National Novel Writing Month – Tales of a Survivor

It is time – time to post my recompense for my egregious crime of claiming writerdom, but failing to participate in the mandatory insanity of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), the close call originally discussed in the post “NaNoWriMo – Say What?”  As stipulated from lengthy negotiations, the NaNoWriMo police have kept close vigilance over me by tapping directly into my over-enlarged guilt complex.

I was able to actually find somebody who did embark on this adventure, and was willing to share with us her experience.  From all appearances, Hanje Richards appears to be a normal, sane and very nice woman.  She was willing to do this interview after all.  But going in, I must confess, I was screaming “Pod Person!” in my head.  I mean what kind of person voluntarily participates in this kind of self-inflicted torture?  And – she actually had a ‘day job,’ my new hero for that.  Just how did she manage to do this?  Inconceivable.  Well, I discovered that she did it with grace, humor and extraordinary fortitude.  Then I found out she embarked upon this craziness three times … Pod Person!

TRW:  Hi Hanje, thanks for agreeing to do this interview about your experiences with NaNoWriMo.  Let’s start by finding out a little about who you are, maybe shed some light on what type of person actually takes on the NaNoWriMo ordeal!

HR:  I moved to the Central Coast about a year and a half ago.  Prior to that I lived in a really small town in Arizona, and I lived the first 39 years of my life in Minnesota.

I have spent most of my working life in the book business.  I worked in three independent bookstores; two in Minnesota and one in Arizona and I’ve worked for three book distribution companies, two in Minnesota and one in Arizona.  My final job in Arizona was working as a library tech in the public library.  

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TRW:  So books are in your blood.  When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

HR:  I have always wanted to write. My mother used to write down poems that I created and little prose pieces in a little red notebook, because I didn’t know how to print yet.  I used to interview my babysitters and have them draw scenes that I described to find out if they might be potential illustrators for my books.

Since I arrived in San Luis Obispo I have been working on writing.  I take a weekly workshop with a local writer and writing teacher, I just finished a writing class at Cuesta College, I go to writers’ conferences, and I have become active in SLO Nightwriters.

TRW:  What are you working on when not imbibing in the NaNoWriMo Kool-Aid – I mean, what other projects do you have going?

HR:  These days I mostly write memoir and personal essay, although I do try my hand at fiction to keep myself moving creatively.

TRW:  Ok, so what in the world possessed you to jump into the NaNoWriMo pot?

HR:  The first time I did NaNoWriMo was four years ago.  It all started with a conversation at church, where two women I knew were talking about their plan to do NaNoWriMo.  I asked them what they were talking about, and in spite of the fact that November 1st was only about a week away, I decided to give it a try.

I won the first time I did NaNoWriMo (winning simply means that you finish 50,000 words by midnight on the 31st of November and send it in to be counted).  I did not follow all of the rules though, because although my intention was to write a novelization of some of the experiences of my life, I ended up writing memoir.  I was okay with that and called myself a winner.

The next year I did it again, this time with the express purpose of finishing the memoir I had started.  I didn’t win that year, as I had surgery scheduled for the last week of November and did not recover as quickly as I thought I would, so ended up with 43,000 words that year.  I did not officially win, but I certainly did not consider myself a loser.

I then skipped a year.

This year was my third try. I decided well in advance that I was going to attempt NaNoWriMo again, and this time I was going to write fiction.  I planned to begin work on a novel that I have had rattling around in my brain for several years.  As this was going to be my first major piece of fiction, I had a sense that working on an outline and characters ahead of time (which is allowed) would be a good idea, but I kept procrastinating.

I wrote on November 1st and I wrote on November 2nd and then I stopped writing.  I didn’t like what I was writing.  I think I had anticipated doing this for so long, and I was so sure that I would be able to win this year, that it came as a real shock that I didn’t like what I was writing and just plain hit a wall.  Every day I told myself I could still catch up if I started back to work the following day, until the 10th of the month, and then I admitted I could not catch up, and after a brief period of self-flagellation and mourning, I let it go.

When I re-read the 3,635 words I wrote the first two days, I actually liked what I had written and was able to use it for an assignment for my writing class.

TRW:  What did you end up liking about the process?  Did it help you in any way?

HR:  The first time I really liked doing NaNoWriMo because I saw that it was doable.  I could not have kept up the pace of 1,667 words a day and continued my job, but for 31 days I was able to do it.  It was a huge sense of accomplishment.

Unfortunately, getting myself to sit down and write every day is still not easy for me, and I suffer from blocks, but I also know that I can and did write 50,000 words in one month.  I have a sense of pride about that, but as someone who likes to set goals and complete them, I felt discouraged the times I was not able to complete the goal.

TRW:  What was the absolute hardest, most grueling thing about it?

