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NaNoWriMo Day #28: Inner editor’s ready to explode

My 2012 National Novel Writing Month project, “Dixieland,” passed the 50,000-word mark on Thanksgiving night. Tonight I uploaded the 52,000-plus words for verification that, for the third straight year, I am a “winner.” Just hold the applause. Fifty-thousand words does not a novel make; it’s just an exceptionally good start. Another 30,000 to 50,000 words should make it novel-length, and the editing/revising process, which will begin sometime in December, will add back story, complete fragmented or suggested scenes, and add the bulk that is needed to make this story truly complete.

My bound-and-gagged inner editor can only be held back so long, even with three rolls of Duck tape. I managed to get to this point without influence from inner editor’s mind-melding efforts. I will unleash his evil intentions in a few days. (I say “evil” because the very first thing he’s going to say — SCREAM — is, “Every single one of those 52,000-plus words SUCK!”)

For now, I give you a lengthy, two-part excerpt of a three-way dialogue featuring protagonist Edna Mae Ferguson, the accidental stenographer for Steven X. Kennedy, editor/publisher of the weekly Silverdale Sentinel in fictional Silverdale, Ky.; Mr. Kennedy, who is trying to sell his newspaper in order to move with his wife, Victoria, to Arizona, where the climate will be less cruel to her rheumatoid arthritis; and prospective buyer, Justin Richards, who aptly fits the title, “religious zealot.”

Unedited, not including attribution for all speakers (although it should be clear who’s speaking), and mostly just dialogue. I think it will be a quick read. If you see ALL CAPS, that’s where I’m expecting inner editor to go crazy. Let me know what you think, what more you want to know about Edna Mae, Steven Kennedy, or Justin Richards.

This was a fun rabbit trail to follow. I almost couldn’t keep up with their exchange. I’m expecting some lively comments.

===

“Jesus Christ the King of Kings is my boss.” Justin Richards, a round-faced chap about 40 years old, with a perpetual smile and pronounced southern accent, strolled into the Sentinel, greeting Steven and Edna Mae. “Do you know Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

Edna Mae looked up from her steno pad. She glanced at Kennedy, then back toward Justin Richards. “Me?” she asked.

“Both of you good folks,” he replied. “I sense that we’re all on the same page here, the same frequency on the spiritual dial.”

Kennedy answered. “I am a Christian.” Edna Mae nodded. “Me, too.”

“Oh, but have you been truly baptized of the Holy Ghost!” He was nearly shouting, and with the fervor of an evangelist. (SHOW, DON’T TELL, RE: FERVOR OF AN EVANGELIST).

He gently waved a hand in front of him. “Oh, where are my manners.” He held out his right hand. “I’m Justin Richards, servant of the Lord.”

Kennedy shook his hand; Edna Mae stepped back and nodded low. (WHAT? SHE CURTSIED?)

Richards just smiled. “Well, bless your hearts. Bless your hearts.”

Kennedy asked, “Now, where were we?”

Richards smiled. Edna Mae answered, “I think we stopped at “Holy Ghost.’”

Richards laughed. “The Spirit of God does have a way of stopping us in our tracks, yes and praise God.”

Kennedy cleared his throat. “No, I mean, where were we in terms of showing you the Silverdale Sentinel. What are your questions?”

Richards stepped toward Kennedy, placing a hand on the publisher’s shoulder. He gently shook Kennedy’s shoulder.

“I have no questions that the Lord has not already answered.” He turned to see Edna Mae scribbling furiously. “I’m going to buy your newspaper, friend, for the Lord God on High has already established it so.”

Edna Mae added, “It’s ordained.”

“Exactly,” Richards agreed, pointing to Edna Mae. “Exactly. And I’m changing the name of this secular instrument of the press to The Sword of the Lord, by which the frightening and powerful Spirit of God will reach the heathen hill folk.”

Edna Mae: “Appalachia?”

“Exactly,” he agreed again, drawing out the pronunciation. “You know the heathen hill folk of whom I speak?”

