to write for seven days

Sunday, January 2 ~ 6,000 words

Monday, January 3 ~ 11,500 words
[write 10am-1pm, work 130pm-930pm, write 10pm-1am]

Tuesday, January 4 ~ 18,000 words
[write 10am-1pm, work 130pm-930pm, write 10pm-1am]

Wednesday, January 5 ~ 30,000 words
[write 3am-6am, sleep 7am-8am, write 9am-1pm, work 130pm-930pm, write 10pm-2am]

Thursday, January 6 ~ 40,000 words
[write 10am-1pm, work 130pm-930pm, write 10pm-1am]

Friday, January 7 ~ 44,000 words

Saturday, January 8 ~ 58,000 words
[3pm-3am (includes various breaks)]

Sunday, January 9 ~ 64,000 words
[1pm-2pm, 7pm-9pm]

And so it’s finished. My fourth and longest novel, and i’m absolutely in love with it and all the craziness going on inside its walls. Thought i had 20,000 more words to write, and they were the ones, maybe, i wrote the previous 64,000 to get to, only to realise, when i got there, that it didn’t need them, shouldn’t have them. Aesthetically, they were going to be perfect, exactly what i’d always dreamt i could do with words and structure, but i discovered today, while not writing [decided to take the day off], that the rest was already in the novel, though buried, and that it should be left for the reader, and i shouldn’t handfeed them. Never do that. Never make it easy on your reader because they’ll resent you for it, for making them feel stupid, and it closes out the limitlessness of the words. Man, still might write those last 20,000, though. Not as part of the novel, but a separate novella, one never to see the light of day.

What’s it about? I’ll just copy a little synopsis i shared somewhere. Maybe not a synopsis, but a teaser, maybe.

I can see the ending now, but it’s a long way off and several more deaths away. Did i mention that everyone dies? Also, along with that, there’s no violence. I think this is my version of The Plague by Albert Camus, except everything’s different. Ravens the size of eagles, the Goddess of Death, a new religion of asceticism, shadows ripped from people and eaten by the Ravens, and everyone burns away, combusts in a matter of moments to leave only the scorch stain of where they last touched the earth.  And then there’s all this business of different realities and collided universes and how a girl fell through a mirror to find her reflection only to re-enter the world as another and the man who lost her so long ago that’s been following her trail for a decade. Is that a synopsis? I don’t know. There’s so much more to do and i don’t want to have to sleep. I wish there were three of me to get all this writing done. One ydde is never enough.

The above was actually written four days ago, but it’s all true. Except, probably, it being like Camus’ The Plague, because all i remember about that novel is that there’s a plague and maybe a priest. But, i think, this is my existential novel, the one most influenced by the ideas that never left me concerning the absurd and angst.

But, yeah, in high spirits.

Sleep. Finally.

to only leave shadows

is the name.

7,700 viewers to this page. I mention because that seems like a cool number. 7,700. I wonder how many ended here on accident only to delete the internet.

Writing and nothing else. I wake up and write till i go to work, only stopping to eat and shower. All day at work, the words run through my mind, racing, stampeding, singing, then i get home and write till i go to bed. Just write and work, write and work. The pace is blistering and only getting faster. 22k in two days. Absurd.

My wrist hurts, though, which is troubling. As you know I’ve a permanent wrist injury that is sometimes debilitating, but usually doesn’t give me too much trouble. I think the nonstop writing of the last two weeks has taken a toll on it, though. Or i may be sleeping stupidly on it again.

I sleep for winks at a time only to go more.

If i can get it all down right, prefectly, then everything else, maybe, will fall into place.

The mountains are green today and drinks with coworkers tonight after work, which means all the words are for the morning, which, i don’t know, a part of me wants to skip the drinks, but it’s important to remain alive. To stay with people and breathe and smile. Who knows, may even meet a lady tonight.

cold and love

It’s always cold in my apartment because i don’t want to spend money on heat. Been write write writing like a fiend, too, which means my hands are perpetually cold, because no matter how many blankets you have, they can’t cover your hands if’n you intend to write.

New novel underway, 9,000 words done. Not sure how long it’s going to be, but i think it might be big. By big, though, i mean proper novel length. All previous attempts are quite short, with only one topping 50,000 words, which some put as the benchmark for novels, counting everything under as a novella. Same difference, really. Anyrate, i have twelve perspectives going and i drew this diagram at work because i can’t write there.

I draw character maps rather than outlines because all i need is to keep the characters straight, and this will do that. Knowing which characters are tied to which. Of course, all of that is subject to change, but it should be quite fun to write. Horribly complicated, mind. While Noir: A Love Story had 26 perspectives, none of them repeated, and this one will have all of them repeat at least once, maybe several times. Some of them extremely frequently. So, yeah, complicated, but it should be an adventure.

I want to finish this by the twelfth, too, because i start intensives, which run for two weeks. Intensives basically means that i’ll be working eleven hour days and will be drained the whole time. So, can i get another 30-40k done in the next nine days?

Worth a shot, yeah?

Back to it.