HR:  It just wasn’t sustainable for me with a job - the first two times I was also doing the day job.  I also really fell apart when I started trying to work on rewriting after recovering from November.  I think I would be able to rewrite something now without as much angst.  I have learned a lot about writing over the past few years, and I think I could tackle it without getting bogged down.

TRW:  Did you have to get a divorce in order to do it?  What was the impact on your family / family life?

HR:  I did not have to get a divorce.  My husband has to write a sermon every week.  That is 2000 to 2500 words every week.  I listen to every sermon before he delivers it, and I have been his editor and critic for many years.  I did all my writing very early in the morning, before I went to work.  Before I started I made very clear that when I was wearing my “writing hat,” I was not to be disturbed.  The first morning when my husband woke up I was sitting on the couch with my laptop and a colander on my head.  We had a good laugh out of that, but he respected my writing time as I try to respect his.

TRW:  Are you going to do this again next year?

HR:  I haven’t decided yet.  I am not going to psych myself out again.  If I do it, it will be a last-minute decision.  What would be better for me is to develop the habit of daily writing so that I wouldn’t feel the need for NaNoWriMo.  I am working on that now, instead of thinking about next November.

TRW:  What advice, or words of warning, do you have for our readers?  

HR:  I think NaNoWriMo is a great thing for writers.  I would say, be kind to yourself.  This might not be the time for whatever reason.  I have no regrets about my three attempts, but I liked this last one the least, even though I may have learned the most about myself.   I am a very goal oriented person, and I really hated admitting that I was not going to complete the competition.


Hanje can be reached through her blog:  Hanje Richards at www.hanjerichards.wordpress.com

Tom Robbins

As part of my holiday travels in nostalgia, I’ve begun rereading Tom Robbins for the first time in many, many years.  I don’t recall when or how I initially discovered him.  I don’t remember a person handing me a book of his, or even telling me about him.  I don’t remember that magical mystical moment of discovery in a bookstore.  It’s more like these works have always been with me, been a part of me.  It is revelatory to me to see just how much of my core belief system is reflected in this body of work.  Maybe these words literally shaped me, handing me parts and tools softly from the sidelines.  His books showed me freedom and my own potential, the potential of life, the world, the universe and beyond; the permission to glimpse and claim the ‘other’ – other paths, other options, other lives and other ways of writing, of reading. 

 

There are infinite concepts and amazing ideas here that I still find myself exploring, pondering.  And I am eternally grateful for the words, the magic, the possibility, the permission, the fun, and the ecstasy – the ride.  For the soul that exists, that created all this, that filled me, filled so much – lighted an infinite chain explosion that is still going off today.  These books helped inform and build that platform from which I can stand on tippy-toes and glimpse it all; the goofy, wonderful, miracle of life, of just being a being, and also the glimpse beyond, an open mind the only cost of the ride.  So vitally, critically essential, that vision, those options.  

His books are audacious exploits both in content and execution.  I didn’t even consciously notice his use of point of view.  Somebody recently
mentioned to me in passing his utilization of second person point of view, and it really took me aback.  Really?  I ran home and pulled them open, and sure enough – there it was in Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas, full frontal second person point of view.  I had registered his wonderfully personal style of addressing the reader directly (me personally!) but other machinations are done so naturally, so smoothly, so artistically – it never even registered.  It just worked.  Revered or ridiculed, second person is daring, but it either works or it doesn’t.  Tom Robbins is one of the rare writers that can successfully pull it off with seeming ease.

I’ve found myself wanting to meet him in person and I struggle with ‘why?’  I’m not a ‘groupie’ type of person.  I live in California, I’ve seen “celebrities.”  I don’t get it.  I think, “So what?”  There’s the larger than life action hero, macho character, tough as nails bad ass.  And here he is on the street, a tiny, short, old man with a brigade of burly bodyguards, scurrying back to his artificial world, an existence inside a rarified vacuum.  So what?  But authors – ah, authors.  I have gone to book signings, went through a pretty serious cartoonist phase, and had some really cool conversations, interludes.  But I do know enough to know that the writing is not the author.  The writing emanates then exists on its own.  The author is just a person.  It’s a horrid phenomenon to see the real person and discover he’s a rude arrogant asshole, she’s a snob of a bitch and ignorant.  The words they created are then tainted.  So I don’t care – I insist upon letting the wondrous work, the creation, stand alone.  But yes, there exists an amount of reverence for the author, the creator; how often I still stare into the eyes on the back flap.  They created something, something magical that touched me, is now a part of me, part of who I am.  But I don’t have any urge to meet them.  Who they actually are as a person is irrelevant.  I don’t really want to know. 

