nanowrimo.org is an organization that runs writing workshops for youth. Their title event is the National Novel Writing Month, run every November. You sign up and commit to churning out a 50,000 word first draft of a brand-new, never-before-worked-on novel.
So, I did that. I did it for the reason I put down in my NaNo Author Info page:
When I was small, I thought that authors were like gods, generating full-fledged books straight from their minds, like Athena born from the head of Zeus. Then I noticed that some books are very very badly written, and while it shattered my worldview, it meant that authors are human and with hard work and luck, I too could be an author someday.
I'm participating this year because I have a fear that hitting 30 without seriously working on a novel will mean that I'm not actually a writer but just an ordinary working stiff. I turn 30 in December. The challenge is on.
It was not difficult. I created an outline in October, bought a battery-powered word processor for $10 on eBay, and typed like a lunatic during my commute to and from work every day in November. I wrote on the computer while the baby was napping on the weekends. I wrote by hand in the bathtub. And on November 28th, I hit the 50k mark, and paused for a breather.
Emotionally, it's been a little difficult. In the wake of a sudden death in the family, things are strained at home. Revisting many of the lowest points of my childhood for this writing project left me drained, and struggling to keep upbeat and to maintain order in household containing a grieving spouse and tantruming toddler.
But it's satisfying. This is a creative process that parallels my work as an interior designer, from concept to design development to revision and documentation. The pace and phases are familiar and I'm confident that, writing skills and experience aside, the process itself is something I can go through. And five years as a designer has taught me that nearly all the work is revision, and that it's so, so much better to delete the things you loved last week than to hang onto them when they no longer fit your design purpose.
Writing fiction for anyone else's viewing is terrifying to me. A friend who knew about NaNo demanded an elevator pitch, and I froze in place. It's too embarrassing. Everyone has a very bad novel kicking around in her head. I don't want anyone to know I'm one of the everyones. I come up with concepts, create outlines, start writing, tell no one, and get nowhere. NaNo's community and public accountability swept me up and carried me to the first goal.
So I'm putting my synopsis here, because it's time for accountability and concrete commitment, instead of crawling inside of a closet or dresser drawer to write. Don't worry; I won't be posting excerpts here. But I am going to put my goals and progress out for the world to see. The first goal: reach the end of December fully prepped to begin the first revision on January 1st.
"Corey, Someplace Else" takes place in a re-imagined Appalachia, charting the emergence of the title character from his family's cycle of abuse and his exploration of the beautiful and complex world beyond the gates of his trailer park. This YA novel is in the magical realism genre, with a Southern Gothic sensibility.
In the rural town of Culmore Cove, 17-year-old Corey Ellison leaves his mentally ill father and moves in with a pair of austere great-aunts. He explores their century-old farmhouse and finds ghosts and memories inside. When he takes a summer job with a renovation company, Corey puts his second sight to use, identifying properties that carry good memories and those that are haunted by a bad past. He spends his days with a ghost and turns a critical eye on his old friends. As his abilities increasingly disconnect him from the world, Corey reevaluates family roles and the happiness and suffering that are part of living with others. In this hot, lush Tennessee summer, Corey will encounter deadbeat gods, monster catfish, ghosts of the Cherokee, and the night-stalking Wampus cat, and come to terms with the probability that he won't make it to autumn alive.
Showing posts with label Hillbillies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hillbillies. Show all posts
Friday, December 6, 2013
Friday, July 1, 2011
The Mountaineer's Courtship
Here's a video of a song we learned up in the mountains at Bible camp. It's an old country song and the lyrics vary. Two people sing back and forth to each other, as in the song "There's a Hole in the Bucket." Also as in that song, the female gets more confused and/or exasperated as the song goes on.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Rerun: Wal-Mart
So I was just going through my e-mail trying to clear up some space, and found a link to my old blog. Instead of sitting and thinking and coming up with something meaningful, tonight I'm going to copy and paste! Much easier, and it means more laundry will get done. I haven't worn socks in three days.
Rerun: December, 2005
A couple of years ago, one of those hideous Super Wal-Mart monstrosities opened up in my hometown (population: 6300 and some chickens). The old, regular Wal-Mart was always the hot spot in town; Friday nights all of the good ol’ boys would get in their blue Ford pickups and go cruising around the parking lot. And around and around and around. This brand-spankin’-new Wal-Mart is the biggest thing to happen in those parts for a couple of generations. Right after it opened my brother went in to buy some paintballs, and the cashier called the manager over, and the manager got up in my brother’s face and screamed at him. Apparently the new rule is that minors can’t buy anything that could be used to harm themselves or others, so no paintballs, no over-the-counter medications, and nothing chemical that thuggish menaces to society such as my brother could huff.
Yesterday was my brother’s 18th birthday. I called him up, congratulated him, and told him that now he can legally smoke, get married, and join the military. He said, “Yeah, but I’m not going to do any of those things. I’m going to Wal-Mart to buy Wite-Out. JUST BECAUSE I CAN.”
Update: Now my brother is twenty-three. He just quit his job at the Super Wal-Mart and joined the Border Patrol. Yesterday they doused him with pepper spray and hit him with clubs. He says it's part of the training. I'm suspicious.
