(National Novel Writing Month)

The lessons learned that I wrote about last year  all still apply.

NaNoWrimo2010

There is a great sense of accomplishement having another first draft of a novel to ‘someday’ edit for public consumption.

There were many days where I wanted to sit down and get back to the novel to see what happens next. I think for writers, sometime the role isn’t that much different than being a reader. We crave the story and connect with the characters and are often surprised at what happens next.

A writer writes!….and that’s what I did.

Rowan’s Branch, a novel by Kevin S. Moul

On a recent Friday, claustrophobic from being home all day,  I wanted to tackle a third draft of a writing project and sought inspiration with a change of scenery. One of the busier Starbucks in my neighborhood seemed a suitable tonic with the added benefit of being surrounded by dining options, knowing that would be a later internal monologue.

Pen in hand, notebook open and without overthinking (very important, see earlier posts on writing practice), I looked up from my notebook and spotted a woman settling into a chair.  In her late 40’s and at least for the moment she was alone. Individuals, couples, or small groups, all offer a completely different dynamic.

She sat against the south facing window. The low angled late  afternoon sun reflected off the lightly colored walkways and the pale stone  facing of the neighboring building provided a flattering diffused backlight. Through  her crisp white linen blouse, a muslin outline of a slender athletic frame.

Her legs wound up beneath her on the small bistro chair, balancing in a lotus or Bodhisattva posture. She looked straight ahead, her shoulders pushed back as she slowly drew in and exhaled three deep calming breathes. I couldn’t actually hear it, but my mind added the low vibrating exhale that preceded a content smile.

I allowed the scene around her to dissolve, placing her as a halcyon on a rocky crag overlooking a restless ocean. Her coffee scented breath mixing with the salt tinged air. Then the visual shifted to a zafu in a meditation hall deep in a forest, my mind anticipating the sonorous single strike of the gong to end the practice.

Timed with a deeper inhale she gracefully extended her left arm up and in a variation of the Trikonasana yoga pose, she stretched to the right. She continued the vinyasa, the intentional combination of breath and movement on the opposite side and finished with a seated sun salutation.

To my aesthetic, the only thing out of place with her serene presence was that she proceeded to read a retail catalogue or flyer. Such a crass commercial document was out of place in the imaginary world that she now inhabited. Her long slender fingers plucked at the corners to change the pages. She split her attention between the document and looking straight forward absorbed into the emptiness in front of her. At no point did she seem aware of those around her or more importantly, of my writer’s voyeuristic gaze.

She was both somewhere else and very much in contact with the shiny newsprint that slipped dryly between her fingers. Her posture grounded her in the chair, even the geometric floor tiles seemed to support her in this moment.

As the light shifted, so did my impression of her age. At  times much younger and less burdened by experience.

I thought about taking a photograph, wanting the smile and composure to be the essence of a future character in one of my stories. That would be cheating; a writer uses words and I promised that I would devote a journal entry to this discovery.

Confident, absorbed in her happiness, she cast a net and connected with everyone around her. Just looking at her I shifted to sit up straight in my chair, wanting to be more poised and purposeful. She posited without speaking the question, where would I rather be in this moment?

While I have only limited training in Yoga, I don’t believe there are ‘asanas’ (poses) that involve the hair. At least, not until now.  Unfettered, her light brown hair, only a pantone decimal from blonde, hung just below the shoulder, pulled back as to not cover her face. It was thick and moved as would a frayed silk rope, as a whole. She drew it together, grasping the luxuriant thickness, pulling it to both the right and left in a yogic recognition of balance. Then with little more than a flick of her wrist, it was miraculously held aloft by the unseen elastic previously hidden in her palm.

I wanted to be in her space. Returning to my writing project,  I became absorbed in a scene where my character makes fun of what other’s  believed.

A later glance revealed that a computer now occupied her  table top. Her eyes cast downward, her smile replaced with a neutral  countenance. The memory of her earlier affection influenced my perception and I  assigned continued tranquility to the scene.

