Today, I finally began my novel, MOTHER. I'm throwing out expectation as well as I can and writing for the finish line--almost literally, as part of the National Novel Writing Month competition. Suzy Vitello (already a novelist) and Tim Sailer (fellow blogger and actor) are my "buddies," whose word counts I check hourly. Suzy is way ahead at the moment. Tim is 50 words behind. I know Suzy is working from an extensive outline and oodles of information about what makes a plot tick. I'm working from memory, wishful thinking, vengeance and a dab of elemental prurience. I don't know what Tim is working from--he'll have to let me know.
I had a rude awakening today when I began. I have a title, characters, a basic situation, and little more. I wrote a first sentence, which seemed to hold some deductive and inferential promise (if I can deduce the entire novel from the first sentence, so much the better!) The sentence I chose is six words long, including a proper noun. Unfortunately, this proper noun did not belong to any of the characters who are at the center of my story. This seemed worrisome for a moment. But then, after mixing and adding freely traits from at least three people I tangled with in the distant past, I realized I was fine: stories can start anywhere, and with anyone. And so I'm off, covering a whole lot of narrative ground from a swooping god's eye view, but what the hell. If it's worth anything, I can touch feet to ground when the first draft is done and go beating the episodic bushes then. Hell man, I LIKE narrative. It's one of the glories of the novel.
I have some serious catch up to do tomorrow.
Tuesday Update: Holy toledo, I'm writing drivel!