Outline Completed!

The outline for my first novel is complete! 44 chapters and an estimated 96,000 words of a novel. It is funny because I feel like I’ve accomplished something great and I really want to celebrate, but I don’t think anyone would really understand. I am discovering that writing is difficult because it is so solitary.

My methodology for writing has some very defined milestones. The outline was a huge milestone because it frees me up to actually write the novel. Now I only need to focus on 2,000 words at a time. Each section of the outline describes a chapter, which is around 2,000 words. Some chapters are estimated at 3,000 words because they need to cover a lot material. The next step is to sit down and focus on one chapter at a time.

The first thought that came to my mind when I completed the outline was “if I were to write a novel, this is how it would flow”. This is exactly what I like to read. The manipulation of the protagonist and the antagonist. The reoccurring themes. The events that happen early in the story appearing quite significantly at the end. The build up to the finale. The finale being such a huge event that it is like the last few minutes of a fireworks show.

Yes, this is exactly the type of story I like to read.

Now I just need to do it justice by filing in the details.

44 small milestones to go…

Distracted…

I am under the firm belief that DARPA or Al Gore, whichever one it was, created the internet for the sole purpose of preventing aspiring writers from finishing their first book. Hold on a minute – just got another email I NEED to check RIGHT NOW….

I have read a lot about writing. One of the most common reasons of why someone cannot write is that they cannot find the time to write. The most common response to this is to “make time to write”, but I think that response misses the issue entirely.

If someone is posting in a writer’s forum that they do not have time to write, then the issue isn’t having the time to write. The issue is that there are too many distractions. Obviously the writer has time to write – he is writing in a forum!

And there is the complete dichotomy of the writer versus the market for writers. If you spend all of your time reading about writing and how to write, then you are not spending the time actually writing. Yes, I realize that statement will not have Writer’s Digest pounding on the door begging for my insights on writing, but there it is.

At some point you need to stop learning and start doing, because doing also helps you learn.

Then there is the issue of the interwebz. The Great Distractor. You can’t just turn it off. I need the internet while writing, as I am sure most writers also need it. I need Webster.com, I need my name generators for inconsequential character names, sometimes I just need to look up the speed of light, how long it takes for a dog to digest a human bone, or how long would it take for a body to completely decompose in a tropical climate (no, you shouldn’t ask).

So, in the spirit of all drinking games, I’ve made up the following game that should help any writer from straying down the dark path of internet distractions. However, we’re not going to be drinking. Slight rule change in order to promote what psychologists call “negative reinforcement”.

The first thing you need to do is take off any footwear. Shoes, socks, slippers or whatever else you have on your foot. If you’ve played this game before you can keep your cast on (you will just need to play harder).

You need to follow the scoring of this game exactly as is. Trust me, the only parts of your body you need are your hands, your brain, and some gushy stuff in your chest that will keep the other stuff working.

Here are the rules:

1 – Every time you check your email you need to kick the leg of the desk or table you are sitting at as hard as you can one time. Don’t wimp out. Kick the snot out of it. Go ahead, rediscover Newton’s Third Law of Physics and verify it still applies.

2 – Every time you check a social media site you need to kick the leg of the desk or table you are sitting at as hard as you can twice. Yes, you can use both feet if you want. This includes Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, etc. Again, don’t hold back. Make sure what you are kicking is still there and didn’t disappear. If your eyes ain’t sweating, you didn’t kick hard enough.

3 – Every time you look at any website that does not pertain to what you are writing you need to kick the leg of the desk or table you are sitting at as hard has you can three times. At this point, you are encouraged to use both feet. It’s up to you which foot gets to kick twice. This is the interesting rule because if you find yourself looking at something that doesn’t pertain to your writing you can still save yourself by incorporating it into your writing. I am sure that is what other authors do, which is why you will read a great science fiction novel and wonder why a cat was every brought into space. I am sure this is what E. L. James did when writing the book 50 Shades of Grey, which was actually supposed to be a rip-off of Interview With a Vampire, but she got distracted and looked at some nasty websites while writing.

