The NaNoWriMo update

I came back from my vacation with an idea for a novel, and I signed up for NaNoWriMo to give myself the motivation to get to work on it. It’s now two weeks into November, halfway through the month. So how am I doing?

Terribly, thanks. And that’s great.

In order to “win” NaNoWriMo, you have to spew out 50,000 words in 30 days. That’s 1667 words a day. By today, day 14, I should have 23,338 words. I have 13,550. Which is to say, I’m way behind. Almost 9800 words behind.

On the other hand, I’m learning a lot about myself.

For one thing, I’m learning that even when I’m doing something voluntarily, for no other reason than because it sounded like fun, I still drive myself crazy with deadline pressure. Not the good kind of motivational deadline pressure that gets me to put my ass in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard, either. I feel overwhelmed by the fact that at my current pace, I won’t hit 50K words until late December. I feel even more overwhelmed by the fact that if I want to reach that mark on time, I need to crank out almost 2300 words a day. It’s causing me anxiety, oppressive anxiety, the kind that makes me want to quit just to make it stop. I find this fascinating. Why am I stressing so much about something with absolutely no consequences? That is a very good question indeed.

For another thing, I’m learning that despite this self-imposed torture, I’m having a good time! I’m telling a story! I’m not leaping to my keyboard every day with fresh vigor, but I can actually see myself finishing this draft, even if I don’t finish it for another month or two. Who knew?

And finally, to my surprise and delight, I’ve discovered that I want to finish it, even if it takes a while. Because I think it’s pretty good!

I have the perfect excuse to cut myself some slack about not finishing by November 30. I have four perfect excuses, come to think of it: I’m working on a white paper for one client, website content for another client, and a blog and newsletter for a third client, all of them starting first thing in the morning, plus I’m negotiating a potential ghostwriting project. That’s more than enough to keep me busy for a while. So I will feel no shame about leaving St. Wilfrid’s Yard (the novel’s working title) for a while.

But I’ll also look forward to returning.

Filed under progress | Comments (5)

On small beautiful things

I’m supposed to be writing a crappy novel right now for National Novel Writing Month. I started it last night while sitting in my local coffee shop with half a dozen other NaNos, and so far, I’m not entirely sure I’m going to finish. I need to do 1,667 words a day to hit the 50,000-word mark by the end of the month; last night I only managed to eke out 900 or so, and about 450 of them suck.

In my defense, I was a little distracted by the ball game. Which is what I really want to write about right now. The ball game. The beautiful, beautiful ball game in which the San Francisco Giants beat the ever-lovin’ pants off the Texas Rangers, who seemed to have forgotten how to swing a bat. There’s something incredibly inspiring about witnessing a collection of scrappy youngsters and workmanlike tradesmen who were never supposed to make it to the post-season transform before my eyes into a team of superstars. I mean, Buster Posey! He’s a rookie! He’s barely old enough to shave! But now, no matter what happens, for the rest of his life, that kid is a World Series champion catcher!

In the grand scheme of things, I know, this is pretty meaningless. As people who don’t care about baseball keep reminding me, it’s just a game. So why do I care? For the same reason that I’m writing a crappy novel for the hell of it: because things don’t have to be significant or even remotely important to have meaning and value. I’m participating in NaNoWriMo because I’ve never tried to write fiction before and I think I might enjoy it — even though I may yet find myself tearing out my hair over it, one strand at a time. I’m loving the World Series buzz because for just a little while, this entire city is surfing a giant black and orange wave of communal bliss — even though today is an election and tomorrow morning we’ll be sniping at each other over the results. It’s the little things.

Speaking of little things, here is a lovely hypnotic video of a letterpress in action, printing business cards. Enjoy!

Keegan Meegan Press & Bindery from :::MAGNETIC ARCHIVES:: on Vimeo.

Filed under progress, Uncategorized | Comment (1)

Freelanciversary

It was 20 years ago today Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play…no, wait, that’s not right.

*sound of backwards tape loop*

It was 20 years ago today that the Holyoke (MA) Transcript-Telegram laid off half its newsroom, including me. It was my second post-college job; I was all of 23.

I celebrate what I call my “freelanciversary” today because I started beating the bushes for freelance work within hours of losing my job, and in fact landed a couple of assignments within a week or two. I didn’t truly commit myself to self-employment until the following spring, when I turned down an offer from a newspaper in semi-rural Pennsylvania. In the depths of a recession it was the only offer I’d gotten in nine months, but I knew if I moved there, this city girl would be stuck in the sticks, possibly permanently, so I said no. And that, as they say, was that. I’ve neither had nor looked for a “real” job since.

I’m going to be honest: I was a shitty employee when I was one. I wasn’t good at prioritizing the paper’s needs — in fact, I’m pretty sure I was first on the layoff list not just because I was the last hired, but because the previous month, I had refused my editor’s request to cancel my vacation on two days’ notice. He wanted me to stick around to cover what I vaguely remember was a predicted severe storm system. I was young, stubborn, and too poor to eat what I’d already spent on a non-refundable airfare. In retrospect, it was probably a test. Did I fail? Well, yes, in the sense that I lost my job three weeks later.

