I just discovered that Tania Sanchez, the co-author of "Perfumes: The Guide", participated in this year's National Novel Writing Month. This makes me happy. I'm not sure why. Tania, if you happen to stumble onto this blog, did you write about perfume? My book has not a single word about the subject. And, of course, congratulations for making it to the finish line!
It occurs to me that discovering that Tania Sanchez, whom I adore from afar, was participating in the same activity as I was during the month of November makes me feel like we are close in some way. I don't mean "close" in some creepy, stalking way, but close in that knowing she did NaNoWriMo, too, makes her more of a real person to me. Of course, I knew that she was (and is) a real person, but there is something unreal about celebrity crushes.
Everything I write makes me sound like a stalker. I've written about Tania's husband, Luca Turin, in my post "I finally found a hero of sorts". I got a thank you e-mail from him, which was most gracious.
So, these are real people, living their lives, just like the rest of us. They certainly have a larger collection of perfume in their household than the rest of us. And neither of them, I'm sure, judge scents with phrases like "I dunno what this smell is" or variations of "I don't know much about perfume but I know what I like" that are inherent in many of my assessments.
Then again, maybe even the finest nose has "I dunno" moments.
Painting note: Amazingly, I've just spent fifteen minutes trying to find out who painted this portrait of Catherine de Medici, with no luck at all. I obtained the jpg on Wikipedia Commons, where it said nothing. Google searches supplied me with more pics, but no info. Most odd.
I'm glad I went on this search, for I wound up at a delightful site, The Racous Royals, where I learned we can hold Catherine responsible for corsets and high heels.
I was trying to remember why I wanted a painting of Catherine de Medici at the top of this post and couldn't. It was only this: I Profumi di Firenze says that they were "inspired by original 16th century secret formulas commissioned by Catherine de Medici."
If you made it through the last post, I congratulate you on your perserverance.
In the somewhat clear light of day, I thought of deleting it, but it's staying. I do sometimes go on late night quiz taking sprees, though not often (thankfully). Only this time, I tell the tale.
When I started this blog, I didn't want it to be a diary of my daily life. I did want to write about my life, but only if it related in some way to the topic at hand, or illustrated some point. Fragrance reviews spawned memories. Politics triggered forgotten ideals. Having trouble zipping up my jeans got me thinking about the beauty standard.
You get the picture.
The blogging bug hit me hard. I started reading other personal blogs, which I admit, I hadn't done much, as I mostly read big popular political ones like Andrew Sullivan's (which I spent an inordinate amount of time doing during the election season).
His readership is so large that he doesn't allow comments. Sure, I'd e-mail him once in a while, but why I bothered is beyond me. We weren't having a conversation. He's a superstar in the blogosphere.
Now, I'm enjoying blogging even more, though perhaps my original intent has been blunted. See, what I'm writing right now is off my original base. This post is about blogging, and my thoughts about it. Why should I bother? Why should you bother reading it, for that matter?
I go back and forth about this. I like that I'm normalizing my blog, on the one hand, for occasionally filling out some set of meme questions or taking silly tests and posting their results is just plain ol' fun. On the other hand, I wonder, why aren't I writing about something important?
Well, I'm just not up to it every day. I'd prefer to post often, instead of waiting until I have a good idea. I love blogs that update frequently, but that's me. I suppose that's why I could do NaNoWriMo: "It's all about quantity, not quality!"
If you had told me that I'd come to see the value of that statement in this lifetime, I'd have said it's not possible. I once was a perfectionist, and as I've gotten older, I've let that fall away. Chris Baty says "The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations. . ." High expectations have always been the bane of my existence.
Now, I'm a firm adherent of process over product. If this sounds contradictory to the idea of quantity over quality, it's not. By freeing myself completely from attachment to an outcome, I'm learning, having fun and doing things I would have never thought possible. That's process. The freedom produces quantity.
Painting note: Pablo Picasso "The Dream" 1932 Picasso was the world's second most prolific painter.Morris Katz holds the Guinness World record for #1. But, I couldn't bring myself to post one of his paintings.
I finished writing my novel. Well, that's not exactly true. It needs editing, editing, and more editing. And maybe it is so awful that it's not worth editing. But, I'm done, as far as the challenge goes. Today, I passed the 50,000 word mark. I wrote what seemed like a good last sentence, just as Dick got home, looked at the bottom of my computer screen, and saw that my word count was 50,131. Wow. I am amazed. Now, the hard part starts.
Image note: On the 25th, I get some sort of graphic from NaNoWriMo that says I WON!
