Uncanny
Daily Word Count: 599 today, 14.5k total
The good:
Starla followed behind with her head down, trying to protect her face from the stinging wind. The rumble of the highway carried like an echo through her body. The trucks in the parking lot idled roughly, their tall headlamps staring like eyes, marking her progress, spilling her shadow onto the ground beside her.
Daily Stumbling Block:
I have no idea how my characters meet up. None whatsoever. I do know that I don't want it to be a cheesy just-so-happen-to-be-in-the-same-place-at-the-same-time thing.
The problem is, this has to happen soon. So pray for me. And may whatever serendipitous meetings I concoct ring true.
Random Thought:
Isn't serendipity a cool word? And no, I didn't have to use a thesaurus to think it up; but I did have to use a spellchecker, heh-heh.
Onward!
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Novel Stats
Here are the current novel stats, given as a direct pantomime of Levi Nunnink's novel stat listing, found here .
Uncanny
Daily Word Count: 466 today, 13.9k total
To catch us up, I'm going to introduce the characters rather than list what I've found good in this particular section.
Starla: The eyes stared on, and she looked right back, her purple eyes shimmering in the soft ambience of the dash light. She had a thin and pale face, all peaks and valleys, below silvery-white hair bundled unceremoniously with a rubber band. A red and white scarf was wrapped around her neck. Her arms peeked out from a tattered, mud darkened t-shirt and lay folded across her body, her delicate hands resting on her bony elbows. The jeans she had found and put on were too large for her frame, and she had notched an extra hole in her belt to compensate.
Jason: The boy stood looking at himself, then reached a hand up to his face. Under his eye was a large gash. The front of his forehead looked like it had been scraped away by a rock, a bloody, triangular mess. He feathered over the wound with his hand, lightly touching it, wincing as his fingers contacted the torn flesh.
Timothy: He awoke in the dark and he could not move. His hands were behind him, and as he moved them he heard the jangle of metal. Handcuffs, most likely. He sat up, eyes focused before him, and waited. The darkness slowly receded. His head throbbed, and his hair felt pasted to his forehead. He opened his mouth to lick his lips and a sigh, heavy and unbidden, escaped. There was movement, scraping, the sound of a door opening, and a light flickered to life above him. He was in a warehouse, dank and unfamiliar.
Jonas: The man looked at his colleagues again, and one of them nodded curtly. He fished out another paper and slid it to Jonas. It was a simple letter with no letterhead, and long sections of the text had been blacked out, made unreadable.
Jonas picked it up incredulously and held it up towards the ceiling fixtures. “Ah, finally some clarity!”
Kathy glared at him.
“There is enough in there to get a decent picture,” the man said simply.
So Jonas read the pieces that were not blacked out. And then he reread them, much more intently. Finally he put the paper down on the table and stared ahead. “You’re serious?”
Ed: So now he sat by his wife’s bed, stationary, hollow and old like a dying tree. Every time she stirred his heart groaned within him. He was going to tell her; not some doctor, not anyone else. Just as he had shared everything with her, he would share this.
God, would he share this.
Daniel: And then they were gone, disappearing into the crowd. Daniel stood watching for a moment, but the voices and thoughts and emotions rose like a wave in front of him, threatening to crush him under their weight. So he retreated back to his chair, sat down, pulled the cap low to his face, and let the rhythmic machinations of the zipper lull his mind to rest.
Nicolas: The station was mostly deserted. There was a man with a suit and tie surveying the offerings of the vending machine. A mother and her daughter sat huddled closely together, protectively. And the station attendant stood looking at him, brows furrowed together, intimidated but doing her best to put on a neutral face.
Nicolas walked over to the counter with a smile. He could feel the spongy weakness of her mind, see the loose tendrils folding lazily over every idle thought. She would be no trouble at all.
Intrigued? Boy, I sure hope so.
It's been a lot of fun opening the act with all of these different characters, but it's the middle I am having trouble with. How do I bring them all together? What should they do between their introduction and conclusion?
