk, I hadn't prepared an outline, that sort of thing. It was never because of a lack of support, that's for sure. I can't imagine a more enthusiastic guy than my hubby. True, he has an ulterior motive; he seems to think that any book I write will become a best seller and we'll be able to retire with more money than we'll ever spend. He's too cool.
This time around I met with fellow scribes Susan, and her daughter, Emily. We wrote at McDonald's and the Pizza Hut, and we had a blast. There were few rules for our one-month odyssey, but one strong suggestion was to refrain from surfing the Internet in order to concentrate on the journey ahead of us. Susan and I tried, but when both places offered free Internet service, we couldn't help but jump into cyberspace for a few minutes. We called it research, a vital ingredient for any good novel.
Sometimes we sat and watched customers, and unashamedly eavesdropped on their conversations. It helped if the man, woman, or child was acting silly or was dressed a tad freaky; it added more padding to our starving stories and we took advantage every chance we got.
The first Saturday was dreary, windy, and cold. I forgot my CD player, and I spent too much time admiring Susan's new laptop. I couldn't help it; that was the coolest computer I'd seen in a while. I wanted to know if she'd had it built especially for her, and she had.
I did much better writing away from home. Maybe it was Sarah the pup, or the imposssible-to-ignore reruns of Law & Order, but I had to get away from the house. Once in a while I went to the library, but being around so many newspapers, magazines and books can be distracting. Besides, the library still doesn't have a coffee shop and I simply cannot write a novel without boatloads of caffeine. I'd hate to be the one and only patron kicked out on their rear for smuggling a thermos of coffee into the stacks, though a candy bar or two has made its way in from time to time.
The usual distractions for November came up, and some that were anything but usual. At the beginning of the month, the most vulnerable time to start something as time-consuming as this, our family lost one of its own, and we stopped to grieve for over a week. Thanksgiving came, and we took the time to celebrate, although this year was far different than any that came before. For one thing, instead of turkey, we had meatloaf and potato salad, two of my specialties. We gathered around a small kitchen table and gave thanks, sincerely and with a few tears.
Even though Susan, Emily and I only met twice, we continued our novels on our own, whenever we could find some spare time. It doesn't matter how much time we spent together, only that we did. They and their family had the usual and unusual interruptions too, and yet they continued the journey.
Last Sunday night I was at a little under 46,000 words and it was around 7:30. Normally, I don't head to bed until around 10, but I had to ask if it was all right to go up early and work on the book. Hubby didn't bat an eyelash at being saddled with Sarah, so I headed to the computer with the secret determination to finish that night.
When I sent the finished novel up to the verification site at 8:59 p.m., and the words, "you won!" appeared in front of me, I burst into tears and couldn't see the computer screen for a few minutes. I kept wiping my eyes, but they would fill up again. A certificate for the winners was available with a click of the mouse, so I printed a couple of them. They will be framed, but I had to bring one to show to the newsroom here at the paper on Monday.
Oh, the title of my novel is, "Old People Shouldn't Adopt Dogs", and it's a page-turner. The main character, a baby-boomer, tries to maintain her sanity despite being surrounded by a multi-generational dysfunctional family. She experiences a variety of jobs, all of which include a number of memorable bosses and co-workers.
The hard part is done, the writing is mostly over, and now the revision process begins. I just wish I could bottle the feeling that came over me so completely Sunday night.
Maybe I'll try to capture it again, next November.
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