NaNoWriMo

Hubris + insanity = screenplay

/ R.J. Keller / 2 Comments

From the makers of NaNoWriMo comes Script Frenzy!

Instead of writing 50,000 words of a new novel in a month, the goal is to write 100 pages of a screenplay. I’ve decided to throw my pen into the ring this year in order to bang out a movie adaptation of Waiting for Spring. *

Hubris: because I don’t even have literary representation for the book, let alone any immediate prospects for publication. The idea that I’ll ever need a screenplay is probably pretty remote, and that I’d be asked to write it even remote-er.

Insanity: because I’ve never written a screenplay before.

Sounds like fun to me!

*Speaking of shameless plugs, I’ve got a new website up and running. Still an embryo, but it’s a huge step forward. Much thanks to webmaster Tom Griffin. Check it out if you’ve got a sec.

http://www.rj-keller.com/

Stuff and junk and more stuff.

/ R.J. Keller / Leave a comment

Well, it happened on Sunday: I hit 50969 words! Naturally I’m not even close to being done with the novel. I know that Mr. Chris Baty’s No Plot, No Problem recommends that words 49,999/50,000 should be, “The End,” but Verbosity is my middle name.

Mike Lowell Update: Three more years with the Red Sox! You were right, Rob. Sorry I doubted you.

Tooth update: Still hurts like hell.

Hubby update: He made it back to work this morning after 7 weeks of recuperation. He says that from now on he’s going to don a HazMat suit before clearing brush. You all should, too.

Favor time: If your local theater is showing I’m Not There, please go see it. Then come back here and tell me all about it. Looks like I’m going to have to wait until it’s out on DVD, since I live in the boonies.

[Shameless Plug] Click the link over yonder to the right to read a few excerpts from this year’s NaNoNovel, The Wendy House, at my NaNo profile page. (Rated R for language and junk.) Click the other link to read the prologue from my recently completed (not yet published) novel, Waiting For Spring. (Rated…oh, I’d say PG or PG-13.) [/Shameless Plug]

Why, yes. I am Irish.

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

I’ve got an impacted wisdom tooth. Well, let me clarify. It’s been impacted for several years–a “soft tissue” impaction, where the top part of the tooth pokes out back yonder, but the rest doesn’t bother to make an appearance. Apparently it thinks the world is a cruel, cruel place and feels much safer nestled in the nether regions of my gums.

Most of the time my wisdom tooth just sits there, quietly hiding, not much more than a slight nuisance. But every so often it kicks up its heels to really make its presence known; kind of like a drunk uncle at a family reunion. And yesterday it stuck the proverbial lampshade on its head and stood up to sing the chorus of “Go On Home British Soldiers.” My cheek is sore and swollen, my ear and head are pounding, and I’m beginning to sing the chorus of holy shit, I wish this pain would Go On Home.

Naturally you’re wondering, “Kel. Why have you not been to a dentist to have the offending tooth removed by now?” Aye, there’s the rub. There are three things in life I fear above all else.

1.) Flying (or, rather, being a passenger aboard an airplane, since I don’t actually fly.)
2.) Donald Trump’s hair.
3.) Dentist bills.

Normally I would sit here in agony, moaning and cursing and singing bitter parodies of bitter Irish folk songs. Fortuanately I’m in the middle of NaNoWriMo, so I can channel that agony into my book. I have the feeling my characters are going to be doing a great deal of moaning and cursing for the next few days. Someone might slay a dentist. Or shave Donald Trump’s head. The singing of folk songs will largely depend on how my word count is faring.

Why, yes. I am Irish.

/ R.J. Keller / 5 Comments

I’ve got an impacted wisdom tooth. Well, let me clarify. It’s been impacted for several years–a “soft tissue” impaction, where the top part of the tooth pokes out back yonder, but the rest doesn’t bother to make an appearance. Apparently it thinks the world is a cruel, cruel place and feels much safer nestled in the nether regions of my gums.

Most of the time my wisdom tooth just sits there, quietly hiding, not much more than a slight nuisance. But every so often it kicks up its heels to really make its presence known; kind of like a drunk uncle at a family reunion. And yesterday it stuck the proverbial lampshade on its head and stood up to sing the chorus of “Go On Home British Soldiers.” My cheek is sore and swollen, my ear and head are pounding, and I’m beginning to sing the chorus of holy shit, I wish this pain would Go On Home.

Naturally you’re wondering, “Kel. Why have you not been to a dentist to have the offending tooth removed by now?” Aye, there’s the rub. There are three things in life I fear above all else.

1.) Flying (or, rather, being a passenger aboard an airplane, since I don’t actually fly.)
2.) Donald Trump’s hair.
3.) Dentist bills.

Normally I would sit here in agony, moaning and cursing and singing bitter parodies of bitter Irish folk songs. Fortuanately I’m in the middle of NaNoWriMo, so I can channel that agony into my book. I have the feeling my characters are going to be doing a great deal of moaning and cursing for the next few days. Someone might slay a dentist. Or shave Donald Trump’s head. The singing of folk songs will largely depend on how my word count is faring.

