Hemingway was right (& I finished my novel)

The first draft of anything is shit. Hemingway.

So why am I quoting the great one? Well, I finished my novel…after a fashion.

First things first. I finished my motherfucking novel!! WHOOP WHOOP!

Ahem. Let me define ‘finished’ before I get too carried…oh my god I fucking finished it!…away.

So, it’s not finished, not really. As a first draft, it’s done, but there are sections that need rewriting, some chopped, others need finishing. That’s obviously the nature of a draft, but there’s some serious work to be done. Nonetheless, it has a start, middle and end. There is a clear set of events (the plot) and story. The characters are distinctive enough (for now).

I could describe all the things I reckon are wrong, need changing etc, but that will come in time with rewrites. For now, I’m just going to bathe in the celebratory glow, albeit briefly, and reflect on what I’ve gained and learnt from the experience.

This all started out of a NaNoWriMo, and just kept going. To persevere to the end really was something, if I’m honest, and I found myself pleasantly surprised at how much I looked forward to writing more and more.

I found an appreciation for simplicity and action. Too often I ended up in sections that merely described the characters going from one place or another. These were hard to write, and often fizzled out. Once I introduced a sense of action, or tension, then it became easier to write, and much more enjoyable.

Planning out the plot ahead of time made it possible. I did very little character background, inventing it as I went, or relying on brief descriptions. I wrote little world creation, again developing as I went. I didn’t write in chapters, I wrote in sections, with strands of events occurring before moving onto the next. That all help make the writing simpler for me. There’s a trade off that there’s probably more I’ll need to work on, but at least the whole thing is done, and I’ve minimised the risk of endless world building without actually writing.

I’ve learnt how important it is that I like my novel. I enjoyed the story, while accepting it’s flaws. It’s the type of story I would like to read. I think this is why I wanted to persevere.

There’s a way to go. My first job is to get some distance from it. Just get a breather. I want to be clear headed for the rewriting.

My next task will be to read the whole thing all the way through, from start to finish. I won’t make any corrections, or take any notes while I read. Only after I have read a particular section will I take down some notes. Then, I’ll break the story down into clearer sections and, eventually, chapters. This will help me identify the bits I need to rewrite, add or delete, and start the draft process.

So there’s work ahead, but fuck me if I didn’t just write a novel. Yes, it’s shit, but it’s also beautiful. You know people say babies are ugly, but adore them at the same time? I think this is similar…and without the poo and that weird white gunk babies seem to produce (hey, bonus!).

So there it is, my first novel. I’m pleased. I’m proud. And I look forward to the rewrites and watching the book grow.

Holy fuck I really did write a book. Awesome.

Steampunk Dreams

I remembered a dream I had the other night. It was pretty apocalyptic. At the risk of drawing the attention of the NSA, it featured an attack on New York. Someone or something was raining fire or missiles into the city. I was watching from a hill, stood amongst a collection of small wooden houses and gardens. The gardens were slightly unkempt, with vegetable patches and overgrown hanging baskets. The denizens all struck me as slightly hippy types. I watched the city on fire, but I didn’t feel too worried. I think I was vaguely aware I was dreaming.

I was discussing with my LSP (long suffering partner) about meaning in dreams. It’s ordinarily not something I bother about too much; I trust my subconscious knows what it’s doing. In this case though I wondered if the dream was a variation on a theme, indicating a troubled mood. She pointed out I was judging it on the basis of what I could remember, which is very true. I’ll dream interpretation to fake psychics (btw all psychics are frauds, but I don’t want people thinking that I place any trust or veracity in them by not applying the label ‘fake’).

So, getting back to the subject at hand, I’ve been thinking about dreams I can remember, and how they can create sparks of imagination or feeling.

Dreams like the New York one, or a more common staple of mine about tidal waves. I used to have lots of dreams about tidal waves. Giant rising walls of water above me that crashed down, but Ialways  seemed to find ways to get out of the way.  This usually entailed defying las of physics – I guess you can do whatever in dreams.

I remembered one vivid dream bordering on nightmare, where I was being hunted by the T1000 (from Terminator 2). In slasher film style no matter where I ran he would appear in front of me. Few of my dreams evoke fear, but this one did, with a sense of helplessness. I even remember that the fear was not directly about getting caught, but a Matrix-like fear of ‘if I die in the dream will that mean I don’t wake up?’. 

The most vivid dream I can recall though was of a giant lake. It was either early morning or close to sunset, with the Dun reflecting off the water. Floating above the lake was a giant steam driven ship. I even named it in my dream, the Behemoth. I saw that I was stood on an island, surrounded by lots of small steam driven automatons and machines. The grass was cut neat and fine, like a putting green in top notch golf course. A little steam train ran on its tracks.

There have been lots of others I remember of course. I merely cite these as examples. The apocalyptic visions of fire and tidal waves help fuel my imagination for writing. That fear of dying in my dream helps me evoke similar fear in stories. At least, it helps me know what my writing should read like. 

And the steampunk. It wa beautifully vivid – I haven’t done it justice in describing the level of detail I saw and remember. That dream actually gave me the idea for a book, which I may sometime come to write. I’m actually thinking about it for the NaNoWriMo this year.

So dreams maintain a potency for the imagination. I don’t write that thinking it’s some new revelation – people have written about dreams for centuries – but in my own writing journey it’s an influence, a very personal one, on my thoughts. I’ll leave the interpretation to others, and make use of the good material.