And so the plot thickens

Another 2,065 words down. Things are starting to happen. Surprising things, both in the story and out.

As I plod along with this plot and these characters, new ideas are cropping up as I go about my "real" life. I'm envisioning dream sequences. And new employees with dark secrets. And the re-emergence of past loves. And savior potential for new loves.

All in all, this writing project is becoming quite fun. In fact, I'm already developing a plan for taking this pile of drivel and transforming it into a work I might actually hawk to an agent or two or 400. (Are there 400 agents in the New York area? Possibly, but I doubt they all handle this genre.)

Although I did experience a slight moral setback last night . . . I've been quite pleased, as anyone can tell who's perusing these entries, with my progress thus far. Have I been perfect? No, but I've been writing. So, last night, after logging my 2,309 words and updating my word count, I started reviewing some of the posts on the NaNoWriMo blog.

Some freaks have already passed 37,000 words. Good grief. More than twice my paltry output. Of course, it's all relative. Some people are stuck at only 9,500 words. And who the hell knows if any of this will ever see public light in finished form? (But one person did post that he or she has already attracted some agent interest. I don't know who or where that individual is, but I know that I hate him. And according to Anne Lamott, such animosity is perfectly normal and natural. So there, whoever you are, you self-righteous jerk. I will never buy your book.)

Hmmm . . . I wonder what this will do to me in the grand world of publishing karma? Most likely nothing at all. I'm sure there are just as many, if not more, fellow writers who would love to wish the same ill will to me if I were ballsy enough to crow about such good fortune.

Now I have only to reach the point where I can achieve such fortune and thereby invite such invective from my literary peers. (What a sad, sick, maladjusted lot we are. Why can't we all get along?)

Anyway, I'm happy. Slowly but surely, I'm eating away at my target wordcount. I made my 14-day minimum. I can start the next week with my head held high. By the end of tomorrow, I should only be 3,000 words off target--easily gained if I maintain my 2,000 word-a-day pace.

So here's to Stephen King, my hero and professional pacesetter.

Still slogging along

Yesterday, I only squeezed in 519 words. Guess I couldn't sustain the hyper-productivity of Saturday.

I had set myself up for an unrealistic goal anyway. I had wanted to reach 20,000 words by yesterday's end. Hah. I didn't really want to spend another five hours or so working on my novel.

Maybe it wouldn't have taken quite that long, but it definitely would have taken at least three. And I was worn out. I know--not an excuse. At least I forced myself to put down those 519.

Today went better. I wrote in my journal and then banged out 1,300 words or so before I tackled the rest of my day. Thought I'd try taking a page out of Michael Masterson's book(s). He encourages everyone to start the day with an activity that will move you toward a life goal. Once you've gotten that under your belt, you'll be more inspired to greater productivity the rest of the day.

Darn if I wasn't incredibly productive today. I blew through several different projects and made ridiculous progress through my mile-long task list.

And then I banged out another 1,000 words in roughly an hour, bringing today's total count to 2,309. I'll take it.

If I put out another 2,000 words tomorrow, I'll at least have met Chris Baty's recommended Week Two minimum. I'm pretty sure that's quite a bit better than I was doing this far into NaNoWriMo 2003. (Talk about ugly. I started Thanksgiving weekend with only 34,000 words. I had to write just over 16,000 words in three days.)

So far, things are going surprisingly well. Not sure if it's because I'm way behind schedule and just haven't hit that brick wall yet, or perhaps I'm simply getting the hang of this "write-anything-even-though-it's-crap" mentality.

Either way, I'm producing like crazy. And I'm feeling way better about myself as a writer than I have in a very long time.

Crossed the 15,000-word mark

Today I had a 4,000-plus word day. 4,040 words, to be exact. Needless to say, I'm quite psyched about this development--especially since I've been lax during the last couple of days.

What can I say? Work and life get in the way.

I got off to a phenomenal start, and then I slipped. I didn't make my first Onerosity deadline, so Tony gets to choose our next play in the city. (No big deal. He's actually been a real sweetheart, and he won't let me wager anything too awful.) I slipped further behind Monday and Tuesday, and then, on Wednesday, I blazed through 3,700-plus words.

Frankly, I shocked myself with that output. Even as I was recording my word count for the day, I had thought I was sitting just shy of 3,000 words.

And now, I've blown past 4,000 in a single day. Not so bad.

Of course, tomorrow reality intrudes. I've got so much work on my plate. But it's so invigorating to make progress on this novel. And incredibly freeing. A plot point occurs to me, and I throw it in. I have no idea where it's going to go or whether I'll be able to shape it into anything worth publishing.