In the larger sense, though, I think I passed the test with flying colors. In 1993, the T-T laid off everyone else, too, and joined the long list of defunct newspapers. By then, I had moved back to the Boston area, was writing weekly features for the Boston Herald’s careers section, and had earned my first national byline with a piece in Cosmopolitan. Money was excruciatingly tight — I was sharing a three-bedroom in Somerville, filling in the gaps between assignments by temping as a legal secretary, and eating a lot of rice and beans — but I no longer had to work long hours, navigate confusing office politics, or, some days, get dressed at all.

A lot has changed in 20 years. The Internet has come along to make some things easier (I do not miss the days of snail-mailing printed-out manuscripts a week before deadline to make sure they arrived on time, nor — much as I love libraries — do I miss hours of fruitless research there), but it’s also deeply fucked up the publishing industry as a whole. Writing for consumer publications is less glamorous and more grinding than it used to be; as my friend Mary Beth tweeted just this morning, “Recently rejected prestige assignment for no pay & lucrative one from mag that treats writers like shit.” On the other hand, while I never imagined I’d spend about half my time writing web content, case studies, and other marketing communications for high tech companies, my bank account finds it very satisfying — and I can actually understand what my techie friends are talking about. I’ve written a book for which I still get the occasional thank you email eight years later. I still get paid to do fun stuff now and then, like talking to pizza-obsessed entrepreneurs and learning to make chocolate truffles. And I still don’t have to get dressed if I don’t want to. (You’ve heard of Casual Friday? I like to have Pantsless Wednesday.) All in all, I love my job. And how many people do you know who can say that?

So here’s to you, editor who now seems to be working for a newspaper on Cape Cod. Thanks for canning my ass 20 years ago this afternoon. It didn’t seem like it at the time, but it was actually the greatest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

Filed under progress, triumphs, Uncategorized | Comments (5)

Making things up

I came home from vacation with an idea for a mystery novel.

Yes, I fear I’m going to commit fiction.

You might ask why someone who writes for a living feels fear at the prospect of writing something. Simple: part of me thinks if I’m going to spend my precious time on writing, it should be guaranteed to produce income. I can noodle around with some other hobby that won’t suck away the writing energy I need to make a living.

And let’s face it: I’m a nonfiction writer. I studied journalism; I worked as a reporter; I write about true things. All the pieces are there, I just have to put them together in a way that’s both logical and attractive. When I think about writing fiction, my first reaction is, “What do you mean, I have to make things up?”

Of course, I have friends who are novelists, and their reaction to the idea of writing nonfiction is basically, “What do you mean, I can’t just make things up?” So clearly, the part of the brain that writes fiction is not attached to the part of the brain that writes nonfiction, other than some overlap in the actual language-producing regions. And maybe, if it’s a different part of the brain, the act of writing fiction won’t diminish the energy and motivation I need to write the things that pay my bills. Maybe I can think of it as creative play, the way I think of photography or cooking, two other things I do with no expectation they’ll lead to anything but enjoyment.

I also have a hard time with quitting. I have “winners never quit and quitters never win” burned into my synapses. I feel like I have to push my way through things until I’m good at them or they’re done, whichever comes first — even if doing so makes me completely fucking miserable. So maybe it would be a salutary experience to try something, just for the hell of it, and give myself permission to quit if I realize I’m not enjoying it.

Because I have this vivid image of a woman in a tattoo artist’s chair. She’s having a small but intricately detailed skull inked onto her left shoulder. She’s explaining to the tattoo artist that a girl needs something by which to remember her first skeleton. And I need to know what happens next.

Filed under fears, progress, Uncategorized | Comments (5)

There’s no “I” in “supply”

In the last week, I’ve turned down two opportunities to help out other people because there wasn’t anything in it for me.

Hold your horses. Before you start accusing me of being a calculating, selfish user, let me elaborate.

In the first case, I got a request for an introduction to a professional connection from someone who’s been entirely off my radar for several years. No hi-how-ya-doing, no “I know we’ve been out of touch but I was wondering if you’d be willing to…” — just the expectation that I’ll open up my virtual Rolodex on demand for someone I haven’t seen or spoken to since John Kerry was the Democratic candidate for president. I’m all about logrolling, but at least butter me up a little first!

In the second case, a friend of someone I dated many years ago contacted me to ask if I’d be willing to offer emotional support while he goes through a rough patch in his personal life. I’m sure the friend meant well, but the request was just…odd. Let’s set aside (as if that was possible) how a man might feel about having his dirty laundry aired to an long-ago girlfriend. I’ve exchanged holiday cards with this ancient ex now and then over the years, but that’s pretty much the only contact we’ve had since the Pleistocene. I’m not inclined to offer up my shoulder to anyone but my closest friends — and certainly not someone who no longer knows me and might be tempted to idealize me as the girl who got away, now grown up into a woman-shaped bandage for his emotional wounds.

I politely responded to both situations by saying I didn’t think it would be appropriate for me to do what they were asking.

This is a bigger deal than you might imagine. I used to worry so much about whether saying no was “nice” that I considered a ringing telephone a demand, not a request, and felt guilty if I screened my calls. I didn’t feel the slightest hesitation over saying no this time. No second-guessing, no regrets. Apparently, I’ve finally given myself permission to be discerning about where I offer up my contacts, my shoulder, my time, and my effort.

The energy has to flow both ways. I’m not a battery. I’m not willing to drain myself to charge someone else up.

Filed under progress, Uncategorized | Comment (1)