4 – If you ever decide to read a web-fiction serial instead of writing during your writing time you need to kick the leg of the desk or table you are sitting at as hard as you can four times. With the same foot. This is the ultimate sin because you will never return to your writing. Even if you do you will start writing like the author you were reading. Damn you, web-fiction writers! They are the worst! They are the ultimate drug dealers in this digital age. They suck you in with their free stories that go on and on and on. Next thing you know its 3:00AM, your eyes hurt from being opened so long, and you’ve completely forgotten what you were supposed to be writing about.

So there are the rules to the Writer’s Game.

If you can make time for writing, then you can also make time for reading and surfing the internet. Just keep those times separated. Surf the internet while you are in the emergency room waiting to get your foot X-rayed. Write when you get home and the pain medication takes you to that “special place”.

Generator Land

Here is a site I found a while back that is just fun to play on: 

http://www.generatorland.com/blog/index.php/sample-page/

It is a list of generators for all sorts of stuff. If you are unfamiliar with generators, then check the site out for fun. 

One of my favorites is the Charlie Sheen Catch Phrase Generator, which produces gems such as:

• I can swallow sharks and I regurgitate religion
• I spit like hatred and I screw like razor blades
• I chew up genius and I rock like saints
• I have M-16 rocket fuel
• I rage on like sharks and I can swallow fire balls

The Consumer Confidence Index Generator spews out tons of phrases that you would here on CNBC that describes how consumers feel:

• Aggressive Confusion
• Savage Belief
• Abject Distrust
• Worried Desperation

But my absolute favorite is the Misfit Toy Generator: 

• Erma the Suicidal Weeble
• Abraham the Sarcastic Teddy Bear
• Benito the Sexually Ambiguous Tinker Toy
• Shelly the Spiteful Etch-A-Sketch
• Edwin the Unpleasant Rocking Horse

Why?

I put The Plan out there for all to read. So now everyone knows where I am going. At least for now. Who knows that the years will bring? Who knows if The Plan will be successful? Who knows if I’ll change The Plan a half million times?

The important thing is that I have a plan and I am working towards it.

So what is the purpose of this blog? What is the purpose of my barely coherent scribbles? How does this fit into The Plan?

This blog has multiple purposes. First and foremost, it is a place to allow me to scribble. It is important to keep writing, even if that writing has nothing to do with anything. Writing these stupid, simple, meaningless blurbs of nothingness keeps me writing, editing, rewriting, and editing some more, etc.

Writing is easy. Writing without mistakes, incoherent sentences, grammar errors, etc., is difficult and requires practice.

There are a couple of other reasons for this blog. Someday, and this day may never come, someone I do not know will read a novel that I haven’t written yet and become emotionally attached to the story. They won’t be able to put the book down. When they are done reading it they will want more.

That person, and there may be only one of them that ever exists, will be A Fan. In the search for “more”, I hope that fan finds this blog and reads my drivel to see where it all came from. Of course, that person may no longer be A Fan once they realize that I am shooting all of this directly out of my arse.

This blog is for them.

And the last reason is for the person who wants so badly to write something but doesn’t know where to start. You have an idea. You can see the scenes in your head. You know the characters so well that they talk to you in their own voice. The stories in your mind are no different than memories. You feel the love, pain, anguish, joy, and despair that your characters feel.

This blog is for you.

This blog will detail the struggles I have experienced while planning, writing, and editing my novels, stories, and various other drivels. One week you will read about how I go through the planning process, the next week you will read a poem about my pug. Occasionally you will gain some insight as to what a writer goes through. Most likely you will read what I write and be understandably upset that you have wasted ten minutes of your life that will never be regained.

Regardless of whom you are, your station in life, your desires, or reasons, this blog is ultimately for you.

Enjoy!

Why I Didn’t Win

I lost.

If you read yesterday’s post and you read Exquisite Loss, then you will understand this post.

I didn’t win the writing contest for a simple reason: I didn’t write a story.

What is a story? If you ask five authors or teachers that question you will get eight different answers. Some will discuss the story structure – it must have a beginning, middle, and end. Some will talk about the plot – there needs to be a defined plot. Others will even discuss the need for the main character to change.

Exquisite Loss has none of these things. The entire purpose of the story was to invoke an emotion. I think I succeeded in that. However, there was not structure, plot, or change in character. Therefore, it was not a story.

