Making Friends

Revision, or rather, rewriting of Cold Blooded continues. Yeah, this is what I'm going to be talking about all the time for the foreseeable future, so buckle up, buttercup.

A new hurdle has presented itself, in that I need to know how to make friends. That is, I need to characters to become friends within the next, say, 20,000 words. Which, now that I say it, is a lot of words, and I should be fine. But there's still the how. I can't make friends in real life, how am I supposed to make them in fiction? Basically, Des, my main character, has recently met another character, and they need to reach a certain level of trust by the Midpoint.

But, like I said, I have about 20,000 words to get there. So let's focus on the here and now. I'm currently writing a scene in which the ice cream shop is featured on an episode of some show on an ersatz Food Network. To be honest, I don't know if this part is going to make it to the final cut, but I'm going to act like it is until that decision is made.

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

So listen, I'm sort of famous now.

I mean, not like, really. But kind of.

Here's what happened. I wrote out a story, a true story of a local murder, not something I made up, and I sent it to a popular true crime comedy podcast. And my god, they read it. They read words that I wrote, and those words were heard by several million people.

And now, all I can think is that I want more of my words to reach more millions of people. Guess I'd better get that novel finished.

So what's stopping me? Mostly me.

For a First Effort This Feels Kind of Last Ditch

NaNoWriMo is over. Thank God. Did I reach 50,000 words? I did not. Is that okay? I guess.

My actual novel, the space story Wandering Star, ended at around 25,000 words. Not a good sign. Basically, I suddenly knew how it was going to end, but not anything else that happened before that, so I metaphorically steered that ship straight into the ground and brought it to the end.

Then I limped my way up to just past 34,000 by adding to a story I left unresolved three years ago, and then writing/starting several short stories based on some of the numerous writing prompts I have saved. My plan was to make up the 20,000 words I needed by writing at least 1,000 words on 20 different prompts. In like two days. One of which was Thanksgiving. So that was easier said than done. I think I ended up doing three different prompts, two of which are more or less complete little stories, and one of which is still in progress. It keeps taking turns I wasn't expecting and I'd like to see where it's going with this.

The Trouble With Triangles

Am I writing a romantic subplot?

I'm certainly not trying to. But it sort of seems like it's heading that way. Even though I'm trying to stop it.

Help me.

My resistance fighter chick is starting to get very touchy-feely with my space cop dude and I don't know what to do. I don't know if I can make her stop. She is very stubborn. Oh no. I can see where this is going. It might be inevitable.

Oh no.

This is not meant to be that kind of story.

Lost in Space

NaNoWriMo is underway and my god I am not prepared.

I told myself I wouldn't get behind again. I'm already behind. I've got all these ideas and somehow… no words.

Well, not no words. I have a few words. Some of them are ridiculous, and therefore, my favorite words.

Case in point, this piece of inspired literature:

The Captain of the Corps was a man of about fifty, with an authoritative moustache. Men would follow that moustache into hell itself. His name (the man, not the moustache) was Reginald Shepard. His friends called him Reg. His subordinates called him Captain. His moustache called him home.

Fucking amazing.

Forget About Details and Decisions Now

NaNoWriMo starts in less than a week. Am I ready? Not remotely. Am I going to dive into it anyway? Absolutely.

I'm going to pants the shit out of this novel.

For those not "in the know," pantsing is writing by the seat of your pants (a phrase which also makes no god damn sense). You have maybe a vague idea of plot, or a few characters, and you make up the whole damn thing as you go.

My plan for this year was to create a beautiful and full outline. Clearly that is not how I roll.

Bumps in the Night

Urban legends. Something lurking in the dark, that will snap up bad children, lest they learn to behave.

That's why there are cannibals on my spaceship.

They're an urban myth, or whatever the spaceship equivalent of "urban" is. Eat your vegetables or the cannibals will get you. (Joke's on them, due to the impracticality of livestock on a spaceship, everything's vegetables.)

But maybe something is lurking down in the lower decks. Something with a craving for meat. Something just waiting for some unsuspecting victim to wander too close.

Pulling the World Back Together

Sometimes I reread my old stories. Even riddled with plot holes and bogged down with self-indulgent nonsense, they're not half bad.

Today, I read a short story (10,000 words) that I wrote for Camp NaNo back in 2016. It was a vaguely steampunk world that had been shattered into separate continents that drifted through… space? The science wasn't really a high priority. Anyway, the landmasses were reconnected via cable-car sort of systems that spanned thousands of miles, and the story follows a small town sheriff on the last continent to be connected to the others. He has to deal with the influx of tourists and troublemakers and all that kind of thing.

And it was really good and I never wrote an ending.

Launching Myself Into Space

I'm not going to finish Cold Blooded by the end of the year. It's just not going to happen. I accept that.

I don't want to abandon it entirely, but the time is coming when I have to start planning for NaNoWriMo in November. Sure, I could be a NaNo rebel and write a revision for the month instead of something new, but I don’t want to do that. Largely because I like the absolute freedom to write meandering crap and self-indulgent bullshit during NaNo. I don't want to get hung up on trying to write a "good" second draft.

This year's meandering crap and self-indulgent bullshit is probably going to be the yet-unnamed space story I was messing around with last year. I'm not sure if I've mentioned that decision yet. I can't keep track of what I've been saying, especially going so long between posts like this.

Going to the Mountain

Where have I been? Not writing, unfortunately. Mostly just watching Fringe.

Here was my plan. Spend all of 2019 getting Cold Blooded smooshed into something that people could actually read, and then spend 2020 trying to find people to read it.

But here we are. It's mid-August and I have very little to show for it.

I very much want to write this book. Or rather, I want to have written it. But I just don't seem to have the motivation or the discipline to do it.

I know I need to sit down every day and write. I know it. But what do I do? Play games on my phone and watch TV. Just passively absorb entertainment rather than actively creating something.

And why? Why, when I want to write this book, do I sabotage myself instead?