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Thursday, November 14, 2002
I made some good progress today, rather in spite of myself. I woke up this morning and couldn't go back to sleep, so I got up and wrote for an hour. This allowed me to head to work with a spring in my step, proud of the fact that I already had 2000 words under my belt and looking forward to a full day of taunting Pogue about the fact that I reached the 30,000 word mark before he did. I left work a little early, too, and with a good five hours ahead of me this evening I was prepared to crank out some serious word count.
Unfortunately, this plan did not take into account The Wall.
You know how sometimes your pen runs out of ink, but you know for a fact that the pen is not out of ink, regardless of the evidence in front of you, so you shake it and wet it with your tongue and scratch the tip on a piece of paper for 20 minutes trying to prove to the Universe that there really is still some ink in there, damn it? That's pretty much what it was like with my brain tonight. There just weren't any words in there.
At first I sat there for about an hour, looking at my word processor with blank incomprehension as to why words were not appearing on the screen. You're a word processor damn it, you're supposed to be processing words! I even abandoned my novel for a while to write up an idea I had last night for a children's book about a monkey and an alligator, under the theory that monkeys and alligators are logical sources of ideas for serio-comic novels about atheists in Heaven.
Needless to say, this did not have the intended effect, so I was forced to take up the reliable old weapon of so many people who are in denial: the nap. I laid down on the couch to "clear my head", and the next thing I knew I was under the covers, fast asleep, where writer's block and unfinished novels do not exist. To be honest, it was a little distressing to feel my brain shut down simply because it couldn't cope.
I woke up at 8:30 and willed myself back into my chair to write. I started by hammering out a rather grim segment about a woman trying to escape from Hell, which ended unpleasantly, so I switched gears and just started making stuff up about the fallacy of infinity and a ukulele. From this beginning I somehow ended up with a bizarre little passage about the history of God, much to my surprise. I have no idea where it's going, and I have no idea when it is going to be finished, but I'm just going to milk it for all it's worth and hope I don't get struck by lightning. I have about four strands of plot going in my head right now, and I don't know where any of them are headed. It is my fervent wish that I'll have an idea for one of by the time I'm done with this section.
I'm starting to understand that this novel-writing thing is feast or famine, and the tide can turn at a moment's notice.
Unfortunately, this plan did not take into account The Wall.
You know how sometimes your pen runs out of ink, but you know for a fact that the pen is not out of ink, regardless of the evidence in front of you, so you shake it and wet it with your tongue and scratch the tip on a piece of paper for 20 minutes trying to prove to the Universe that there really is still some ink in there, damn it? That's pretty much what it was like with my brain tonight. There just weren't any words in there.
At first I sat there for about an hour, looking at my word processor with blank incomprehension as to why words were not appearing on the screen. You're a word processor damn it, you're supposed to be processing words! I even abandoned my novel for a while to write up an idea I had last night for a children's book about a monkey and an alligator, under the theory that monkeys and alligators are logical sources of ideas for serio-comic novels about atheists in Heaven.
Needless to say, this did not have the intended effect, so I was forced to take up the reliable old weapon of so many people who are in denial: the nap. I laid down on the couch to "clear my head", and the next thing I knew I was under the covers, fast asleep, where writer's block and unfinished novels do not exist. To be honest, it was a little distressing to feel my brain shut down simply because it couldn't cope.
I woke up at 8:30 and willed myself back into my chair to write. I started by hammering out a rather grim segment about a woman trying to escape from Hell, which ended unpleasantly, so I switched gears and just started making stuff up about the fallacy of infinity and a ukulele. From this beginning I somehow ended up with a bizarre little passage about the history of God, much to my surprise. I have no idea where it's going, and I have no idea when it is going to be finished, but I'm just going to milk it for all it's worth and hope I don't get struck by lightning. I have about four strands of plot going in my head right now, and I don't know where any of them are headed. It is my fervent wish that I'll have an idea for one of by the time I'm done with this section.
I'm starting to understand that this novel-writing thing is feast or famine, and the tide can turn at a moment's notice.
| NaNoWriMo Update | ||
| Total Word Count: | 32,531 | |
| Today's Word Count: | 4421 | |
| +/- Schedule: | 5.14 days ahead | |
| % Complete: | 65.06% complete | |
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Tonight I saw Singin' in the Rain at the Cinerama. What a great movie. In addition to being entertaining as hell, it's quite brilliant. It's so brilliant, in fact, that you don't even recognize its brilliance until it's halfway over. It's hard to imagine anyone making a better musical.