But – Tom Robbins – I have the desire to meet.  And so I’ve pondered ‘why?’  Why would I want to do that?  Yes, his creations are a part of me, have informed and helped form me.  That is no small thing.  In loneliness those books were there and are there still.  In alienation these lives and worlds and possibilities gave me hope, validation.  The words, the creations gave me a glimpse, my first glimpse perhaps, behind the magical curtain, lighting the way to other worlds, other ways beyond mine, if only I were brave enough, strong enough, had enough wisdom and humor.  They showed me I wasn’t alone.  I held them and I rode them wildly.  I stood on them when I needed strength and hid within them when I needed refuge and solace.  Somebody somewhere had “weird” thoughts too, and actually put them to paper, creating lives and possibility.  Somebody somewhere spoke to me.  Somebody somewhere said that I was ok to be so different, so ‘weird’, that not fitting in was actually a good thing, a treasured gift to fiercely defend.  

And that was enough.  Enough to create a lifeboat for myself to live within, hold on to all these years; always there to fall back into when I slipped or wildly leapt.  This is what they did for me, how I took the creations and built what I needed from them, through all my own idiosyncratic filters.  This too is no small thing.  And a man did create this, so bravely, so brilliantly.  I don’t want to know “why” or “how.”  I don’t want to ask what his “process” is, where he gets his ideas from, what he eats for breakfast, who his favorite Doctor Who is.  

But I do now know why I want to meet this man.  May my words here meet those words out there in that ether for this purpose.  I want to say ‘thank you.’  Thank you for your words, your magic.  Thank you for your bravery.  Thank you for having the courage to release your words, to allow them to leave you and be offered up as sacrificial objects to hoards of unknowns who will use them selfishly for their own purpose, as I have done. 

Thank you, from my lightened soul.

Holiday Nostalgia and Confessions of a Wayward Book Lover

The holidays are upon us once again, full force; a time for requisite
nostalgia.  It is inevitable.  These seasons past, good and bad, are the ones
that flash before our eyes as we slowly drown in the annual advertising
blitzkrieg.  The nostalgia infiltrates, expanding from the season specific to
all remembrances imprinted.  And so I pay homage to the season, serve my time in obligatory reminiscence. 

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I viscerally remember the magical packages wrapped and waiting in the dark,
so mysterious in the flickering shadows of the Christmas tree lights; the
unbearable excitement of Christmas Eve; the sucker punch loss of innocence
when Santa was condescendingly revealed as a pathetic fraud.  I remember
climbing behind the Christmas tree to find that one smooth and shiny red
Christmas bulb hanging from the lowest branch, with a single light reflected.

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The curved and blinking distorted reality revealed there held me captivated
for hours.  This memory leads me down the hall to my childhood closet cubby
hideaway – dark, secret, filled with cushions and books, shared only with my
most special and trusted stuffed animal, Ralphie.  This then evokes memories
of Archie, my pet rock that I honestly loved (before there was the “pet rock”
spurt); and leaps onward to make believe games; roller skating; my mountain
adventures; and to the preteen Friday nights of comic books, Circle K
Freezees, potato chips, and beef jerky. 

The things about which I am most nostalgic however, are books.  I remember
every book ever received or given as a present, every find at a bookstore, a
library sale.  I remember when I got the greatest, most miraculous present of
my entire childhood – a huge box that came in the mail, filled with books,
all the classics.  They were brand new.  I still recall the smell, opening
each one, feeling the smooth virgin pages, inhaling them, the excitement of
knowing all those worlds were waiting just for me. 

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I lost all my childhood belongings, including that treasure trove.  The cost
exacted of runaways.  I grieve those books still.  I’ve begun recreating that
little library of my youth, looking for books that appear to be the same as
those I had Once Upon a Time.  I’ve been able to find some with the old
glossy, smooth picture pages, and cloth binding.  And yes, I still snort
them, mostly unabashedly, right from the middle crease, the magic to come
wafting through my olfactory senses first.  I won’t buy a book without
smelling it first.  And they do have different smells.  Avoid the faint sour
ones; revel in the fresh and pungent; don’t give up on the musty, moldy, dank
ones – sometimes they hold the finest of treasures and hidden secrets – and
only occasionally a weird creepy-crawly.

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I really have allowed books to become revered to this extent, probably way
too much, treating them almost as talismans.  But they were my very first,
and will likely be my very last, true love.  They are something that’s all
mine, comprised of infinite wonder, possibility, and magic.  I made these
things and the people who wrote them, become life, bigger than life,
impossibly romanticized.  Holy shit!  No wonder I had writer’s block!

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 And yet I still believe it all.  I still have that reverence and awe every
time I discover a new author, open a new book, re-open an old one.  But now
I’m learning to live with them in my world; not live – hide away – exclusively in theirs.  They enrich my world with infinite possibility.  They mustn’t replace this world.  One needs to come back down to Earth in order to understand how to soar out from the bonds of this Earth, to all those vast realms beyond.  That’s what I’m telling myself anyway, to talk myself back down, keep myself here.  After all, I have company coming for the holidays, more nostalgia yet to accumulate.  And maybe I’ll get a new book.