Kennedy cleared his throat again. “Well, that’s probably an issue, because we don’t send any subscriptions to the … well, that area …”

“Friend, I knew you might be reluctant if the Lord had not revealed this to your heart, but your spiritual maturity is not to blame, otherwise you would have already executed the Lord’s work.”

“Which is?”

“The Sword of the Lord” will be delivered by the servants of the Lord, to each and every heathen and godless man, woman and child in the hills. Oh, that they might cease having relations with their domestic stock …”

Edna Mae glanced at Kennedy, and he motioned for her to stop taking notes. But she continued to write.

“That could be an expensive proposition, producing, printing and delivering a newspaper to everyone in Appalachia. That’s a pretty steep price.”

“The Lord Jesus said, in the gospel of Matthew, chapter 17, verse 20, “Because of your unbelief,” and he pointed to Edna Mae and Steven, “for verily I saw unto you. If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed,” and he pinched a thumb and forefinger, then squinted, repeated, “a grain of mustard seed,” … ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing,” he paused, and repeated, with great passion and added fervor, “nothing,” “and nothing shall be impossible unto you.”

Edna Mae: “So, in a way, you want to take the Word of the Lord to the mountain.”

His eyes seemed to light up. “Exactly!” “And you will be by my side as we carry out the Lord’s work.” (DO I REALLY WANT THIS GUY TO BE CREEPY, TOO?) Edna Mae resumed her note-taking.

“That’s going to take a large influx of cash,” Kennedy reminded him. “That’s just a reality.”

“My dear friend, I’m sure you know that Jesus spoke those words to his disciples because they were unable to cast out the devil from the lad who felleth into the fire and into the water, because the demon within his young body simply vexed him – VEXED him!, I tell you.”

Kennedy shook his head. “Miss Edna Mae, you getting all this?”

“Yes, Mr. Kennedy.” She paused. “Exactly.”

Richards continued. “The disciples were unable to cast out that demon, and Jesus, oh, it broke his precious heart, and he saith unto his followers, “O faithless and perverse generation, how long shall I be with you? How long shall I suffer you? Bring him hither to me.”

“And the child was cured,” Edna Mae said.

“Exactly!” “Cured. And the demon departed out of him and the child was cured – yes, you said it – cured from THAT VERY HOUR.”

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Filed under "Dixieland", Inspiration, National Novel Writing Month 2012, WIPs, World War II

NaNoWriMo Day #10: The joy of creating

Word count through the first 10 days of National Novel Writing Month: 26,159. Just over halfway to the “winning” goal of 50,000 words. And it occurs to me — as I’ve suspected all along — that 50,000 words will not tell the entire story of “Dixieland.” At this rate I’m on pace to hit 50K on Nov. 19, two weeks from Monday, and that’s the goal that I have now adopted. I’ll need to do that if I’m going to meet or exceed the 64,000 mark I hit in 2011 with “Chasing The Devil.” (Which, sadly, is still unfinished, yet it’s waiting patiently, like a loyal puppy, for some loving attention. Soon. It will be soon.)

Today I encountered that chaos that typically comes much sooner than this. My chronology has come unraveled, and I’m no longer writing in order in keeping with my chapters and outline. Part B requires me to go back to Part A to plug in some foreshadowing, which creates another layer for a major character, which means making sure Part F connects the dots from A, B, and D, but waiting to connect C and E later.

This is where I discover parts of the story that I didn’t know were there. My main character didn’t just show up in central Kentucky and start working for the Silverdale Sentinel, as my outline notes. (Silly outline. You tease, you). No, my main female protagonist, Edna Mae Ferguson, showed up for her first day of work for Carl Smith Stenographer Contracting Company (yeah, pretty lame, but it works for now), only to find out that he’s got something else in mind. The local newspaper publisher called for a stenographer, so crotchety old Carl Smith, who calls publisher Steven Kennedy a “muckraker,” instead sends Edna Mae, hoping the young, unproven steno might cause the publisher some grief, and hoping to get out of paying Edna Mae a $20 sign-on fee and a booklet of coupons for bologna sandwiches from Ore Run Grocery.