But the fact is, I'm writing. And I'm writing prodigious amounts.

That, my friends, is the object of NaNoWriMo.

Three times a habit?

2,110 words today. Still sick, but I banged out another Stephen King-esque volume. Yay, me!

Of course, this darn cold has seriously interfered with my conference participation, but it's been a matter of priorities. And I'm putting my writing first. Novel. Paying work. And I'm still making progress on the direct response stuff--the direction I want to take my business in the years ahead.

It was harder today than other days. Not exactly sure why. Maybe because I was thinking that the stuff I've written so far isn't really all that bad. I started investing myself in it. Not good.

Today's tip was to aim low. Then I can produce freely, quickly, and I won't be disappointed by the result. Instead, I'll be pleasantly surprised.

I was perhaps taking a bit too much pride in the work produced thus far, both in terms of ease and of quality (which remains dubious). Even so, it's nice to have that word count under my belt. In fact, I only need to produce another 2,100 words by the end of Sunday to be on track--and free of my first "Onerosity" obligation.

I can technically take tomorrow off.

Maybe I will. The funny thing is, I'm really enjoying the time I can bang out my novel. It's exciting. I don't mind trying to snatch a few moments here and there. That's one of the most thrilling aspects of this whole insane project.

In sickness and in health . . .

Woke up this morning feeling just awful. Not surprising, since I didn't fall asleep until almost 2 a.m., and I was feeling wretched by midnight.

So I skipped out on the morning's conference sessions. I worked on my novel instead, and I banged out another 2,116 words. Not sure if I quite averaged 1,000 words per hour. Maybe it was only 850 words or so. But I got it done in less than two-and-a-half hours, despite a couple of distractions.

And so far, it's been a joyous journey of discovery. I have no idea where this is heading. Perhaps the evil creature introduced yesterday isn't wholly evil after all. I'm introducing some interesting theories about the curtain between the real world and the supernatural realm.

Right now, I'm just having fun, thoroughly riding the crest of the Week One wave. My creative sails are full, and I'm charging ahead, racking up extra words each day.

Experience--and my virtual cheerleader, Chris Baty, founder of this annual exercise in insanity--tells me this, too, shall pass, and I will soon dread approaching my computer for fear I have long ago eked out the last drop of my creativity.

Perhaps. For now, I'm going with it. Having fun. Writing. Creating. Feeling fulfilled. Despite the fact that my physical body feels like utter crap.

During the last two days, I have been experiencing the writing life. And I love it.

Off to a phenomenal start

I did it! I woke up this morning at five o'clock, sick as a dog, and I wrote 2,125 words of my novel. I sucked in a deep breath and just plunged right in, somewhere in the middle. And as I went along, I thought, this isn't a bad place to start after all.

And then, because I'm at a copywriting conference, I realized that I could probably start the story several hundred words down . . . But I won't worry about that now because this is National Novel WRITING Month. National Novel EDITING Month doesn't come 'round 'til February. For now, it's all about production, baby.

This morning, I was one screaming writing machine.

Then I went back to bed for some much-needed rest.

Later, when I finally emerged to grab lunch, I squeezed another 76 words in at the sports bar, bringing my total word count to 2,201.

Woohoo! Best of all, this puts me significantly ahead of my daily goal of 1,667. I'm already almost a third of the way through tomorrow's quota.

Not that I'm planning to coast--even though it probably wouldn't be a bad idea. I'm still sick, and I'm writing this entry at 1:30 in the morning.

But this month, I follow the footsteps of Stephen King. The goal is 2,000 words a day. That would actually put me ahead of schedule. But I'm sure something will come up to derail me.

For now, I'm reveling in the sweet taste of success--and the thrill of seeing where my story takes me.

The hair of the dog that bit you

Okay. Anyone who's visited this blog and scanned the entries can see that I'm clearly suffering from serious writer's block. I'd rather rearrange my sock drawer than work on my novel. (And I have. Several times.)

So why am I taking on the 2006 National Novel Writing Month challenge?

Because I need to write. And I'm the kind of writer that needs a deadline.

With only 30 days to crank out 50,000 words, I'll have to write fast and furiously. My inner editor will be lucky if I take time to fix typos.

I know from the last time I did this that you get a feel of almost mystical empowerment when you look up and see that you cranked out more than 1,000 words in one hour. That's a heck of an achievement.

So what if it isn't publishable? Most stuff isn't.

But it's written down. And from there, you can study it, figure out what works, what doesn't, and start the polishing process. (Granted, you can take the polishing too far, but we'll worry about that once I've got a rough draft.)

