Nanowrimo 2007

The National Novel Writing Month looms ever closer as the end of October rapidly approaches. The project began some eight or nine years ago when a small group of writers in the Bay Area, led by Chris Baty, started the site where anyone can write a novel of at least 50,000 words in the month of November. Let me do the math for you - approximately 1700 words per day for the entire month.

The objective is to turn off the internal editor and let the words flow until a minimum of 50,000 words is reached. At the end of the month the partipant has the what I think of as the equivalent of Michelangelo's 17 ton block of granite from which he liberated, David, one the finest pieces of sculpture ever created. From your first draft, written in November, the sky is the limit, as they say, as to what you do with that piece.

I have completed four novels in the past five years at Nano. Two of them have been published and are available for purchase: Sofie, the Queen of Oakland, and The Marker.

Two others are sitting on my hardrive waiting for the grueling re-writing and editing process that I so expertly shy away from. This process for the two book published has taken about three years, for the two books.

Now I'm faced with another Nano and, as in the past, an idea came to me this morning from out of the blue while on the treadmill. It involves a weaving of stories from my family (write what you know), but with major doses of fiction, setting changes, and times and name changing.

My greatgrandfather received a head injury and was institutionalized. He would sneak home and be with my greatgrandmother long enough to produce my grandfather. Eventually news from the institution was he was killed in a train accident. No one questioned the death and many years later he was discovered, still alive, tending the gardens at the institution.

My mother was a Rosie the Riveter during WWII. She took a troop train to Oakland when her husband-to-be sent for her and when she arrived they were married.

My father was a welder-pipefitter in the Oakland Shipyards during WWII.

Both were born and raised in the '30's and '40's in Oklahoma. Neither were college educated.

Somewhere there's a story that when completed would not mirror these events; but would include them. A love story entailing loss and tragedy and hard work and continual struggles to keep going; and in the end a treasure for all the world. Or something like that.

Most Recent Edit Completed

As you can see from the previous posting, the "final edit" was completed and shipped off on September 19th. When it arrived, I was elated; but by the time I read to approximately page ten, I was deflated. This seems to happen frequently. I re-write and edit and proof, then rewrite and edit and proof; then ship it off only to find, when it comes in, that there are errors everywhere. My first book, Sofie, the Queen of Oakland, went through approximately 17 revisions at the publisher. The final - final is simply my last ditch effort. There are still errors and things that could/should be corrected, modified, modulated, smoothed over, left out. Too fucking bad.

So I offer the following with trepidation, here and now on this 28th day of October, 2007: The hopefully last and final edit of The Marker was completed today. and shipped off to the publisher. This editing is a joy for some people, but it is a long and harrowing ordeal for others. I fall into the latter category.

Still, I think this novel shows considerable improvement in my writing skills. There are some things about it that bother me; but overall, it's pretty good. I should have probably had the knife experience Viet Nam. It would have been interesting to do the research and the writing (but not the editing), but I'm too far along with the psychology involved in writing a book like this.

Here's an excerpt:

On the horizon, flaming reds, golds, and orange light streaked through a cluster of low clouds backlighting them with glistening golden threads. While red-winged blackbirds chirped in the cattails near the river, the blazing colors from the horizon reflected off Manchester’s head causing it to look as though it contained a raging fire.

“Please, Mr. Wheatley, I’m sorry for the transgressions. Please, spare me boy, I have a wife and children back at the mansion. What will they do without me?”

Wheatley pulled harder on the rope. “Tell Him, Asshole.” Wheatley pointed his revolver to the sky. “Tell the Lord about your sins,” Wheatley spat the words. “I already know what they are.”

He begged for mercy, and between sobs said the words Wheatley wanted to hear, “Lord, Oh God, please forgive me for the sins I committed with the children.”

“Tell Him all of it.”

“For mistreating them, eating in front of them when they were hungry, for beating them when they made me mad.” The sorrowful hulk of the spent and bloodied man, sitting in a saddle with a rope about his neck, naked with dried blood about his face and shoulders, looked toward heaven and said, “Please God, have mercy.”

“Tell it all,” screamed Wheatley, cinching the rope tighter around Manchester’s neck, and tying it around the tree’s trunk. “I want to hear all of it, you sad bastard. Tell it or I’ll shoot you in the fuckin’ head right now!” he yelled, his revolver aimed at Manchester’s head.

“Last chance.” Wheatley cocked the revolver.

“For the times I had . . . intercourse . . . with the children.”

“Name one, you son-of-a-bitch! Name one!”

He turned his head slowly and looked his tormentor in the face. “You, you little bastard, you, Charles Wheatley.”