Addendum: There it is, my winner badge, right on the sidebar. I think it's attractive. Does it mean I wrote a novel? No, I wrote 50,126 words of a rough draft.
Earlier this evening, our power was out. I sat at the kitchen table and ate my ramen noodles with tofu and egg by candlelight. When I was done, I thought, what shall I do? I only had these little tea lights and they aren't good for reading, no matter how many one uses. So, I used my chopsticks as drumsticks and sang a bunch of songs. I'm not very good at either of these things, but I was having fun.
I used to be self-conscious about my lousy singing. Nowadays, I seem to care little about the things I'm not all that good at. If I enjoy them, I do them. Maybe that's why the nanowrimo is coming fairly easily to me. I'm not judging it. If I wasn't having fun, I'd quit, and I'd say "oh well."
When I told a writing professor I know that I'd been writing 2-4000 words a day, he was impressed. I said, "I didn't say they were good words." And they probably aren't.
But here's the thing: even though I use words like "good" and "bad", it is not a judgment. At least it's not a judgment in the sense of feeling bad about it (there's that word again). I've gotten to this point lately where I feel pretty comfortable with mediocrity or even downright lousiness. When we're kids and we're learning to do new things, we not "good at" the things we do. It's acceptable (to some people). We're kids and we are learning. You don't go from not knowing how to read on day one and being able to read Tolstoy on day two. That is reserved for some very unusual geniuses.
Unfortunately, when I was a child, I was given the message that if one wasn't very good at something, you shouldn't do it. I've written about this before.
I was fortunate to have gone to an Elementary School where, when we were in the fourth grade, we were all asked if we wanted to learn an instrument. It was optional, but in my memory everyone did, though it seemed quite a number of kids picked the triangle. The school gave us an instrument, for free, and also provided free group lessons. Some kids did have lessons at home, which would have to be paid for, but the lessons at school were quite good.
I wanted to learn to play the bass, but I was steered away from that because I was so short, and so I picked the cello. I loved to play. Noone ever had to tell me "Julie, it's time to practice." If it was up to me, I would have played until bedtime and beyond, but my parents didn't want me to play at night.
I loved Bach and struggled hard to try to learn some of his Cello Suites. But I just loved to practice. If it was scales, fine. It didn't matter. The sound of a bowed instrument, a deep one, thrilled me. I was transported. I would completely merge with that cello and its sound. Years after I stopped playing, my childhood friend told me that one time my mother let her in our house and she saw me in my room, playing the cello, and that it scared her. She said I didn't look like a child while I was playing. I was lost in what I was doing and my face was so serious that she left my house without saying a word.
If you were reading carefully, you'd have noticed I said that I stopped playing. There were a few reasons and they aren't happy ones. For one thing, my parents didn't seem to like that I played. I never once heard a thing about my playing from them (except to quit playing at night). Neither of them ever said, "You've improved" or "that sounded good" or anything.
In the orchestra, one was seated according to how good you were. There was 1st, 2nd and 3d cello and all the rest. Well, only three kids played the cello, so I was 3rd. I didn't care. Celloist #1 was a child prodigy who spent half her day out of school studying with someone we heard was famous. She didn't look very happy. And besides, her sister was Violinist #1 and was already playing concerts, so everyone rather thought she was in a tough spot. The second celloist was a gifted young boy, and besides, he was a friend of mine, who seemed to enjoying playing with me at home, even if I wasn't as good as he was. So, I was quite content.
Now, I have to admit I have no memory of my parents saying any particular words, but I knew they thought I was wasting my time. If I couldn't be the best, I shouldn't be doing it. Besides, I had a talent for drawing and I ought to have been doing that. This was the one thing that they were proud of, but they could understand it, because they were both visual artists. Maybe I'd grow up to be more successful then they had been. That's the message I got.
But drawing never gave me the pleasure that playing music did. I loved to draw, but it didn't transport me beyond myself. Sometimes I felt like a peforming monkey because I was talented, and I hated it. When I played music, there were no thoughts of good or bad or talented or not. I was just playing music.
Unfortunately, when grade school was done, the free instruments and lessons ended. That's when the anvil dropped. I was told that I had to choose between renting an instrument and taking lessons. Now, that's not a choice. You can't take lessons if you don't have an instrument, and you can't teach yourself the cello without an instructor (not unless you're a genius, which I plainly was not). So, that was that.
I was given a cheap guitar at the end of the year to make up for things, but classical guitar just didn't cut it for me. It sounded plunky and even when I listened to a master play, it still sounded plunky. So, I wound up being a punk rock guitarist who thought she sucked. Well, that's making a long story short there (which is unusual for me, I know), but you get the idea.