(When you think of crotchety old Carl Smith, think “Ed Asner as Lou Grant.” Hey, it’s okay to embrace a stereotype or two).

Until two hours ago, Carl Smith had never crossed my mind. In fact, there’s an entire staff of stenographers in the office at the poorly named company, and one of them — don’t know who just yet — will reappear later as an advocate. Or, in keeping with the perpetual fiction writing mantra of conflict-rising tension-resolution-more conflict again, this still unnamed, uncreated character could be a mini protagonist of sorts.

I love this!

With that in mind, I’m going to share here a post that I made today on the Columbia NaNoWriMo forum in response to another WriMo who lamented that she was falling behind in her word count. Not suprisingly, she is discouraged. Even if she does not complete the 50,000 words in 30 days, however, she found solace in this: “I am writing again.”

Here was my response, and it’s meant for all my fellow WriMos, whether we are on a crazy, blistering pace to finish ahead of schedule or on a slow, cumbersome trek, still waiting to shift from first to fifth gear.

“I am writing again.”

Those words inspired ME. Thank you. Because I know that feeling.

My wife and I were in Hobby Lobby and Michael’s this evening looking for something unrelated to writing, but when I see all those blank canvasses and all the writing, art, coloring, stenciling, etc. materials I really get pumped, because I imagine the sheer glee that someone experiences when they turn those blank canvasses and sheets into beauty.

That’s what WE do. This computer screen is our blank canvass. And any time you’ve written, you’ve done something with that canvass. Is it a Picasso or a Monet? Of course not. Is it Hemingway, Faulkner, Steven King, Michael Crichton? Nope. But we’ve created, and we do it for ourselves first and foremost, because we must. It’s in our DNA somewhere. And the more we do it, the better we get, and the more we realize that the greatest joy isn’t simply staring at the masterpiece, but the process of creating it.

Carry on, my friend. You are CREATING!

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NaNoWriMo Day #8: Letters to and from lovers

Today’s report on my National Novel Writing Month project, Dixieland, which is now at 19,511 words. My protagonist couple Alvie and Edna Mae Ferguson are separated by Alvie’s World War II deployment with the Army Air Corp. He will become a POW. But I didn’t settle until today on how to depict his war experience. Tell me what you think.

Up until the first letter he writes from Stalag Luft I after being taken prisoner of war, his entire war experience is told in the letters he writes to Edna Mae. I thought it would be different, a unique approach, to tell more of their backstory — courtship, early life, etc. — in those letters. The setting for Alvie will shift to the German POW camp for the last two months of his time there, but until then the reader won’t “see” through Alvie’s eyes — only through his letters to his young bride.

This approach also presents a challenge for me to write Edna Mae’s letters to Alvie. After all, I’m not a 26-year-old woman who pines for her husband. (Talk about writing outside the lines here).

The excerpt I’m providing below is Alvie’s first letter from the POW camp, and it includes a glimpse into my creative process. As I write, I make notes to myself (see italics). The notes remind me that I’m foreshadowing, adding to earlier (so far unwritten) references, and making sure to bring some things to resolution, where the reader will say, “Aha! I remember that from back in Chapter Whatever when Alvie mentioned he was bringing his nephew a souvenir.”

As always: unedited. Tell me what you think.

______

My dearest Edna Mae,

You probably know by now that I’m a guest of the German army and we are very well cared for. I couldn’t eat better if I was made of cornbread. (THIS IS A SURE TIP-OFF THAT HE IS NOT EATING WELL. Earlier in the story, I’ll have Alvie make a reference to a meal that one of Edna Mae’s sisters made. Her sis will say, “Well, Alvie Ferguson, I’ll swannie. I believe you must be made of cornbread.” To which Alvie will whisper to Edna Mae, “If I was made of cornbread, I’d just soak this stuff up. Wouldn’t have to taste it then.” I’LL HAVE HIM MAKE ANOTHER “if I was made of cornbread” statement in reference to uncooked or spoiled food.)

