I spent June in a state of self-induced torment called Camp NaNoWriMo, a summertime version of National Novel Writing Month. The goal is simple: Write a novel of at least 50,000 words, and do it within the span of 30 days. I've completed four of these months since November, 2009 - two November sessions and two Camp sessions - and I have loved and hated each one. The idea behind the summer camp version is that November is too busy for a lot of us, and that we'll have more time to crank out all those words in June or August. Yeah, maybe.
I've been doing the blog thing, writing mostly about hoboes, for a while now, and switching gears from short-form to long is a challenge. In blogging, efficient writing is important, and I try to use an economy of words. That's actually a good practice in most writing. These NaNoWriMo exercises basically demand wordiness. To add to the challenge for this one, I abandoned the zombie apocalypse of my last two novels and instead started from scratch. I love my undead friends, and I'll revisit those projects soon, but zombies are easy. I wanted to stretch myself a bit. I also kept a camp journal, because as these marathons drag on, I tend to forget who and where I am and what's going on.
I didn't really keep a camp journal. Are you kidding? 50,000 words in 30 days. That's almost 1,700 words a day - with a full-time job. But if I had kept one, it might have had excerpts like these:
June 1st - Only managed 917 words. Someone brought rum to camp!
June 2nd - Hard to write when Stephen Strasburg was pitching for the Nats and it was on TV in the counselors' cabin, but after the inevitable victory, I was on fire. I have 4,132 words and a headache. There are people in my book. So far, they haven't done much of anything - except of course for Brock Swackhammer, who is a man of action.
June 3rd - Maybe rum at camp is a good thing. Over 8,100 words, and Swack's already behaving badly. There's also been sex-quality coffee, and apparently everyone in my book is a smart-ass. I know! How is this happening?
June 11th - Wait... You want another 1,667 words today? I just gave you 1,667 words. What is this, a labor camp? And why are my characters making decisions for themselves? I did not authorize any of those shenanigans at the beach. Who's writing this thing, anyway?
June 16th - I got lost on the stupid nature hike, and had to make fajitas without a grill. My story has wandered off and is now totally bossing me around. I miss my wife. I miss my blog. I miss my hoboes.
June 19th - Didn't write. At all. Who knows what my characters are doing without my supervision. I thought I saw an albatross, this morning flying over the camp from the east. That's why I couldn't write. Everyone knows the appearance of the eastern albatross, especially within four days of the summer solstice, signals nothing but heartache for those who type drivel at any rate that falls between 30 and 40 words per minute.
June whatever 27th or something - Why is there camp on weekdays, too? It's stupid and I hate it. I'm never doing this again. And if those fictitious little buttheads make me cry in front of the other campers again, I'm deleting them. See if I don't!
June 29th - It's 102 degrees outside. You iron a lot of cars but don't say why you won't call the textbook example of rotisserie bonanza fire. My grip is fine, why are they attacking me? I'm just a bill, and I wasn't but askew will never infield fly rule. Right? RIGHT??
June 30th - Okay, seriously - what is a "derecho?" Knocking the power out on the last night of camp may seem like a cool idea - roughing it and whatnot - but it's really not. I'm one of the lucky ones, though. Many campers are dead, or worse - still have no electricity. I have over 50,000 words, but my characters simply will not shut up, so I have to keep typing during the bus ride home.
I've been home for a week, and I have a Camp NaNoWriMo T-shirt, and a badge to stick on my Facebook page, and a patch. That's the best thing about camp. You get NOTHING for succeeding. Nothing. In fact, if you wanted to, you could just copy and paste 50,000 words from any source on your computer - or anywhere on the whole wide world interwebs - and paste it into their word-count verifier and "win." You'd be a giant loser, but you could do it.
Only then you wouldn't have the one good thing they do send you home from camp with - a rough draft of a novel. I'll make myself crazy again for 30 days come November for another one. Maybe it'll be about hoboes.
Showing posts with label Albatross. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Albatross. Show all posts
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Fleen Visits Crackbarry At Gloaming University - Easier Said Than Done
Hey gang! I think it's time to foist some Crackbarry and Fleen upon your unsuspecting noggins. I have been trying to come up with a nice succinct introduction to this madness, but I can't, so I've decided instead that it will be much more fun (and just as coherent, really) to simply foist away with a random excerpt. I like saying foist. It rhymes with. . . stuff. Anyway, I will say that the characters have a co-creator, and until I confirm whether or not he is actually still living, this sample may be all I will be able to share with you, and that makes it all the more special, non?
News from Crackbarry's dorm room:
Fleen stared at the telly with murder in his eyes. "We're going to make that 2-bit lounge donkey wish he'd never been spawned of the wretchedness of his foul mother and the seed of the murderous dentist. Crackbarry my man, I'm going to need your help. But first, I must tell you what happened to me on the way here from my Auntie Ashlee's summer home in Middle Pussexton."