When introducing them I had no trouble writing 1,000 to 2,000 words a day, writing as fast as my fingers could keep up. But now that I am trying to advance the story, I'm having trouble writing even 400 words.
No use complaining, I guess. Onward!
Uncanny
Daily Word Count: 466 today, 13.9k total
To catch us up, I'm going to introduce the characters rather than list what I've found good in this particular section.
Starla: The eyes stared on, and she looked right back, her purple eyes shimmering in the soft ambience of the dash light. She had a thin and pale face, all peaks and valleys, below silvery-white hair bundled unceremoniously with a rubber band. A red and white scarf was wrapped around her neck. Her arms peeked out from a tattered, mud darkened t-shirt and lay folded across her body, her delicate hands resting on her bony elbows. The jeans she had found and put on were too large for her frame, and she had notched an extra hole in her belt to compensate.
Jason: The boy stood looking at himself, then reached a hand up to his face. Under his eye was a large gash. The front of his forehead looked like it had been scraped away by a rock, a bloody, triangular mess. He feathered over the wound with his hand, lightly touching it, wincing as his fingers contacted the torn flesh.
Timothy: He awoke in the dark and he could not move. His hands were behind him, and as he moved them he heard the jangle of metal. Handcuffs, most likely. He sat up, eyes focused before him, and waited. The darkness slowly receded. His head throbbed, and his hair felt pasted to his forehead. He opened his mouth to lick his lips and a sigh, heavy and unbidden, escaped. There was movement, scraping, the sound of a door opening, and a light flickered to life above him. He was in a warehouse, dank and unfamiliar.
Jonas: The man looked at his colleagues again, and one of them nodded curtly. He fished out another paper and slid it to Jonas. It was a simple letter with no letterhead, and long sections of the text had been blacked out, made unreadable.
Jonas picked it up incredulously and held it up towards the ceiling fixtures. “Ah, finally some clarity!”
Kathy glared at him.
“There is enough in there to get a decent picture,” the man said simply.
So Jonas read the pieces that were not blacked out. And then he reread them, much more intently. Finally he put the paper down on the table and stared ahead. “You’re serious?”
Ed: So now he sat by his wife’s bed, stationary, hollow and old like a dying tree. Every time she stirred his heart groaned within him. He was going to tell her; not some doctor, not anyone else. Just as he had shared everything with her, he would share this.
God, would he share this.
Daniel: And then they were gone, disappearing into the crowd. Daniel stood watching for a moment, but the voices and thoughts and emotions rose like a wave in front of him, threatening to crush him under their weight. So he retreated back to his chair, sat down, pulled the cap low to his face, and let the rhythmic machinations of the zipper lull his mind to rest.
Nicolas: The station was mostly deserted. There was a man with a suit and tie surveying the offerings of the vending machine. A mother and her daughter sat huddled closely together, protectively. And the station attendant stood looking at him, brows furrowed together, intimidated but doing her best to put on a neutral face.
Nicolas walked over to the counter with a smile. He could feel the spongy weakness of her mind, see the loose tendrils folding lazily over every idle thought. She would be no trouble at all.
Intrigued? Boy, I sure hope so.
It's been a lot of fun opening the act with all of these different characters, but it's the middle I am having trouble with. How do I bring them all together? What should they do between their introduction and conclusion?
When introducing them I had no trouble writing 1,000 to 2,000 words a day, writing as fast as my fingers could keep up. But now that I am trying to advance the story, I'm having trouble writing even 400 words.
No use complaining, I guess. Onward!
Monday, November 27, 2006
What a novel idea!
For most, I imagine, writing is a hunger that is only sated by constant and continued feeding. I always picture artists as lonely, tortured souls, desperately searching for a vehicle through which to share their beliefs, trials, and wisdom. Like the tell-tale heart beating under the floorboards, their desire threatens to drive them to absolute madness if it is not revealed or exposed.
Or something like that.
I was expressing to Alison the other day, as I am now for the first time attempting to write something substantial, that this hunger, this passion, is absent within me. To which she quickly responded, "well, maybe you're not an artist."