It’s funny how the human mind works. It can tell when something is wrong even when the person cannot define what it is that is wrong. Long ago a music teacher told me that every song needs to end on a certain note. I don’t remember the exact note, but I think it was the first note of the song.

To prove this, he played a bunch of tunes and ended before playing the last note. Listening to the tunes without the last note was like standing at the top of a long stairway. Your body expects you to take the first step down and actually leans forward in anticipation. Listening to those tunes made my ear lean forward, waiting for the last note. My mind knew the song was not complete.

Stories are the same way. You can read something, but if it doesn’t have structure, plot, or character change, your mind recognizes that something is missing.

That is what I learned by losing. 

Why Didn’t I Win?

Eddie doesn’t write romance stories. That’s the rule. The rule shall not be broken. 

With that said, I wrote a sappy story. It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t go out and say “Hey, let’s write a romance story.” 

There was a contest on a writer’s forum. I won’t name the forum because, in my opinion, there are some very odd people on those forums. The forum has a weekly writing contest where the subject is a single word or phrase provided by the previous winner. 

The week I entered the word was “exquisite”. Once I read the word the entire story flashed in front of me. It’s funny how that happens. I assume it happens to everyone. A complete memory embedded in your mind. 

The trick is getting it on paper. 

So I wrote it out, had it read by my wife and mother-in-law (aka: the Cruise Director and My Drinking Buddy), had it reviewed by The Teacher for grammar issues (thank you so much L!), and away it went. 

Four other stories were submitted. And this was when I discovered that the other aspiring writers are… odd. 

One story was about a magic ring. The concept was good, but it needed a lot of work and was difficult to read. 

One story was about a soldier in a desert who was carrying something exquisite, but it suffered from the same problem my story did (we’ll touch on that later). 

One story was about a boy who got insulted by a girl at a camp and essentially stalked her just to see her nude body. This was when I started to realize that there was something wrong with the people who were submitting these stories. 

The last story was about a teenage boy who sits in his room all day and plays video games and masturbates. He takes some really good drugs, stares at a van Gogh and then hangs himself. This is the story that actually won the contest. It is also the story that I found the most disturbing, not just because it won, but because the most people voted for it. That spoke volumes about the other authors on the forum. 

I personally liked the soldier in the desert story. But it was missing something. And what it was missing taught me a lot. 

The question is this – can you find what is missing in my story? Read it and think about it. Tomorrow I’ll let you in the secret I learned. 

To read Exquisite Loss, clicky clicky here. 

Exquisite Loss

Interior of a Restaurant by Vincent van Gogh

Macaire was late. 

He opened the door of the carriage before the driver had a chance to fully stop and open the door for him. He didn’t like disappointing her but couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing so. He rushed up the stairs to the door that the Maître D’ opened to hurry him in. As he stepped through the threshold, hands took hold of his coat and hat. They knew who he was and his weekly routine, thus they didn’t bother with the niceties of shallow greetings out of fear of his verbal reprisals. 

Macaire was late and the look on his face expressed it. The staff knew better than to slow him. 

As he stepped past the coatroom and looked into the main dining room he still held a glimmer of hope that she, too, was also late. It was a hollow hope that was dashed when he saw her at their table, the table they ate at every week. She had a glass of wine, a Pinot from his own vineyard, but it was barely touched. He knew he couldn’t judge how long she had been waiting from the amount of wine gone from the glass. 

He rushed to the table and feebly thought of explanations to tell her. He could explain to her the issues with the vineyard, the slow progress the workers were making removing vines infected with black rot. His quick anger was known and showed itself today in an argument with his eldest son. He didn’t have time to micromanage every aspect of the business, but his son needed to show a heavier hand with the workers. 

He could try to explain to her the problems he was having distributing the wine. The buyers from across the border into Germany were not purchasing in the quantities they used to. With the new leader and constantly changing laws it was difficult to maintain the profits he had seen in the past. 

In his focus to get across the restaurant to her a waiter almost ran into him. The waiter excused himself and Macaire could hear the English accent in his voice. A flash of anger rose inside Macaire at the thought of the finest restaurant in Hettange employing an uncouth Englishman, regardless of his ability to speak French. He didn’t slow his pace or respond to the waiter as he continued to walk. He simply kept an eye on him until her reached his table. He couldn’t mask the anger that was clearly visible on his face.