I feel your prayers and I know it won’t be long before we’re staring at the same moon together, not continents apart. Tell my Billy that I’ve got him a souvenir. (IT’S THE SHRAPNEL lodged in his arm). Tell your folks hi. I’ve never loved you more. Your Alvie.”

EDNA MAE’S LETTER to Alvie after learning he’s alive:

Sweet, handsome Alvie, my Superman,

I’m writing this without even knowing where I shall send it, but if I don’t write these words now I’ll quite likely come unhinged. You’re alive! My darling, I weep and shout in both sadness and joy. The WAAC sisters teach us and insist that we keep our chins up and not show a sign of sadness or weakness, but I just can’t do it right now. So I might not send this. I do not desire to bring you low; just thinking of any of my words souring your handsome countenance is unbearable, but you can always see right through the platitudes. You know my heart, and that is why this separation is so powerfully unbearable.

My love, you have the most resourceful ways of taking care of yourself and bringing your thoughts to happy, gay times. I know how you care for and love your chums, and how they so look up to you and rely on your strength. Yet I cannot wait another second for you to let yourself be weak in my arms, and let me take care of you.

I simply cannot pretend with you. I truly know there was much more you wanted and needed to tell me. I am sure I have the motor mechanics in my brain well enough to build an engine, yet I now must learn how to build the fuselage and the wings. Yes, my love, if it takes me the rest of my years, if you are not here, I will build that airplane myself and come and get you.  And if you return before I put in the last rivet, then you can fly our little airplane and show me something – anything away from the memory of these last months – where we can soar past this time.

You know I’m just silly. Do not fret over thinking that I am assembling a little airplane.

But if I could, my love, if I could …

It will soon be one year since your deployment. Perhaps our separation will end quite soon. I pray for you, my love. I still keep one side of the bed unslept and ready for you. And now that I lock that door, I cannot wait to lock us inside our nest. Oh, how I miss you, my Alvie.

I will stay strong. There is so much to tell you about my adventure to Kentucky and the tales of working at that little newspaper. I feel that I have become a woman in the truest sense of the word. Perhaps someday you and I will move away from here and start our own little newspaper. That would be grand!

I must sip some hot tea and say my prayers before I retire. Your caress, your strong shoulders, your mischievous grin and the boyish pranks that you play are always, forever on my mind. And in my heart.

Your bride, Edna Mae

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NaNoWriMo Day #7: Takin’ a Kianna break

Actually, Days #6 and #7 were temporary detours from National Novel Writing Month, although it would be inaccurate to say I took a break from writing. Yesterday (Nov. 6) was Election Day, which kept me jotting notes and typing away most of the day. (Is it still accurate to refer to “typing”?) My day job with the Columbia Daily Tribune found me arriving at the Hallsville Community Center at around 6:50 a.m. Tuesday and leaving a Democratic election watch party (the third watch party I’d been to since 8 p.m.) at The Blue Note in downtown Columbia just after 11 p.m.

That, my friends, is what you call a real long day. There was nary a moment free for my WriMo tasks. Today (Wednesday the 7th) was less busy and less long … at least I think so. I was in a post-election fog most of the day.

Considering that I was a WriMo machine the first five days of our 30 days of literary abandon, I allowed myself to step away the last two days.

Here was the highlight of today:

Having a great time with soon-to-be 9-month-old granddaughter, Princess Kianna Brown. (Grammy got some sugar, too. Scroll down). This caption should be: reading and sucking her thumb and leaning on Grandpa. This little beauty melts my heart every single time I see her.

 

Grammy lovin’ on Princess Kianna Wednesday evening in Jefferson City.

 

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Filed under Family, Kelly, Kianna Allene Brown, National Novel Writing Month 2012