My writing consumed me for a period of time then with a deep  breath of my own; I resurfaced from the world of my writing project content  with having completed a difficult sequence of dialogue. Her legs were now unfurled  and out from underneath her. With feet resting on the ground, her left leg flexed  slightly, bouncing on the tension of the tendon.

The scene was very different. The wash of her earlier  serenity was gone, sucked up by the computer and the intruding glow of the  words that now consumed her attention. Her lips were pursed, her shoulders  slumped forward, the latitude of her narrowed eyes parallel to grim pursed  lips. She pecked at the keyboard her chest rising in falling, searching for the
once calming breath.

I felt sadness for  her as I packed up my computer. Happy with how my scene had been re-written, I  was flush with reaching my goal, and grateful for the fuel she had provided. I
wouldn’t have thought that she could have been broken.

Now hungry, my plan was to take advantage of the early hour,  be thrifty by seeking out a happy hour special – a margarita and half priced selection of deep fried heart clogging appetizers from some local restaurant.

As I walked I wasn’t ready to give up her gift of serenity  and I found myself redirected toward ‘True Food’, a favorite restaurant with a menu that tips toward healthy eating. Their food  selections are nutritious, flavorful and worth lingering over. Mushrooms, one
of my favorites, abound.

And to make sure that nothing intruded on my mood, I also began with three calming breathes and commitment not to check email or open my computer lest it pull me from this serenity. Only pen and paper were allowed. Very  simply, my goal was to start a journal entry that captured this inspiring woman, and not just for one of my stories, but for me on this writing day.

There are three things that have surprised me about the recent press articles on the demise of Borders Books. The last two are an important reminder to anyone who runs a service business.

The first, that it was founded in 1971 by brothers with the last name Borders (Tom and Louis). I always thought it was a good name for a book store. I took liberty that it was solely a play on the concept of what a border can be. Books challenge where we draw the line. What are the borders we establish to define our own limits?

When I moved to the US in 2000 I sought to compare Borders and Barnes and Noble with Chapters and Indigo in Canada. Each had its own personality (In Canada, I preferred Indigo, alas they eventually merged). It seemed at the time that Borders carried a more varied inventory and their staff more passionate about reading. I readily admit that my test sample was narrow and I shouldn’t judge any service organization on one or two employees.

My family settled in an area of North Phoenix that was unfortunately void of anything independent. Chain stores ruled in artificial mega malls. I wrote in earlier blogs about my search for a place to pursue my writing,  Where To Write

This is where my second point arises. In all the articles that discuss the management missteps at Borders and how E-publishing dealt the death blow, there has been no mention of customer service at the store level.

If I use myself as a sample demographic, I get a very clear picture on where else Borders went wrong. We are a family of four. My spouse is in a monthly book club and our teenage son is an avid reader. In addition to my own appetite for fiction, I also procure a steady stream of books and magazine on my interests in writing, computers, and photography. In a one year period we consolidated all of our purchases at Borders. I would estimate this to be about 40 titles. In addition, practically every Sunday for over a year I would spend two and half hours writing at the same table in one location in their SBC Café. In addition there was also evenings and sometimes two visits a weekend. At least once a month visited all three Borders in my general area. I doubt there is much argument that my family and I represented a valuable consumer group for both books and Café purchases.

In that year the staff in the café of my main location did an excellent job learning my name and my beverage preferences. I also reached out to interact with the booksellers. It wasn’t difficult to identify those who were in leadership roles. I often asked them questions, at times offered helpful suggestions and in general tried to develop a convivial relationship.

Shortly into my second year, I had an interaction with a female who I believed to be an Assistant Manager. I had spoken to her many times in the previous year. She had no idea who I was and treated me with a dismissive attitude that left me cold. I walked out of the store that day and never returned.