When he reached the table he glanced down to his wife. He could try to explain a dozen different reasons to excuse his tardiness, but he knew none of it mattered. He was late and had kept her waiting. And in that moment the disappointment with himself broke his own heart. 

Her dark hair was tied and braided into a single rope that was brought forward over her right shoulder. Her purple dress spoke of nobility yet did not border on the gaudiness that a younger woman would have worn. The necklace her mother and grandmother had worn was, as always, around her neck and she wore the bracelet from Paris he had given her so many years ago. 

He always saw her as he did when she was young and didn’t notice the greying of her hair or the slight wrinkles of age. He had made her wait and the sorrow of such an act hung heavily on his face. 

“What is wrong?” she asked when she looked up at him. 

He took her hand into his and said, “I need to ask a beautiful woman to dance and I fear her rejection. “

She stood and he led her to the dance floor where a few other couples were slowly dancing. He pulled her close and took in the light smell of her perfume. “I am sorry, my love” he whispered into her ear. 

“There is no need to be,” she responded. “The business is important. I know the struggles you have.”

She was so understanding, so gentle to him. If there was a temperament that was exactly opposite of his, his wife embodied it perfectly. When he was quick to anger, she was quick to reconcile. When he had nothing but harsh words, she would speak the most gentle.  She never angered with him, or at least showed any anger toward him. 

And because of that, disappointing her devastated him. 

“Adeline, you are too good to me. The vineyard should never keep you waiting. I should never keep you waiting. You deserve better than that. You deserve better than me.”

She stopped dancing and held his face in her hands. He lost himself in her eyes. “My love,” she started softly, “a man who strives to love better is better than a man who believes he loves enough.” She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. 

Macaire felt a thick lump grow in his throat and he held her closer. He tried as hard as he could to hold back the emotion and the effort made his chest quiver. He finally gave in and let the tears flow freely down his cheeks as he held her tighter. He didn’t care who saw him, how many eyes stared at him. To feel love to the core of your soul eclipsed any feeling of shame or embarrassment. 

“Your love is more exquisite than any man deserves,” he managed to say with a cracked voice. 

As the song came to an end, Macaire and Adeline made their way back to their table. As they sat back down and the waiter started them on their meal. Confit de canard followed the beginning entree of quiche. The braised duck was perfectly done, as it always was. After the main entree was completed the waiter brought a plate with Camembert and bread. The soft cheese was a perfect match with the Pinot. For dessert, small Madeleine cakes were offered. 

While the meal was perfectly done, it paled in comparison to Macaire’s wife, Adeline. And her beauty, while beyond compare, felt insignificant next to the depth of his love for her. 

He reached across the table and held her hand in his. He tore his gaze from her eyes to look at her hand. He closed his eyes to take it all in – the sound of her voice, the smell of the food, the warmth of love flowing through his veins. 

When he opened his eyes she wasn’t there. 

He sat on a broken chair in a restaurant that had been destroyed four years earlier. Two walls were crumbled, allowing a view of the cold grey street outside. The building across the street was also destroyed in the initial bombing of the German invasion. 

A rain had started while Macaire was sitting at the table dreaming of his lost wife. The water dripping all around him drowned out the sounds of the American troops that were yelling at him from the opening in the wall. “Go home!” they yelled at him in English. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

He looked up at them and, in an age past, would have felt his anger rise at the thought of an uncouth American even peering into the finest restaurant in Hettange. Another army of the uncivilized, he thought. They all call themselves liberators, but they all only took what they wanted and left what remained in ruin. 

His anger didn’t rise. Those days were long gone. His quick anger was replaced by constant anguish. 

Home? Home was where Adeline made her presence. Home was where his sons worked. Home was the vineyard that had been in his family for generations. 

Home was lost, burned, and destroyed by war. But the loss of everything he owned and loved was nothing. That was not the root cause of his anguish. 

He was late and had kept her waiting. And in that moment the disappointment with himself broke his own heart. He never made it to the restaurant on the night the bombings began. 

He missed the last opportunity to feel her exquisite love.