So it’s that time of year, that most magical time of year. Leaves have turned colors and fallen off the trees. The houses are decorated with spooky things and my daughter is asking when we’re going to carve her pumpkin nine million times an hour.
That magical time of year where I wonder just how long it will take before I cave and get into the Halloween stash. Where I check the levels of beer, whiskey, coffee and other necessities.
In one week, it will be the first of November. In Colorado that’s the first (and last) week of Fall.
It is the day in which a bunch of word-obsessed maniacs hurl themselves, heart and soul, into the masochistic craft of writing a novel.
It’s National Novel Writing Month! 50k words in 30 days. 1700 words a day, for 30 days. If you break it down even more, 500 words at 12pt font is about a page. So just over 3 pages a day.
Madness, lunacy! What’s the point?
You mean, other than the stories themselves? I have no clue. The feeling of satisfaction? Practice? An opportunity to get a first draft done. Learning to accept that sometimes you have to write a whole bunch of shit to figure out how a project works.
Its a contest. So what do you win? You win 50k words towards a finished novel. And a cool sticker for your social media page.
In one week, this shit begins! Don’t let the fuckery keep you down!
I know, because I’ve seen it. Millions of times in my mind. All angles. Some I came up with, some I read. And yet I still think about it, about destroying the world. About the Apocalypse or Armageddon, about Gehenna. The End Times are upon us, what with global warming and economic instability. How could I not?
As a writer, I love this stuff. Its brain candy and the books available on the subject are plentiful. So why do I write it?
I have difficulty creating my own worlds. By my own world, I mean someplace completely unique and without being totally derivative. I much prefer working closer to home, with fractured versions of the world we know. The infinite possibilities of tweaking the details.
Back in November I wrote a draft of a Dystopian tale set 300 years from now. Lately my mind has returned to the world of Epsilon and Loft, only set much closer to the present. My writer’s mind turns as I try and discern just exactly how the world got so fucked up. The events 300 years in the past directly correlate to the events of the novel, and not knowing them made it difficult for me to write a compelling draft.
What happens if the government needs corporate financing? Or finally gives into the interests of lobbyists? What if in an attempt to break out of the new Depression, the United States winds up selling itself to the highest bidder? What would life be like under a corporate state? Instead of police we have armed mercenaries. Civil rights are suspended. The Heartland of the country is turned into a massive, labyrinthine prison for dissidents and ‘traitors.’
How does the world end for you?