Flaccidity

/ R.J. Keller / 1 Comment

A few days ago a fellow NaNoWriMo novelist read an excerpt I posted on the board, enjoyed it, and sent me a private message telling me so. This surprised me because this person is not related to me and is therefore under no obligation to enjoy my writing (hi, Mom!!)

My first reaction was to jump up and down in my computer chair and holler, and I quote: “SQUEEEEEE!” (I’m pretty sure that’s how Ernest Hemingway reacted the first time he realized someone had enjoyed his work.) In fact, there is still some inward squeeeeee-ing going on as we speak.

My second reaction was paralysis. That’s right: writer’s block. Because it occured to me (bright girl that I am) that a person I didn’t know read something I wrote, liked it, and then felt compelled to let me know it. I flipped through the pages of my latest literary output (well, I scrolled through them, this being the computer age and all) and realized that most of my latest literary output was a big fat steaming pile of crap (or, as my very talented writer friend, Amy, says: CARP. Hi Amy!!!) I had a few nuggets that could be sterilized at a later date and possibly be made fit for human consumption, but that was about it.

And so, I stared at my monitor, chomping on dark chocolate covered espresso beans, listening to Breakfast in America (part of my novel is set in the late 1970s, so I need the appropriate background music), waiting for inspiration. Nothing. I went into the bathroom and put on some green eyeshadow, just like Margaret Mitchell did while she was writing Gone With The Wind (I’m not making that up…she really did do that) and sat down at my desk again. Still nothing. After three hours of nothing, I gave it up and played Yahtzee with my still-ailing hubby for the rest of the afternoon. (Hi Hon!!!)

Then night fell. The kids went to bed. My hubby settled down in front of the television. And I stared at the monitor. Still paralysed. I chomped on espresso beans. Listened to ELO (shut up!) Then I peeked through the spam in my Yahoo email account, hoping I might find something in there that would inspire me.

Oddly enough, I did. There were no less than eight offers for me to purchase Viagra at a startling discount. That’s right. I’m a thirty-seven-year-old woman (which means I don’t have a penis, flaccid or otherwise) and yet someone thought I might be interested in purchasing Viagra. That’s when I had a revelation that might startle you as much as it did me.

I’m not Ernest Hemingway.

People who work as spammers for Viagra see my name, shrug, and think, “Maybe he suffers from erectile dysfuntion.” That was a very comforting thought. It meant I can fill my monitor with as much crap as I want this month…and nobody has to know. So I cracked my knuckles and added another 1016 words to my novel. Then I did what NaNoers are not supposed to do…I looked back–again–through some of the previous 15,000+ words. And, guess what? It wasn’t as crappy as I thought.

Every writer needs a cave…

/ R.J. Keller / 1 Comment

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man who is stuck in the house with nothing to do for weeks on end must be in want of a kick in the ass.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I love my husband. I love him a lot. He’s a handsome, smart, funny guy, he knows how to fix my dishwasher, is an awesome kisser and he even remembers to close the lid on the toilet seat. Now that the Red Sox have won the World Series–twice!–I wouldn’t trade him for anything. However, like my Visa, he’s everywhere I wanna be. At least while I’m trying to write.

You see, he’s been laid up for the past month with an injured leg–in fact he spent a few weeks in the hospital–so his daily exertion consists of trips to the powder room. Other than that, this typically active man (he’s climbed Mt. Katahdin no less than twelve times) spends his days holding down the couch. Oddly enough, in spite of my feminist nature, I don’t mind waiting on him. He’s a good man who’s in some pain and needs my help…what could be hotter than that? So, that’s not the problem. The problem can be best illustrated by the following recent conversation:

Hubby: Hey, Kel. What’cha doin?
Me: I’m revising chapter 16. [insert detailed description of said revisions here.]
Hubby: Oh.
Me: Why? Do you need something?
Hubby: Nope.
Me: Pain meds? Water? The remote con–
Hubby: Nope.
Me: Okay.

[Eight minutes later]

Hubby: Hey, Kel. What’cha doin?
Me: Still revising.
Hubby: Oh. Well…I’m bored. Wanna play cards or Yahtzee or something?
Me: Can you give me half an hour?
Hubby: I guess…

[Three minutes later]

Hubby: Hey, Kel…

Obviously, my computer and I will be hiding in a cave during NaNoWriMo.

Longingly

/ R.J. Keller / 5 Comments

There are people on this planet who are convinced within themselves that they’ve been abducted by aliens, beamed aboard spaceships that hover just outside Earth’s various satellite detection systems, tortured by said aliens for hours on end, then returned to their homes–broken, but alive. Barely alive. I woke up this morning feeling just like that. Spent and aching, body and soul. What I needed, I decided, was to spend the day reading a book that would grab me by the hairs of my heart, so I could forget my own mental and physical anguish.

You might say that I longed for a good book.

Logically, I headed for my nearest bookstore. I left two hours later, empty handed and despondent. Note the following sentence from a randomly opened page of a book whose name and author I can’t bring myself to remember:

I looked at him longingly.

I dragged my spent and aching ass out of bed for a good book, and the best you could do, O Anonymous Author, was: I looked at him longingly?

long (verb) :
to have an earnest or strong desire or craving; yearn.