At this point, I'm too personally invested in my first novel to touch it. If I keep churning out crappy drafts on a regular basis, I won't feel that kind of personal attachment to any one of them. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Let me live in my fool's paradise until November 30. Reality can come crashing down AFTER I've crossed the finish line.

Something's happening

I can feel the creative energy crackling.

Several times in the past week, I've torn myself away from "serious, paying projects" to write in my journal and notebooks. An emotionally charged maelstrom is churning in my head, and I have to siphon my chaotic thoughts onto the page to regain focus. (It's kind of like lancing a boil, but not quite as gross.)

I've gone through periods like this before: once when I was a 19-year-old sophomore in college and again when I was a 28-year-old entering her first mid-life crisis. Both these phases produced copious amounts of writing: hundreds and hundreds of journal pages, several short stories. One even triggered the catalyst for this darn novel in progress.

The point is, I'm finally percolating. And the more I write, the more I want to write. (I know--momentum works that way.)

One of the most exciting aspects of these creative wellsprings is the fact that I have absolutely no clue what will happen or where it will take me. I only know that, so far, both prior experiences heralded life changes and my most prolific periods of literary (ahem!) output.

In fact, the whole thing reminds me of the boiled-sweet boat ride from Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" as Willy Wonka sings:

There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going!
There's no knowing where we're rowing,
Or which way they river's flowing!
Is it raining? Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Bah! Not a speck of light is showing,
So the danger must be growing,
Are the fires of hell a-blowing?
Is the grizzly reaper mowing?
Yes! The danger must be growing,
For the rowers keep on rowing,
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing...

Who knows what the outcome will be? Maybe I'll crash and burn. But it beats idling in neutral.

Who cares?

I was walking along Central Park South a few days ago, thinking about my novel, when an unsettling thought struck me.

I no longer seemed to care about my characters.

Wait a minute. Even though all of the events were completely fictionalized, this was my story. Didn't I care about myself?

No, not really.

I had trained myself to dismiss all my non-business-related goals as unimportant. Anything that sucked time out of my business was frivolous. I had a mission: to get my business off the ground, to build up a steady client base, to replenish my savings.

I didn't have time to waste on such self-serving activities as going to the gym or, God forbid, writing a silly novel.

Ouch.

The realization reminded me of a conversation I had had with a friend only a few weeks earlier. Every time I made an appointment with myself and broke it, whether I was supposed to go to the gym or simply write in my journal, I sent the unconscious message that I wasn't important. And I would resent myself for it.

He was right.

I became angry with myself. Why wasn't my story important? Didn't I have just as much right to be heard as the next person?

I had given myself the mental kick in the pants I needed. And rediscovered my passion for my novel in progress.

Okay, okay - I get the hint

You know those periods in your life where a certain topic keeps popping up, over and over?

I'm in one of those right now.

In fact, I've been in one for a while now, and it's evolving.

The onslaught began as I dug into a media kit I was writing for one of my clients, who had written a children's book. The tale chronicled a restless young warrior's quest to follow his heart's desire. He didn't know what it was--he only knew that not seeking it made him restless.

Writing about that story started the wheels in my head spinning.

For a while now, I've feared that my growing business will zap any energy and creativity that I could otherwise apply toward my novel. When am I finally going to focus on my literary ambitions?

Shortly after writing the media kit, I had the pleasure of interviewing PR legend David Finn, author of 98 books, accomplished painter, sculptor, photographer and lecturer, as well as the principal owner of one of the world's largest PR powerhouses.

I asked how he was able to pursue all of his passions and create such a thriving business.

"We find the time to do what's important to us," he said.

He's right. If we're committed to doing something, we find a way to do it. But most of us treat our dreams as just that--dreams--not as goals that we set out to achieve.

During the next week or so, several other conversations cropped up about the power of pursuing your passion. An article I read from The New York Times. A movie I saw at the theater. I couldn't get away from it.

So I started raising the issue with other people: at the communications committee meeting for New York Women in Communications, at my weekly breakfast networking meeting. And I found that the subject really resonated with the audiences.

Then, the shift started.

Instead of people talking about passion in general, the comments became more pointed. The people in my life started asking me about my passion: my novel.

I'd chuckle and roll my eyes, talk about how business was keeping me busy. "One of these days."

And the comments kept coming. Not just casual inquiries, but earnest encouragement. From professional contacts, from readers of this blog, from friends, from my boyfriend, from my mom.

Just two hours ago, my sales trainer jumped on this bandwagon, encouraging me to act now toward realizing those aspirations, lest I look back in 20 years, angry at myself for failing to follow my dream.

He's right. They all are.

And I'm taking those steps now.