So, these days I'm reveling in doing things badly and enjoying them. There are others who say I shouldn't say I do these things "badly" because I'm putting myself down. I don't agree. I'm being honest. I'm not a novelist and I'm not some genius in the rough. I thought I'd give writing a novel a try and it's good fun. Will I ever get published and get on the best seller list?
I doubt it highly.
I know people have trouble reading my long blog posts. But I'm having a good time and that's what counts. I'm learning a lot, expressing myself freely and even, at times, reveling in doing something I'm not all that good at. So, please, let me say I'm bad at stuff. It feels really good. It feels freeing. There are no expectations when you aren't good.
But I wouldn't mind a little pat on the back once in a while. I wished I had gotten it from my parents when I played the cello. I wouldn't have minded one bit if I grew up to be the very last celloist in some small city somewhere. But no, if I couldn't make it to Carnegie Hall, it was no go. Well, that's a sure fire way to create an underachiever, if you ask me.
Image note: Apocalyptica. Four cellists cover Metallica songs. Once, I was listening to this in my tat shop, when a guy I knew came in. He said, "Turn that classical crap off!" Then he stopped dead, "Is that Enter Sandman?!", he said. The first time I heard it, I couldn't stop laughing. That sounds like a bad review, but it was the cognitive dissonance that got me. Check it out for yourself:
I found the album cover on a sweet little web site made by a young kid (I think). Take a look.
Addendum: Just in case you think I'm a whiner who's still all upset about what my parents did to me (oh, the pain!) I'm not. One remedy for childhood hurts like this is to do them over and be your own parent. Some years ago, I rented a cello and took a lesson. It was fantastic. At the end of the first lesson, I played the first four measures of one of the Bach Suites. And here comes that word: I played it badly. Of course I did! I didn't care a whit. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, my hands were pretty shot from tattooing and I had to leave it at that one lesson. But that was enough. I had parented myself, gave myself permission to try it once again before I dropped dead, and any resentments I still harbored were gone. Well, maybe there's a wee bit. . .
I do feel the need to say this: If you are a parent, if your child is lousy at something and loves it, be happy for them and encourage them with everything you've got.
I've quite a fan of Malcolm Gladwell. I've enjoyed his books and his articles in the New Yorker. I also think he's an interesting character and I'm a sucker for certain types of geeks.
The reason for this quickie post is only this: In his new book, "Outliers", Gladwell writes about success. Gladwell cites a body of research finding that the “magic number for true expertise” is 10,000 hours of practice.
I did some math, which I am not good at (no 10,000 hours there for me). This would require 4.8 years of 40 hours of practice a week. That's no small thing, but it's not outrageous either.
The reason for this post? NaNoWriMo. Writing a novel in a month is not going to make me a novelist. It might, if I was very lucky and some kind of genius. But I am guessing I am neither. Besides, my novel is truly awful. Maybe that's an overstatement, but it's not exactly good. How could it be? I've written over 30,000 pages in less than twelve days. How much thinking do you think went into writing that fast?
It's practice and practice is what people do to become good at something. Practice is also just good practice. Look: I'm a process vs. product kind of person, so I'm enjoying myself. That doesn't make me rich (or even close) but I'm having a good time. Maybe I'll publish a novel in 4.8 years. No, make that 13.7 years (at fourteen hours a week, not forty). Yikes. I should have started writing a bit earlier in life.
Painting note: Gerard Dou Old Woman Reading a Lectionary c.1630 No comment.
No, I didn't quit. Something far more momentous happened. I realized I am writing a novel. Not a fake novel. Not a faux novel. Not a so-called novel.
And not, as the title above says, a "novel".
Furiously writing away for eight days, it was all fun and games. I was playing, as I've written before.
Today, as I edged towards 23,000 words, I realized that I had nothing more to write about except for the ending. I didn't expect to come up with an ending until it was about to end, but I have. It's a good one, too (I think). After all, I am writing a mystery of sorts. I've said "it's not all that mysterious", but a bit of a surprise hit me the other day and I like it. It'll probably take about 3000 words to write that. Herein lies the problem: what do I do with the rest of the 20,000 words I need to finish this novel?
20,000 words, even though they came easily at first, well, they are looking daunting today. I have an urge to write all afternoon, but I'm stopping myself. I choked this morning when I stepped back and thought of myself as the reader of the fine mess I've gotten myself into, and I said to myself, "If your narrator keeps up this babble for too much longer without some plot twist, you're gonna put the book down and that surprise ending will never be revealed." I usually finish books that I've started reading, but if they get boring and they're mysteries, I'll say "who cares who did it?" and toss them aside.