There is something seriously wrong here if the definition of the word long moves me and a character who is supposedly longing for someone does not. At this point, I don’t even care about the context. I don’t care if this character goes on for three pages to describe the “him” for whom she was longing. Hell, she could be looking longingly after Heath Ledger–who deserves all the longing looks he gets–and I wouldn’t give a shit. Because, O Anonymous Author, your character cannot look at someone longingly. I–the reader–have to long. This goes beyond the Show-Don’t-Tell mantra. This is just damned lazy writing. And yet…O Anonymous Author’s novel is sitting on my local bookstore’s shelf. Hence, my despondence.

Then, about halfway home, I heard Melissa Etheridge’s hot, rugged voice pleading from the depths of my radio:

I would dial the numbers just to listen to your breath.

Not her lover’s voice, or even her lover’s words. Just to listen to your breath. Melissa Etheridge is a woman who knows a thing or two about longing.

Just like me. Because right now, still, I am longing for a good book.

Writing weaknesses

/ R.J. Keller / 3 Comments

Okay, Elle, to use a poor poker metaphor: I see your “dialogue is my weakest point writing-wise” statement and raise you an “action sequences aren’t my strong suit.”

I’m not talking about true action, ie fight scenes, sex scenes and the like. Those are great fun. I mean the boring stuff that happens between point A and point B. For example, during a recent editing session, I struggled for three days to get my girl, Tess, from her apartment to her car. Here is what I imagine was running through her head:

“Okay, Kel, I’ve been standing here for three fucking days. You’ve made my driveway wet and soupy with thick, brown mud to symbolize the shithole my life has become. So please–please–could you just write my fat ass down the stairs so I can get on with it?”

So after three whole days, how did Tess get to her car?

…I threw on my coat and clomped down the stairs…

Because–sometimes–that’s all there is to it.

First Lines

/ R.J. Keller / 2 Comments

My buddy, Elle, recently posted an article on her blog entitled Fighting Writer’s Block by Mr. David Taylor. Note Cause #4:

Writers often start in the wrong place.

Well, of course we do. We start, as Julie Andrews admonished in Sound of Music, at the very beginning. It seems logical, right? It’s how you’re supposed to start everything you do, from baking a cake to taking a pee.

Then there’s the other thing: we’re all told that the first sentence/paragraph/page is what will determine whether or not a would-be customer will buy our book. I have to admit that this is often true for me as I peruse the bookshelves. Take, for example, two novels I bought over the summer after having been seduced by the first line:

The Gun Seller, Hugh Laurie
“Imagine that you have to break someone’s arm.”

Now, I have to admit that I love Hugh Laurie more than just about anyone in the world, and would have bought his book if the first line sucked big fat eggs. But that line made me start reading in the car on the way home from the bookstore. (Fear not…my beloved hubby was driving.) Supper that night consisted of frozen pizza, because I could pop that into the oven while holding the book up to my nose.

Towelhead, Alicia Erian
“My mother’s boyfriend got a crush on me, so she sent me to live with my daddy.”

I closed the book, took a deep breath to stop the room from spinning, and made a beeline for the cash register. On that particular day I was alone in the bookstore, and was responsible for driving myself home, so I did the only thing I could do: I sat in my car and read for an hour, reluctantly marked my page, rushed home (ignoring the speed limit laws), made sandwiches for supper, then read until I had finished the book.

And so I am nervous about my own first lines/paragraphs/pages. What if, after pouring my heart, gut, soul and brain into what turns out to be a damn fine novel, no one ever reads it because my first line sucks big fat eggs…or at least fails to grip?

Note Mr. Taylor’s advice:

If you’re stuck on the first paragraph, bag it. Write down, “First paragraph goes here,” leave a space, then write “Second Paragraph” and start there. Be prepared to skip over anything that tries to keep you stuck. Save that part until later. The answer will likely become obvious later on when you’ve done more writing and know more about the thing you’re creating.

So, I can tell you all that my official first line of my 2007 NaNoNovel will be:

“Ingenious first line to appear here later.”

NaNoWriMo, Nutella, Hyphens and Socks. But not at the same time.

/ R.J. Keller / 12 Comments

I’m doing my best to get excited for NaNoWriMo. I really am. But I have a problem:

I’ve outlined my novel already. I know–pretty much–what’s going to happen from start to finish. And that makes me feel like my writing is going to be a Paint-By-Numbers thing.

I hate that.

So between now and November 1st I have to figure out if I want to write my outlined novel, and work at making it fun and fresh, or if I want to pull an idea out of my ass, like I did last time, and see where it takes me.

Hey, it worked last time.

By the way, here is my writing buddy Elle’s blog. She likes hyphens, Nutella and long walks on the beach. (Actually, I’m guessing about the beach walking.) She’s from South Africa, and I sometimes wonder about her accent. How does a South African accent sound? I’m from Maine, so–naturally–I don’t have an accent, and that makes me curious about people who do. One day her novels will knock your socks off; assuming you’re wearing socks at the time, which I highly recommend.