For Seth

This morning at 10:30 a.m. PDT in California's San Fernando Valley, family and friends are gathering to pay their respects to Seth Rappaport.

A passerby found Seth's body at the bottom of a swimming pool last Saturday, August 26. A handsome, wise-cracking native of Boston, Seth was only 36--the picture of prime health. He had won several bodybuilding championships in recent years.

I've known Seth since 1995, when I first joined Guardsmark. For a while, he had been the company's wellness poster child. The employee newsletter had featured articles of Seth transforming his physique from flabby to firm to phenomenal. (Okay, so I personally preferred the middle phase, where he simply looked fit . . . But to each his or her own.)

We've certainly spoken over the years, but we weren't close by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, it wasn't until September 2002 when Seth and I developed any kind of personal relationship.

That's when I started dating Tony. And one of the first things I learned about Tony was that Seth had played a significant role in his life.

A lot of people make such vague, grandiose statements like that. But Seth truly had that life-changing effect on Tony.

It was Seth who met Tony at the airport when this skinny graduate from the University of Pennsylvania arrived in Los Angeles to start a career in the security industry. It was Seth who showed him the ropes of the company and taught him how to take care of customers. It was Seth who introduced Tony to weightlifting. (Well, initially, it was Julie, Seth's then-girlfriend, now-fiancee, because Tony wasn't quite cool enough to work out with Seth yet.) It was Seth who helped introduce Tony to the L.A. social scene.

I heard about almost all of this on my first date with Tony.

From that point on, my relationship with Seth changed. We viewed one another with a new respect because of our mutual love for Tony.

This past Monday, the news of Seth's death devastated Tony. He immediately began researching flights to California and reached out to his circle of friends in California, including Julie, to find out how he could help. For three days, he lived in emotional purgatory, waiting for more information so he could finalize his travel plans and take action.

Throughout this time, I could only watch in silence.

We rarely spoke. Partly because work was keeping me busy. Partly because . . . who knows? Tony would let me know his tentative travel plans, but little else.

As I type, Tony is in a plane, flying to California to join his friends in remembering and celebrating Seth Rappaport.

The situation leaves me at a loss as to how to emotionally support the man I love. I'm not part of that circle. That was his previous life. I feel I've been excluded because I can't possibly understand.

To an extent, that's entirely correct: I can't understand the exact nature of the loss that Tony and his friends are grappling with. Their memories and their experiences form a special bond. I can listen to stories, but I can't laugh or cry and relive the moments they shared with Seth.

As I try to understand Tony and his pain, I can't help but think about my own experiences with Seth.

Naturally, much of my reference comes from Tony. I've heard him talk about Seth and the other members of their circle--Marci, Richard, Julie, Ashley. I know Marci and have met both Richard and Julie. All adored Seth as much as Tony.

Tony and I had talked about visiting California one day, but we never got around to it. Seeing Seth was one of our primary motivations. And now we'll never have that chance.

As I think about the remaining members of Tony's California network, I realize that Seth was truly the glue that held everyone together. That was his legacy: his ability to attract people and to bring them together.

The man was a true bon vivant. He lived every single day to its fullest extent, embracing life with a passion that few possess.

In that respect, he reminds me of Lord Byron, who some consider a greater writer than Shakespeare because he didn't simply write about the human condition: he experienced life as fully as a human could.

That was Seth.

As I go about my daily routine, thinking about this project or that deadline and putting off my novel or those thank-you notes, I realize the emptiness of my actions.

No one expected Seth's life to end at 36. Certainly not Seth. But he lived every one of his days true to himself, rather than waiting until some unknown date in the future to truly start living.

I admire and respect Seth for his passion and for his ability to bring people together.

Not a bad legacy to leave behind.

I honestly can't say that I've achieved as much in almost as many years.

So here's to you, Seth, for your example and your inspiration. Your spirit lives on in the hearts of the many individuals you've touched . . . including myself.

The most romantic words I've ever heard

Next week, my boyfriend and I celebrate our four-year anniversary. It's a big deal. How many marriages survive four years these days?

Wonderful though our relationship may still be, the romance ain't what it used to be. (And frankly, it was never that romantic--at least, not in the traditional sense.)

Let me 'splain.

I'm not criticizing Tony. He's just never been that romantic. At the beginning of our relationship, he brought me a long-stemmed rose. His friends flipped when they found out: the gesture was completely foreign to him.

He told me about their reaction at the time, and he admitted that it wasn't typical behavior. "I've never really felt a girl was worth it before," he said.

Naturally, I bit--hook, line, sinker.

Fast forward four years.

He's still amazingly attentive, but spontaneous flowers are a rarity. These days, flowers are more an element of home decor, rather than an expression of affection.