This was starting to shape up to be one of those. Oh no.
I threw a plot twist in the mix today. It isn't much, but it'll spice it up some. It's nothing to jump up and down about because it's totally plausible. My characters are not allowing me to put anything outrageous in there. This, to me, is a good thing. I'm not telling them what to do. They're telling me.
But it's hard. Right now they're being a bit quiet. That narrator still wants to babble about everything and nothing and I'm saying "shut up".
When I realized I was involved in a small battle and that the last 490 words that I wrote was almost painful, I thought, "Huh. I am really writing a novel".
It doesn't matter if it's good or not. I highly doubt it is. But it has life and maybe a bit of truth about life, too. So, if I wind up with only a chapter of good writing when this crazy adventure is all over, I'll be happy. Well, knowing me, that's not exactly true, but. . .
Image note: I learned to type on a montrosity like this. I think it's a beautiful montrosity, but they are hard to type on.
Seeing this made me realize something important. I usually write with rhythm. Even the keys on my laptop make a sound. This blog entry wasn't written that way, for it's more of a piece of self-reporting (I hesitate to use the word "diary" for some reason).
I know that the novel has its own life simply because of this: the narrator has a different rhythm than I do. I can hear it while I'm writing and it's most recognizable. Perhaps that why I can tell when it's off, and I hesitate, for it's not just the words, but the sound. This blog is called "everything is interesting" but y'know, this is really interesting, to me (that is).
Beebopaloola you're my baby, beebopaloola I don't mean maybe, nah-na-nanowrimo you're my b-baby now, my baby now, my baby now. . .my baby now. Dadada da, dada dada. . .
It's 11:00pm exactly. Just closed my Word file. It's day 7 of National Novel Writing Month and I've written 19,275 words. That's approximately 77 pages of a novel.
You may be saying to yourself "That's not much" but I'm astonished. If I had said to myself, "Julie, you must write 77 pages of a novel by Friday night" last Saturday, I would have choked and choked fast. I would have said to myself, "That's impossible. Get off my case." I would have worried that I was crazy.
I may be crazy right now, but it's a good crazy, something that Ta-Nehisi Coates, my new breakfast blog must-read wrote about earlier in the week.
I'm writing a murder mystery. It's not particularly mysterious, but it may have a surprise ending, which is a surprise to me. I wasn't sure who dunnit when I started, decided who did do it on Wednesday, and came up with a different idea this afternoon, one that grabbed onto my leg with teeth and couldn't shake off.
This is fun. It's play time here in my living room, where I sit on the sofa with my laptop and type away. These characters have become my friends and their world is completely real to me. I drew a map of where they all live, named the towns and the major roads and where some important landmarks are. I started with one character (and a dead one, who doesn't say much), no motive and pretty much no idea of where I was going with this. It's improv, pure and simple. Suddenly, new actors are appearing on the stage and doing things I didn't expect. It was supposed to be a one-woman play and now I can't keep things under control.
When this thing is over, I'll have a mess on my hands. As the plot thickens, I see I'm going to have to go back and change things people said, times and dates and all sorts of details. But maybe not too much. After all, people lie, or don't remember things all too well.
I do need to know some hard facts. The way the dead guy died, well, I don't know how they could've determined it was a murder. So, I need to ask a doctor. I want to know the blood gas levels and all sorts of stuff like that. Do I need to? I'm not sure.
I've got police reports that are probably ridiculous and psych evaluations that are missing all sorts of important information, like a plausible diagnosis (but for who, I'm not telling).
I thought this stuff would hang me up, but I figured, go ahead and write it and fix it later. It's working for me.
This is like cooking without a recipe and with ingrediants I don't know much about. One big beautiful mess of a stew. Will it be edible? I have no idea, but it sure is a blast cooking it up.
Photo note: Not quite the scene of the crime, but close.
Addendum: Can't sleep, my brain's on fire (fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa, fa fa). Tried to read reach the 20,000 word mark before I went retired for the evening. Not that I ever retire for the evening, but. . .I fell short by 475 words.
It was fitting that "Psycho Killer" just happens to contain the words, "Can't sleep, my brain's on fire". And yes, I know that the "fa fa fa fa fa" part is not directly after that line, but I don't remember what is, and it's time for bed, not googling lyrics. Good Night.
If you look at my NaNoWriMo gadget on the right (somewhere, just scroll down), you'll see, if you've looked at it before, that I eliminated the message "Here's where you can see if you should tease me, congratulate me or ________" I forgot what the third option was.