My favorite part is the "Gotta Dance" segment. I don't think there's ever been a more elegant, luminous bit of storytelling ever committed to film. It has all the hallmarks of a dream sequence, but it's also an amazingly efficient story and an echo of the entire film. It's one of the most surreal and beautiful movie sequences I think I've ever seen. (Also, it has Cyd Charisse. Yow.) If you haven't seen this film, do yourself a favor and give it a try.
My favorite part is the "Gotta Dance" segment. I don't think there's ever been a more elegant, luminous bit of storytelling ever committed to film. It has all the hallmarks of a dream sequence, but it's also an amazingly efficient story and an echo of the entire film. It's one of the most surreal and beautiful movie sequences I think I've ever seen. (Also, it has Cyd Charisse. Yow.) If you haven't seen this film, do yourself a favor and give it a try.
A very nice person from the company help desk took a look at my laptop today. It appears that there may be grapefruit juice on the motherboard, and it turns out that the incessant beeping sound indicates a problem with the memory bus. The computer might need a new motherboard, or it might have to be replaced altogether. Sigh.
My office-mate raised a good point today while we were discussing this. "If you were going to do something like that, why didn't you spill something interesting, like vodka?" she asked.
She's quite right. It think that no one could come up with a more succinct summary of my lifestyle than the fact that I spilled grapefruit juice on my computer. If I were an interesting person, I would have destroyed my laptop by dousing it with my own blood after being shot in the arm by communist insurgents while I was out with Jennifer Lopez on one of our naked hang-gliding trips. (I don't know why one would need a laptop computer on such an excursion, but I'm sure that Exciting Me has his reasons.) Now that would be something. That kind of lifestyle would warrant a blog. Unfortunately, the real Scott Dierdorf just knocked over his juice. How thrilling.
To prove my point, the only other thing I have to talk about today is the fact that I'm drinking too much caffeine. I only drink it at night, and I wind up with a massive headache at about 4 PM the next day. I either have to cut back, or I need to start drinking it all day. Wow, what an exciting dilemma. Don't I just sound like the kind of guy that Jennifer Lopez would want to go naked hang-gliding with? Sheesh.
My office-mate raised a good point today while we were discussing this. "If you were going to do something like that, why didn't you spill something interesting, like vodka?" she asked.
She's quite right. It think that no one could come up with a more succinct summary of my lifestyle than the fact that I spilled grapefruit juice on my computer. If I were an interesting person, I would have destroyed my laptop by dousing it with my own blood after being shot in the arm by communist insurgents while I was out with Jennifer Lopez on one of our naked hang-gliding trips. (I don't know why one would need a laptop computer on such an excursion, but I'm sure that Exciting Me has his reasons.) Now that would be something. That kind of lifestyle would warrant a blog. Unfortunately, the real Scott Dierdorf just knocked over his juice. How thrilling.
To prove my point, the only other thing I have to talk about today is the fact that I'm drinking too much caffeine. I only drink it at night, and I wind up with a massive headache at about 4 PM the next day. I either have to cut back, or I need to start drinking it all day. Wow, what an exciting dilemma. Don't I just sound like the kind of guy that Jennifer Lopez would want to go naked hang-gliding with? Sheesh.
| NaNoWriMo Update | ||
| Total Word Count: | 28110 | |
| Today's Word Count: | 3341 | |
| +/- Schedule: | 4.54 days ahead | |
| % Complete: | 56.22% complete | |
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
The words were flowing after I got done writing my last blog entry, so I stayed up and worked on my novel. I ended up with 2700 words and got a couple of ideas about how I might be able to rescue my ailing plot. Take that, brain!
| NaNoWriMo Update | ||
| Total Word Count: | 24769 | |
| Today's Word Count: | 2679 | |
| +/- Schedule: | 3.57 days ahead | |
| % Complete: | 49.54% complete | |
Monday, November 11, 2002
I stopped at Target on my way home tonight, and I witnessed an interesting scene as I was heading towards the register. A woman was attempting the difficult task of coaxing her three young sons to move through the store in the same general direction that she was. Two of them had been successfully corralled, but the third was still loitering near the baseball cards.