Maybe indeed.
So why do I write? It's a question I've asked myself many times, one that gains particular importance now because I am devoting a large part of my free time to writing a story that isn't particularly spiritual, edifying, novel, unique, or otherwise.
At this point, I write because God has gifted me in this area. Now, I don't expect to be published, or become the next Stephen King, but the practice of writing cannot help but do me good. And in fact it already has. I've written a press release for a software product, newsletters for a company, website copy, product manuals, and my own successful (to my mind) yet short-lived blog. The writing I do today, 400, 500 words, will hopefully someday benefit a group of people larger than myself. It might be an instruction manual. It might be a Lucadoistic book. (Lucadoistic comes from the self-penned word "Lucadoism", which is the section of inspirational Christian teaching most indebted to Max Lucado). It might be this blog (cue the cold shiver down the spine).
Anyway, I will be posting my progress semi-daily on this blog, and any other thoughts that might strike me down the line.
My story, Uncanny, now sits at 13,479 words, and is a very rough draft. But, credit to myself, it's the longest thing I've ever written. And how did I get through college as a Creative Writing major? That's another story for another time.
The story follows about five or six characters, which is much more difficult, in my mind, than having a main protagonist and sticking with him/her. For one, unless you work very hard, all of your characters think the same and say the same things. So you try to build very rich characters that will stand out from the others, but this swings you back into the dangerous yet fertile ground of creating stereotypical characters.
Am I making sense? It's getting late. I guess I'll go for now. Onward!
Or something like that.
I was expressing to Alison the other day, as I am now for the first time attempting to write something substantial, that this hunger, this passion, is absent within me. To which she quickly responded, "well, maybe you're not an artist."
Maybe indeed.
So why do I write? It's a question I've asked myself many times, one that gains particular importance now because I am devoting a large part of my free time to writing a story that isn't particularly spiritual, edifying, novel, unique, or otherwise.
At this point, I write because God has gifted me in this area. Now, I don't expect to be published, or become the next Stephen King, but the practice of writing cannot help but do me good. And in fact it already has. I've written a press release for a software product, newsletters for a company, website copy, product manuals, and my own successful (to my mind) yet short-lived blog. The writing I do today, 400, 500 words, will hopefully someday benefit a group of people larger than myself. It might be an instruction manual. It might be a Lucadoistic book. (Lucadoistic comes from the self-penned word "Lucadoism", which is the section of inspirational Christian teaching most indebted to Max Lucado). It might be this blog (cue the cold shiver down the spine).
Anyway, I will be posting my progress semi-daily on this blog, and any other thoughts that might strike me down the line.
My story, Uncanny, now sits at 13,479 words, and is a very rough draft. But, credit to myself, it's the longest thing I've ever written. And how did I get through college as a Creative Writing major? That's another story for another time.
The story follows about five or six characters, which is much more difficult, in my mind, than having a main protagonist and sticking with him/her. For one, unless you work very hard, all of your characters think the same and say the same things. So you try to build very rich characters that will stand out from the others, but this swings you back into the dangerous yet fertile ground of creating stereotypical characters.
Am I making sense? It's getting late. I guess I'll go for now. Onward!
Hello World!
I believe it was Aristotle that said, "An unexamined life is not worth living" (at least, that's who the bumper sticker attributed the saying to). We're here, therefore, to examine life together, from its sun-lit and inviting outer rooms, to its dust-soaked nooks and crannies. I've also set aside this place, by the gentle compunction of friends and family, to track the progress of my first novel (although I hesitate to call it that, it's really just a collection of writing exercises at this point). So I will keep you up to date on my progress, word count, editing, and maybe even post a few excerpts if I'm feeling particularly brave. Hopefully this space will keep me on track and help me to continue writing. Writing, like life, is a long race, much more an endurance run than a sprint. Discipline, which this world so often lacks, as I do myself, is key. Praise be to God, who has given us minds to conceive, words to write, and lips to utter all manner of marvelous things!
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