The updater isn't working this evening, but my word count is now 12,07813,12914,614. Giving myself a pat on the back for fourfive day's worth of so-called "work". Hey, it's a so-called novel. So-called work, as opposed to real work, makes sense to me.
This is just too much fun.
And I have no doubt I'll hit the 50,000 goal by the deadline, unless some aliens land and take away my computer or cut off my hands. Ooh, sorry for the last image, but I'm leaving it. You see, participating in this writing adventure is causing me to write the oddest things, and then just leaving them there.
But, I had always done that. No wonder I'm finding the 1667 words per day goal achievable. Once upon a time, I was a perfectionist. I've left that in the dust.
Image note: Another strategy to stop crazed writer from writing.
Addendum: Until my next post, I will continue striking out dates and old word counts. Hope I post something soon. I will, no doubt. And I thought that while I was doing NaNoWriMo that I wouldn't blog too much. Between typing up fake medical transcripts, the pseudo-novel and this, the muscle in my right forearm is sore. That better not get any worse or I'll be slowed down, and I am feeling like an express train that skips those dinky little towns. Wave to the empty platform! Bye-bye! (What is she writing about? Has she lost her mind?)
I assumed that I'd be posting about the fact that Barack Obama is now our President-elect on Wednesday, November 5th, 2008.
But no, instead I'm giving you a NaNoWriMo update: 2061 words today, 10061 total. That means I am a little over 1/5th of the way done. If it took me four days to write 10,000 words, then it'll take me, theoretically, 16 more days to finish, so this means I'm golden. But I'm going to need more than 50,000 words, the way this story is shaping up. My narrator is a blabber mouth who will not stick to the topic. She may be too boring for anyone to want to stick with, but I will stick with her to the potentially bitter end.
On the reality front, I am too tired and too stunned to write intelligently. I wasn't sure I could concentrate on my schoolwork, either, so I put on my bathrobe and played with the novel. Notice: today I was able to write the word novel without a self-deprecating indicator. However, I did write the word played instead of worked. But, it wasn't work, so why should I call it that?
I hope to be able to write about the election results and how I felt last night, but I just can't do it today. Maybe I'll feel differently later on, but I suspect I may be asleep. I can't stay up past 2:00am and drink champagne without feeling like crap the next day. Ah, this is one area in which I miss my earlier self!
Painting note: Vermeer "Woman Receiving note from Writing Buddy" 1667-1668
For the real name of this painting, click the Vermeer link.
I'm still not giving out a link to National Novel Writing Month's website, 'cause it's still having problems. Even my word count meter is loading slowly, if it's loading at all. So, in the spirit of my being a crowing bit of a jerk, here's today's word count: 2316 for the day (so far) and 8879 total. I didn't realize I was so competitive. This is great motivation for me, and honestly, I did not expect that.
Tomorrow, I'm going to be an official poll watcher for part of the day. I also have other things to do than sit in my bathrobe pretending I'm someone else.
I'm sure I will write about politics tomorrow. I can't believe the election is finally here. Yeah, I know other people voted early, and I could have, too, but to me, voting is on the first Tuesday in November. Actually, for some reason I've always had it in my mind that voting is on November 4th. Is the presidential election always on November 4th? I feel quite stupid, and I am not googling this and pretending I did know the answer.
Ah, well, Rush Limbaugh said I dumb on the radio today. He said even worse, actually.
ADDENDUM: I was curious about what some other NaNoWriMo's participants in my state were up to and the first post on the message board showed that someone had written 12,000 or so words already. I was awe struck. Then I got to post number four or so and see someone claims 43,000 words (plus some). Now, I may be competitive, but really, isn't that a bit insane? Maybe these people are on Adderall. I hear it's good for writing term papers. . .
I'm not going to give you a link to the National Novel Writing Month's website because it is not operating properly. There's a time countdown (29 days and six hours or so left), but the "collective word count" is 0.
So, I'm not pleased because I wanted to upload what I've wrote, all 2,253 words of it, and see my meter go up. Boo hoo!
I'm not above giving myself a pat on the back for doing my bit today. I've now got an imaginary bunch of towns in Maine, a few characters and a start. I did it!
If any other nanowrimo's know what's going on with the site, please tell me! When I can access the page where one uploads words for the official count, the field just won't work. Everything else does (but as slow as molasses). Help!
Anyway, day one went well. Hooray!
Update: 10:42pm The word count is now 3127. Still can't upload it to NaNoWriMo.