"Adam, come on!" she called to her dark-haired six-year-old.
Adam complied, running down the aisle toward his mother, his little legs a blur. This caught my attention, because as he ran he was also whirling his arms around at his sides, pinwheel-style, as if he were some kind of half-crazed boxing robot.
This struck me as the very essence of being a kid: running through Target and whirling your arms for no good reason. An adult would never do something like that, even if it occurred to them. What's the point? There is no conceivable benefit in performing such a maneuver unless you happen to be locked in combat with a half-crazed boxing robot, and that hardly ever happens anymore.
Kids take a completely different approach to the problem. When a child has an idea like this, which is nearly all the time, they examine it for no more than a half-second. After immediately failing to find any overwhelmingly compelling reason not to do it, they reject further analysis and begin whirling like a maniac. There seems to be a direct connection between their imaginations and their bodies, so children are constantly expressing themselves every time they move. In adults, however, this connection tends to get clogged and useless as our aging minds get filled with etiquette, work, and responsibility. The unashamed creativity that flows through a child like a river begins to diminish as the child grows, until eventually it becomes nothing more than a slow trickle.
I bring this up because I am starting to believe that my connection is in danger of drying up all together. Not content with merely clogging my creative stream, my scheming brain is now taking steps to dam it up completely. Before you call for a straitjacket, let me set the scene.
After a few days of slow progress on the novel, I was ready for a night of solid writing. I had a few ideas during the day, and by the time I got home I was eager to get started. I was so eager, in fact, that I got out my laptop before I was completely done with dinner. I wanted to type some notes to myself while I watched Monday Night Football and finished my grapefruit juice. It was rather pleasant, actually. Sit, type, watch, drink. Sit, type, watch, drink. Sit, type, watch, floop.
That floop was the unfortunate sound of my grapefruit juice glass tipping over and disgorging its contents into the keyboard of my laptop. I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say that there was a good deal of swearing, some sticky laptop disassembly, and a frantic search for a blanket thick enough to muffle the incessant beeping caused by the stuck key on the keyboard, a key that was so stuck that the computer could not be logged into or even turned off, if you can believe that, which I can't.
Luckily, I was able to take the computer to work and log in by plugging it into the dock. The hard drive is fine, and my data has been backed up. The only thing the computer needs now is a good cleaning, and possibly a new keyboard. I sent a sheepish email to my company's help desk, so hopefully they will be able to assist me. Overall not much harm has been done, but in the process I have lost yet another night of novel-writing, and all of the ideas I had today are now fading like the dying embers of a campfire that someone has peed on in an attempt to extinguish it.
You may be willing to chalk this incident up to mere clumsiness, and there is certainly precedent for such a conclusion. I, on the other hand, have another theory: that my brain is actively trying to sabotage all of my attempts to express myself. It wouldn't be hard. A stray synaptic connection here and a random thought there, and my brain could derail my writing for the entire month. I must have fiddled with that laptop for 15 minutes after I turned it on, but it wasn't until I started working on the novel that the accident happened. Coincidence? I may be crazy, but I smell a conspiracy, and it bears the distinct odor of grapefruit.
Since my brain is forced to examine every thought that flows through it, I suppose it might have a good reason for this coup attempt. After all, it had to read my last novel, which is a fate I wouldn't wish on any major organ. Nevertheless, as I approach my thirtieth birthday I feel that I must do everything in my power to fight back and regain some of my youthful spirit. I will not quietly succumb to a life of dull adult drudgery. I vow to finish this novel whether my brain likes it or not!
The good news is that I still have one thing in common with a child: we both apparently need to drink out of sippy cups in order to avoid spilling all over ourselves. This might be of dubious comfort to some, but I'll take what I can get.
"Adam, come on!" she called to her dark-haired six-year-old.
Adam complied, running down the aisle toward his mother, his little legs a blur. This caught my attention, because as he ran he was also whirling his arms around at his sides, pinwheel-style, as if he were some kind of half-crazed boxing robot.
This struck me as the very essence of being a kid: running through Target and whirling your arms for no good reason. An adult would never do something like that, even if it occurred to them. What's the point? There is no conceivable benefit in performing such a maneuver unless you happen to be locked in combat with a half-crazed boxing robot, and that hardly ever happens anymore.