Rerun: December, 2005
A couple of years ago, one of those hideous Super Wal-Mart monstrosities opened up in my hometown (population: 6300 and some chickens). The old, regular Wal-Mart was always the hot spot in town; Friday nights all of the good ol’ boys would get in their blue Ford pickups and go cruising around the parking lot. And around and around and around. This brand-spankin’-new Wal-Mart is the biggest thing to happen in those parts for a couple of generations. Right after it opened my brother went in to buy some paintballs, and the cashier called the manager over, and the manager got up in my brother’s face and screamed at him. Apparently the new rule is that minors can’t buy anything that could be used to harm themselves or others, so no paintballs, no over-the-counter medications, and nothing chemical that thuggish menaces to society such as my brother could huff.
Yesterday was my brother’s 18th birthday. I called him up, congratulated him, and told him that now he can legally smoke, get married, and join the military. He said, “Yeah, but I’m not going to do any of those things. I’m going to Wal-Mart to buy Wite-Out. JUST BECAUSE I CAN.”
Update: Now my brother is twenty-three. He just quit his job at the Super Wal-Mart and joined the Border Patrol. Yesterday they doused him with pepper spray and hit him with clubs. He says it's part of the training. I'm suspicious.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Rhea County Hijinks
One of the saddest things about living in Northern Virginia is the local news. Aside from the fact that our local news is also the national political news (the local paper is the Washington Post), our proximity to some high-crime areas means that murder is an everyday occurance.
One of the most entertaining things about Rhea County is the local news. Because it's a sleepy region, the top news articles tend to read like the following lineup from this February:
INMATE HOLED UP IN CELL WITH KNIFE
RCHS STRUGGLES TO PLAY COMPLETE GAME
LAWMAKERS LOOK TO LIMIT MEDS
THACKER TO OVERSEE MAINTENANCE DEPT.
S.C. TALKS FIREWORKS, WATERWORKS
MUFFINS: THE PERFECT AFTERNOON TREAT
One of the most entertaining things about Rhea County is the local news. Because it's a sleepy region, the top news articles tend to read like the following lineup from this February:
INMATE HOLED UP IN CELL WITH KNIFE
RCHS STRUGGLES TO PLAY COMPLETE GAME
LAWMAKERS LOOK TO LIMIT MEDS
THACKER TO OVERSEE MAINTENANCE DEPT.
S.C. TALKS FIREWORKS, WATERWORKS
MUFFINS: THE PERFECT AFTERNOON TREAT
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Ode to Okra
| http://www.huggingthecoast.com/flicker-okra2.jpg |
There are some things you have to grow up with to really appreciate. A lot of Appalachian food is like that. Catfish, for instance. A catfish is a bottom-feeder, swimming lazily through the silt in the Tennessee River for year after year after year, growing enormous and taking on a flavor like pond water. And I love it.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Black Lipstick and Chevy Pickups
Growing up bookish in a region where a quarter of the population can't read was defining. It meant getting teased by other kids when they saw me with a book. It meant making other kids defensive and angry when I used words they didn't know. It meant exhausting the public library's collection of children's literature by the time I was eight, and it also meant developing a pretty chronic superiority complex when it came to anybody who wasn't as obsessed with reading as I was.
So I was a nerd. A pasty, stringy homeschooled nerd with an overbite. My clothing came from church rummage sales and the local Seventh-Day Adventist mission. Every week at church I wondered if the dress I was wearing had been one of my classmates' cast-offs the year before.
This was Bible Belt fundamentalism in the 1980s and early 1990s, and the fashion among poor homeschooled Bible Belt fundamentalists was cotton floral prairie dresses. I wore old lady shoes: flats with buckles and bows on the toes. My glasses were thick bifocals in huge plastic frames (my paranoid schizophrenic father was convinced that metal frames would attract mind-altering radio signals). There was one year that involved a perm. It was everything you could imagine from a perm on an eight-year-old Appalachian child in 1991. When I was 10 or so my grandmother took me to the Sears in Chattanooga and bought me my first article of brand-new, never-before-worn outerwear: a denim dress with ribbon flowers on the yoke.
So I was a nerd. A pasty, stringy homeschooled nerd with an overbite. My clothing came from church rummage sales and the local Seventh-Day Adventist mission. Every week at church I wondered if the dress I was wearing had been one of my classmates' cast-offs the year before.
This was Bible Belt fundamentalism in the 1980s and early 1990s, and the fashion among poor homeschooled Bible Belt fundamentalists was cotton floral prairie dresses. I wore old lady shoes: flats with buckles and bows on the toes. My glasses were thick bifocals in huge plastic frames (my paranoid schizophrenic father was convinced that metal frames would attract mind-altering radio signals). There was one year that involved a perm. It was everything you could imagine from a perm on an eight-year-old Appalachian child in 1991. When I was 10 or so my grandmother took me to the Sears in Chattanooga and bought me my first article of brand-new, never-before-worn outerwear: a denim dress with ribbon flowers on the yoke.
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