For Valentine's Day last year, he took me out to a lovely restaurant in Greenwich--exceptional food and ambience. My card? He sent an electronic greeting featuring a cat that made kissing noises with its rectum. (But the card was so him, all I could do was roll my eyes and laugh.)

Tony recently left his corporate job to pursue other dreams. Two nights ago, we were talking about different opportunities he was exploring. I offered my two cents' worth, and I quizzed him about how his short- and mid-term goals aligned with his long-term plans.

In the midst of this conversation, he said, "My ultimate goal to is reach a point where you can stop what you're doing and focus on writing your book."

My heart caught in my throat.

I was stunned and speechless that this brilliant, talented man had that much faith in me and in my literary talents.

That one moment meant more to me than all the roses and Godiva chocolates in the world.

Five months?

I can't believe it. I could have sworn that I posted something in the last five months.

Actually, now that I think about it, I 'm pretty sure I did. But I was having technical difficulties, and the posting never "took." The story of my life.

Working on a new game plan: writing a detailed outline of the novel. One of the big challenges I've had is trying to figure out how all the different pieces tie in and how to move the plot forward.

Signed up for a novel-writing workshop last fall and this spring. I started off well, with a 10,000-word submission. (So the first 8,000 words were already written . . . ) My instructor tactfully pointed out that nothing actually happened in that first 10,000 words.

Sadly, I had reached the same conclusion. I was 10% into the novel, and my romantic lead hadn't yet entered the picture. Not good. I don't have either the time or the patience to write something on the order of "In Search of Lost Time."

But perhaps if I sold everything I own and relocated to France . . .

Back to reality.

That's the problem. Reality inevitably rears its ugly head. We never have those gorgeous swaths of time we wish for.

In the first half of this year, I've bought a home in New Jersey, sold my home in Manhattan, retrieved remnants of my former life in Tennessee, and continued to create a business out of whole cloth. The only life changes I haven't undergone are marriage and pregnancy (and I don't even have the energy to contemplate either in the next century or so . . . ).

But I did squeeze in 30 minutes to work on character sketches today. I've fleshed out two more of these very real people who are inhabiting my brain, waiting to appear on the page. And I've learned something key about each one of them.

As much as I'd like to zip through this process, I'm learning that I have to exercise patience with myself, cut myself some slack. It's all a discovery. One that requires seizing moments here and there to peek into the souls of our characters.

No matter what else happens today, it was a success in terms of advancing my novel.

Not bad for 11:00 a.m.

Making up for lost time

Wow. I'd forgotten how long it's been since my last post.

Well, so much for good intentions. The class started last Thursday, January 12, and I didn't have my initial 10,000 words. In fact, I still don't--but I did write 1,275 this evening. Hoorah! Can't say they're necessarily quality words . . . The point is, I got them down.

Business is going well. Extremely well at the moment. In fact, I'm overwhelmed again. But instead of spending a couple of hours catching up on client assignments, I chose to make my writing a priority.

I have to make my writing a priority. Otherwise, it will never happen.

Efficiency experts say that you've got an 85-95% chance of accomplishing whatever you make your top priority. That's definitely been the case with me. Whatever I decide I absolutely have to get done, I do. Not saying that I can let my paying assignments slide. I just have to put my writing first.

Then, I can let the feeling of accomplishment carry me through the rest of my tasks.

Resolved to write

I'm going to finish writing my novel this year--if for no other reason than to get it behind me so I can move on to the next one.

I've set a goal of 500 words per day. I didn't meet that goal either yesterday or today, but I did write. About 200 words or so each day. And then I erased half of what I wrote today . . . Still, I made progress.

In the past three days, I've identified some important scenes to introduce my characters, and I've decided to include alternate points of view in the story, rather than limiting the entire novel to the protagonist's perspective.

And today I finally moved past a spot that had stymied me for months.

As I admitted earlier, I haven't made my 500-word quota yet, but I'm still limbering up these long-dormant writing muscles. By the time the weekend rolls around, I should be banging out 500 to 600 words per session.

Even if it takes me until next week to reach that pace, I'll still be fine: I've already got 7,750 words of this novel draft. I only need 10,000 by January 12, when I start the next online writing workshop.

The goal: 50,000 words over five three-week sessions.

That will make my second draft just as long as my entire first draft--and bring me halfway to a complete manuscript. The next draft should be more fine-tuning than anything else, not an entire rewrite like this one.

So my goal is to complete my next draft by this summer. Then, I want to get it into shape and place it with an agent by the end of the year. Maybe I won't find an agent by December 31, but it will be in shoppable form.

I'll make publication my goal in 2006.