The third and the final wheel to the tricycle that Borders rode to their demise was what didn’t happen next.  For years, information has been the most valuable asset of any organization. The rise of Google illustrates what an expertise in this field can represent. For over a year, Borders captured detailed information about my family and our buying habits. When a steady stream of revenue stopped, I wondered if their systems were intuitive enough to reach out and ask me why. Nothing ever came.

I moved on and switched to Barnes and Noble where technology quickly had me moving again. Not an e-book as you might suspect but the lack of plugs in their café or near their work tables. As my computer has aged, so has the capacity of my battery. This would be a discussion for another day, the failure of store design to keep me as a customer.

If bookstores are to survive, they need to become meeting places and tied into the cultural mosaic of the community they serve. Author’s readings, classes, writing groups, must all be encouraged (even at a price to participate).  They need to connect with people and encourage repeat visits. The paper and ink versions of books will become more of a collectable that an immediate consumable.

Thankfully two independent coffee shops also opened within proximity to my home, and this is where I can happily be found on my writing mornings. And yes, I will be buying an e-reader in the next few months but I don’t think anyone is going to miss me in a book store.

 Mandatory Valentine

 It’s Legislated

               I have to do this Today?

No Stopping

               But what if I hadn’t slowed down to notice you?

Take a Number

               It felt like that some days.

No U-Turn

               What if you hadn’t come back?

No Re-Entry

               What if we hadn’t tried again? And again?

No Parking

               But what if I hadn’t stayed?

School Zone

               I’m always learning about you.

Stay Off The Grass

               That’s okay there’s always a secluded cove.

No Smoking

               But there is such heat between us.

Do Not Enter

               That was before…

No Firearms Allowed

               But I’m loaded.

No Children Allowed

               We ignored that one

February 14th, tell her you love her, buy her a gift

               The other 364 days don’t matter?

This Offer Has Expired.

               Every day matters.

Closed For The Season

               No.

This Poem was subsequently recognized, with a third place finish in a Poetry Contest hosted by the Quillians Writing Group from the virtual word of Second Life.

An elderly man leans heavily on a tubular wood walking stick. The candy cane top is scratched, a patina of the clash between the soft wood and the thick silver ring that spins on his emaciated finger.

Each shuffled step is accompanied by a full stop.  The curve of his spine, almost doubled over is interrupted by the upward tilt of his head. Anxious for physical dignity, the man’s neck bends proudly to lift his chin. Each step an accomplishment. He smiles, unconcerned that he has no audience or does he sense I am watching? His too perfect white chiclet teeth push against thin lips.

A young woman in skin-tight black Lulu Lemon pants holds the door for him. She smiles kindly but his smile falters. A choice is required between making eye contact and concentrating on his feet crossing the threshold. Do his eyes linger on her shapely legs and the curve of her near perfect ass?

In his day this would have been a scandalous outfit. Not the kind of girl you would take home. He may not have been that kind of boy either. I reflect for a moment on the fashions that he must have seen in his ninety years.

He pauses on the concrete squares just beyond the arch of the door. If he were to look in the reflection of the window he might be disappointed to see that he is not standing erect. The cane sways from his wrist. His other hand slides into the slit pocket of his wool dress pants.  A flash of silver as his fingers wrap around an object.

I wistfully look for my camera to capture this anachronism playing out in front of me. A wizened old man in timeless clothing, anywhere else in the world he would have worn a felt hat. I watch as he flips a thin silver cell phone over in his hand – I imagine an even greater photo if he lifted it with his thumbs splayed in the universal mudra of a person texting. Even if he were to just make a cell phone call, the image would bridge eras and generations. Add the shapely young girl and the message became universal.

He doesn’t look down; the contours of the phone are familiar to his hand. Its flat profile suggests a newer model but not an iPhone. His hand tenses, the tendon between his thumb and forefinger rises as he engages a clasp and the silver case flips open. But it isn’t a phone. Instead of a screen and keyboard, pale white tissue paper cylinders are lined up in rows, a cigarette case. My anachronism is now just a man from another time.