Kids take a completely different approach to the problem. When a child has an idea like this, which is nearly all the time, they examine it for no more than a half-second. After immediately failing to find any overwhelmingly compelling reason not to do it, they reject further analysis and begin whirling like a maniac. There seems to be a direct connection between their imaginations and their bodies, so children are constantly expressing themselves every time they move. In adults, however, this connection tends to get clogged and useless as our aging minds get filled with etiquette, work, and responsibility. The unashamed creativity that flows through a child like a river begins to diminish as the child grows, until eventually it becomes nothing more than a slow trickle.
I bring this up because I am starting to believe that my connection is in danger of drying up all together. Not content with merely clogging my creative stream, my scheming brain is now taking steps to dam it up completely. Before you call for a straitjacket, let me set the scene.
After a few days of slow progress on the novel, I was ready for a night of solid writing. I had a few ideas during the day, and by the time I got home I was eager to get started. I was so eager, in fact, that I got out my laptop before I was completely done with dinner. I wanted to type some notes to myself while I watched Monday Night Football and finished my grapefruit juice. It was rather pleasant, actually. Sit, type, watch, drink. Sit, type, watch, drink. Sit, type, watch, floop.
That floop was the unfortunate sound of my grapefruit juice glass tipping over and disgorging its contents into the keyboard of my laptop. I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say that there was a good deal of swearing, some sticky laptop disassembly, and a frantic search for a blanket thick enough to muffle the incessant beeping caused by the stuck key on the keyboard, a key that was so stuck that the computer could not be logged into or even turned off, if you can believe that, which I can't.
Luckily, I was able to take the computer to work and log in by plugging it into the dock. The hard drive is fine, and my data has been backed up. The only thing the computer needs now is a good cleaning, and possibly a new keyboard. I sent a sheepish email to my company's help desk, so hopefully they will be able to assist me. Overall not much harm has been done, but in the process I have lost yet another night of novel-writing, and all of the ideas I had today are now fading like the dying embers of a campfire that someone has peed on in an attempt to extinguish it.
You may be willing to chalk this incident up to mere clumsiness, and there is certainly precedent for such a conclusion. I, on the other hand, have another theory: that my brain is actively trying to sabotage all of my attempts to express myself. It wouldn't be hard. A stray synaptic connection here and a random thought there, and my brain could derail my writing for the entire month. I must have fiddled with that laptop for 15 minutes after I turned it on, but it wasn't until I started working on the novel that the accident happened. Coincidence? I may be crazy, but I smell a conspiracy, and it bears the distinct odor of grapefruit.
Since my brain is forced to examine every thought that flows through it, I suppose it might have a good reason for this coup attempt. After all, it had to read my last novel, which is a fate I wouldn't wish on any major organ. Nevertheless, as I approach my thirtieth birthday I feel that I must do everything in my power to fight back and regain some of my youthful spirit. I will not quietly succumb to a life of dull adult drudgery. I vow to finish this novel whether my brain likes it or not!
The good news is that I still have one thing in common with a child: we both apparently need to drink out of sippy cups in order to avoid spilling all over ourselves. This might be of dubious comfort to some, but I'll take what I can get.
| NaNoWriMo Update | ||
| Total Word Count: | 22090 | |
| Today's Word Count: | 0 | |
| +/- Schedule: | 1.99 days ahead | |
| % Complete: | 44.18% complete | |
Last night feng, m@, and Scott Pogue came over for a writing party. Eventually we ended up doing what all writers tend to do when you put them in the same room together: taking a series of elaborately staged photographs of gummi bears. Needless to say, not much got written last night.
We also watched Barton Fink. Somehow I always end up watching Coen Brothers movies during these binge writing endeavors, and it invariably leaves me depressed at how talented they are and how untalented I am. (If you don't believe me, read the script.) Man, those guys can write.
We also watched Barton Fink. Somehow I always end up watching Coen Brothers movies during these binge writing endeavors, and it invariably leaves me depressed at how talented they are and how untalented I am. (If you don't believe me, read the script.) Man, those guys can write.
| NaNoWriMo Update | ||
| Total Word Count: | 20810 | |
| Today's Word Count: | 572 | |
| +/- Schedule: | 3.24 days ahead | |
| % Complete: | 41.62% | |