Literary dinners and weird happy snappers
After a good, old fashioned session of work, and a blogger back and forth with Suzanne Strong, I was prompted to remember a quick story of a literary function from 2000 (maybe 2001, it was the year Peter Carey won Book of the year for True History of the Kelly Gang). At the time I think it was the weirdest dinner i’d ever had.
It’s since been topped by a dinner on the outskirts of Hanoi, but that’s another story.
Anyway I was invited to the gala dinner for the Queensland Premier’s Literary Awards by my then publisher (they’ve since stupidly scrapped dinner, forcing everyone to sit through an awards ceremony without the benefit of food or booze as a distraction). I wasn’t actually receiving an award, so I was really there for said food and booze. Most of the evening passed in a dreadfully slow, alcoholic trudge, with the exception being Carey’s acceptance speech.
So after much consumption I mingled with some Writers Centre people and whoever else was left when I was set upon by two bloke with a camera. Not press, they were happy snappers. One of them asked if he could have his picture taken with me. Still unsure exactly what their purpose was, I agreed. He duly threw an arm over my shoulders and gave his mate behind the lens a cheesy thumbs up. I’m pretty sure I smiled.
Photo taken both men shook my hand and told me they were big fans. I said thanks. What the hell else was I going to say?
To this day I have no idea who they were, or, more importantly, who they thought I was. As I said, Peter Carey was in the room, so was Sam Wagan Watson. Apart from them I don’t remember anyone else of note, and I don’t think anyone was mistaking a skinny white kid for either of them.
It’s an enduring mystery to this day, but makes for a wonderful dinner conversation. I think I told a version of it at that dinner in Hanoi.
Read MoreTiredness and availability
Tonight there are no distractions. TV is off, household members are either working or sleeping. Even the whippet is curled up in a ball on the couch. Perfect conditions for writing. So here I am, distractible, irritable, tired, and headachy.
This is one of the most annoying parts of being a writer. Inspiration and enthusiasm hits you at inconvenient times and when you have a big wide yawning chasm of time available, you find your head is made of wood and the juices flow about as freely as a glacier.
It worries me when I’ve committed to a whole week dedicated to nothing but writing. I’m not a naturally disciplined person. I don’t think many writers are. Not ones anybody likes.
On the up side. 20,000 words have morphed into 30,000. Oh alright 29.098, but that’s close enough.
Read MoreFirst draft week announced
Here it is, in black and white. Building on the musings from the last post, I’ve now committed to a week dedicated to nothing but the task of completing the first draft of the novel.
Work? Cancelled. Family? Restricted to outside business hours. TV? Later. Any other crap? Put on hold.
And the task? Probably around two-hundred pages of manuscript, probably around 40,000 words. That’s 8,000 words a day for a five day week. 1,000 words an hour for an eight hour day.
Holy crap.
The purpose of the week will not be to stress and agonise over detail, but to get the words down, quickly, possibly badly, but to get it down nonetheless.
I guess I’ve hit a critical point. Novels take ages to get published and I can’t afford to spend another five years writing one manuscript, only for it to spend another five years hawking around to publishers. It’s time to get serious about the business.
Bleh!
The fact that I’m doing this in a rather public way is quite unnerving, but necessary. I can be a failure to myself, but I can’t be a failure to a transient bunch of faceless internet audience people. Actually that’s disingenuous. Actually I can’t fail my family. A week from work is neither her nor there, but a week from family is a big deal. If I don’t have a manuscript by the end of it, even my three-month-old will tear into me (in a cutsie kind of way of course).
Does that mean I’m afraid of my family? Is that weird?
In any case, it’s already starting to work. I’m already 20,000 words into the story and I’m going to be working hard right up to First Draft Week, since, I figure, the more I do before the week commences, the easier it will be to get the job done.
Of course I will also be posting here during First Draft Week, probably a lot more frequently than usual since the blog will now become the only other outlet.
17th September. Coming, ready or not.
Read MoreTime, time, time
So, here we are. August. And the novel drags on and on. I’ve always had an appreciation of how precious time is, how much I took for granted in those four lazy undergrad years (what the hell was I doing all that time?).
See, all that planning and posting of bits of narrative and photos was all about planning the story out. Now I have it on three scribbly bits of A4. All I have to do is convert those scribbles into a novel. Easy. Except maybe not that easy. Work. Children. Houses. All are necessary and must take priority. Blogging and marketing writing? Yeah, quite fun and probably just as neccesary. Sometimes beer, pizza, and TV take precedence. This is what happens when you d have an external deadline and I’m not good with those internal ones (it’s like I truly know in my bones that an internal deadline is a load of crap). So here I am, seriously contemplating a week away from everything to focus on finishing this wretched manuscript that should never have taken this long in the first place. This is good, by the way. I’ve found that a mild loathing of a story is a good motivating factor. Maybe that’s just me.
Yes, right. A week off. A week away. A week challenge. I reckon I could pull off a complete draft in one week. That’s the challenge I’m setting myself. Now I just have to find the time for a week off.
Read MoreProgress possible
Finally! It feels like I may in fact be getting somewhere. I’ve hit the end of the first third of the story, around a hundred pages. A hundred pages seems to be some kind of watershed for me a writer. At a hundred pages I can tell whether things are working or not. For instance when I last hit a hundred pages, I hit a dead end. Where was I going to go from there? What the hell would the story be? It was all a little vague. But that dead end led to a recasting of a whole story layout and now, after a hundred pages, I know exactly what’s coming next and sort of how the story will flow from here. Now it’s just time. I’ve never liked making things easy for myself. The last novel I took an unsalable situation and jammed a novel out of disparate short story elements into a cohesive whole. Not the kind of thing to give publishers an erection (figuratively speaking). This one’s a little different though. With this novel I started from something more or less salable and proceeded to muddy the process? Brisbane’s music scene? Why not add reality TV and sleep disorders into the mix?
Read MoreThe Books