Crackbarry wiped the Armadillo dribble from his face and listened with rapt attention as Fleen related the story of his short but intriguing journey of that morning. The Ashlee vacation house was no more than five minutes behind him when Fleen had been run off the M5 by a pair of lime green Mini Coopers with fake police insignias on their doors. The entire contents of his newly-opened bottle of Absolut Peach found its way onto the floor mat of his modified, heavily armoured Hummer (which he lovingly called Betsy-Wetsmee and to this day, no one knows why) as it left the road and went briefly airborne, landing in the cornfield of one Roberto "Flaxseed" McManus. In the course of the wreck, Fleen's ever-present spice pipe (today he was smoking a mixture of cumin, sage and oregano, but the oregano was way too dry this time,
which was a bit of a buzzkill) fell to the floor and immediately ignited the vodka-soaked carpeting.
The flames of the polycarbon carpet fibers, spices and booze had created a sweet-smelling but powerfully hallucinogenic smoke which quickly filled the interior of the Hummer, and Fleen was overcome within a few breaths. He tripped all over the landscape of his cerebral cortex. He saw himself torn to bloody shreds by the girls of Miss Pinklebaum's kindergarten class, the pieces carried off by Australian parakeets, all to a soundtrack of "White Light, White Heat." The
expression on his face in this image confused him, as it was a pre-adolescent smile of sheer glee. There was a scene from "Too Close for Comfort," only the Ted Knight role was played by Fleen's first romantic conquest, Kiera Pukingintheskya, and her Russo-Yapese broken English was here more menacing than funny.
When Fleen had emerged from his peachy fog, he had found himself sitting on the living room sofa in the frighteningly country home of Mr. McManus. "Hey Flaxseed. Sorry about your fence. Where might I find my pants and an Atari 5200 with a pair of joysticks that fuckin' WORK?" The farmer's wife, a giant mannish thing named Bobbi, stopped Flaxseed's cross-living room lunge with one of her hairy arms, clotheslining the man and sending him to a gurgling unconscious spell on the floor. She seized Fleen by his elbow and led him to the barn, where her three strapping sons had already returned the Hummer Betsy-Wetsmee to a close approximation of road-worthiness. Fleen had lost several hours of his life and some good vodka and admittedly sub-par spice, but still managed to make his way to Crackbarry's dormitory by mid-afternoon.
"Well, that explains the news reports and that weird peachy pizzeria scent coming off your smoky clothes." Crackbarry chuckled. "Now what do you need me to do to this Crustedseabass bloke?"
News from Crackbarry's dorm room:
Fleen stared at the telly with murder in his eyes. "We're going to make that 2-bit lounge donkey wish he'd never been spawned of the wretchedness of his foul mother and the seed of the murderous dentist. Crackbarry my man, I'm going to need your help. But first, I must tell you what happened to me on the way here from my Auntie Ashlee's summer home in Middle Pussexton."
Crackbarry wiped the Armadillo dribble from his face and listened with rapt attention as Fleen related the story of his short but intriguing journey of that morning. The Ashlee vacation house was no more than five minutes behind him when Fleen had been run off the M5 by a pair of lime green Mini Coopers with fake police insignias on their doors. The entire contents of his newly-opened bottle of Absolut Peach found its way onto the floor mat of his modified, heavily armoured Hummer (which he lovingly called Betsy-Wetsmee and to this day, no one knows why) as it left the road and went briefly airborne, landing in the cornfield of one Roberto "Flaxseed" McManus. In the course of the wreck, Fleen's ever-present spice pipe (today he was smoking a mixture of cumin, sage and oregano, but the oregano was way too dry this time,
which was a bit of a buzzkill) fell to the floor and immediately ignited the vodka-soaked carpeting.
The flames of the polycarbon carpet fibers, spices and booze had created a sweet-smelling but powerfully hallucinogenic smoke which quickly filled the interior of the Hummer, and Fleen was overcome within a few breaths. He tripped all over the landscape of his cerebral cortex. He saw himself torn to bloody shreds by the girls of Miss Pinklebaum's kindergarten class, the pieces carried off by Australian parakeets, all to a soundtrack of "White Light, White Heat." The
expression on his face in this image confused him, as it was a pre-adolescent smile of sheer glee. There was a scene from "Too Close for Comfort," only the Ted Knight role was played by Fleen's first romantic conquest, Kiera Pukingintheskya, and her Russo-Yapese broken English was here more menacing than funny.
When Fleen had emerged from his peachy fog, he had found himself sitting on the living room sofa in the frighteningly country home of Mr. McManus. "Hey Flaxseed. Sorry about your fence. Where might I find my pants and an Atari 5200 with a pair of joysticks that fuckin' WORK?" The farmer's wife, a giant mannish thing named Bobbi, stopped Flaxseed's cross-living room lunge with one of her hairy arms, clotheslining the man and sending him to a gurgling unconscious spell on the floor. She seized Fleen by his elbow and led him to the barn, where her three strapping sons had already returned the Hummer Betsy-Wetsmee to a close approximation of road-worthiness. Fleen had lost several hours of his life and some good vodka and admittedly sub-par spice, but still managed to make his way to Crackbarry's dormitory by mid-afternoon.
"Well, that explains the news reports and that weird peachy pizzeria scent coming off your smoky clothes." Crackbarry chuckled. "Now what do you need me to do to this Crustedseabass bloke?"
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