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The Course of Words

One-third short

Hats off to the organizers of National Novel Writing Month. This group began in 1999 with 21 participants who challenged one another to write 50,000 words of a novel (which makes for a short but complete novel, Gatsby length) in 30 days. The month chosen is November. The word count is conducted electronically via the Web site. That your draft is more than “All work and no play make Jack a dull boy” pasted repeatedly is on the honor system.

I heard about it two autumns ago, recalled it last fall a little too late to give it a go, so this year I started haunting the Web site in August, and bought founder Chris Baty’s book No Plot? No Problem. The challenge sounded fascinating. Besides the preferred commentary and reportage — and journals — I have written just a few short stories and dramatic scenes or monologues, never attempted a novel.

Novels are scary, tougher than any other form. You need to be a genius and a workaholic. You need a lot of things, and the “nanowrimo” idea is to force yourself to quit making excuses. By plunging in — outline optional but vaguely discouraged — and having to keep up with the quota of an average 1,667 words a day, which is about three typed manuscript pages (12 point type, double-spaced), you learn to swim as you go along.

For 2007, the Web site shows that 101,500 signed up for this insanity, and 15,334 wrote 50,000 or more words between Nov. 1 and Nov. 30.

I am among the 86,166 who fell short of 50,000 words. While I am not a winner, I consider this a success: 33,685 words on 142 pages. My master’s thesis covered just over 100 pages, which is a decent length for this sort of social-science research paper, but other than that, I’ve never tried anything like this. Covering two-thirds of the course? Well, I’m proud, because it’s surprising and gratifying to have gotten even that far.

The nanowrimo term for first drafts of even the novel masters has four letters; I’ll call it gibberish. It is reminiscent of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird lesson: quantity matters more on the rough manuscript than quality. Worrying bogs a budding writer down, often to the point of resignation.

My draft is gibberish. I don’t care. On the advice of the nanowrimo organizers for people who can see they won’t hit 50,000, I spent the last hours nailing down key scenes and the ending.

I know what to do next.

Find the unopened bills on the unusually cluttered desk and pay them. Then after a rest, revise. -30-

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