The cigarette tips are crushed and angled slightly. At first I imagine they are hand rolled, the pride of a lifetime smoker but then I catch sight of tightly pressed filter tips. But why the crushed ends? As a non smoker I can only imagine that cigarettes are now longer, supersized. Unable to abandon the case, like the aged, they are pinched and forced to fit.

He places a cigarette against his lips, returns the cane to his left hand before reaching back into his pocket to produce a silver lighter. I can’t see it, but I know his thumb is calloused from pressing the coarse wheel that grinds against the flint.

With a deep inhale, his cheeks pull under the angular bones that cradle deep eye sockets.

Blue grey smoke rises slowly around him.  A few people look up, the smell catching their senses. The looks of reproach soften as they eye the old man. It is the ‘Grandfather Clause’ in its most personal form. No one would deny this man his right to inhabit this space. His pursed lips hold the cigarette; he wheezes slightly like an engine warming up and begins his slow shuffle down the sidewalk and out of the frame of my imaginary snap-shot but onto the page of my manuscript.

My Latte is now cool enough to sip.

For a second year I participated in NaNoWriMo(National Novel Writing Month)  This competition (which is really just with yourself) is to write a 50,000 word short novel from November 1st to November 30th.

In 2010 –  2,872,682,109 words were written by all participants.  In 2009 32,178 people finished (I can’t find the 2010 statistic)

I am hesitant to assign the tag ‘novel’ to what is really a thirty day ‘free form’ writing practice that results in a ‘wild-mind’ first draft. It is not to be dismissed either, at least a first draft can edited, a blank page says nothing. Writers write…and this is exactly what participants are doing.

Completing 50,000 words is an accomplishment worth celebrating – and it is not just the completed first draft. Here are a few of the other lessons learned.

1) I can write anywhere, the conditions do not have to be perfect (at a tidy desk, in an atmospheric cafe, etc).

2) Stolen moments can be productive. It does not have to be large block of time. Only have fifteen minutes?….another 250 words can be added. It also keeps the ideas churning, many new and interesting plot points came out of these fifteen minute ‘bursts’.

I make a vow to never say that “I don’t have time.” Instead I may say that I am choosing to <<insert any pressing activity>> and I will make up the time <<insert a new time>>”. It is a subtle difference but it has a more positive feel and empowers oneself that they are actually making decisions instead of being buffeted by circumstance. Family, work, other commitments will naturally compete for your time. It’s having a back-up plan and when watching television or playing on-line games, etc, present themselves, you ‘choose’ to write. When November is done, this is a great habit to maintain your momentum. 

As writing is not my day job, I used weekends to play catch up and a few well placed days off mid month kept me on target. As can be seen in the graph, I settled into a routine towards the end. There was a buoyancy in the final two weeks when I found my stride and the stress was replaced by the feeling ‘I’m going to make it’.

My typical day was up early enough to write for an hour and a half before work. A cup of tea, computer primed the night before and left in stand-by mode, no clutter in the immediate vicinity. No checking emails, Facebook, or Twitter.

Another hour was required each night. Thankfully many nights I was able to devote larger chunks of time.  Did I miss some days? Of Course. The NaNoWriMo web site offers each registered author precise metrics to keep track of their progress.

3) Don’t Edit, don’t go back. Forward is the only direction that matters. At the end of my writing sessions I would try and break off before the end of an important scene. It is easier to pick up this thread and gain momentum than to start cold every day on a new chapter or scene.

Prior to starting, I would read the previous 200-300 words to get back into the story.

Want to make a continuity change? Make a note to yourself for the next draft and carry on.

4) Using a ‘Writing’ program can help keep track of characters, timelines, and POV shifts. Just make sure you spend the time learning how to use it well in advance of the November 1st start date.  I used Writer’s Cafe and was pleased with how it kept me organized. It’s strength is the storylines timeline that allows you to re-arrange index cards, by point-of-view , one card per scene, then these cards can be further set into chapters.  In the example below, my two main characters are Matthew and Matt. Within the structure of this piece, I switch point of view characters mid chapter (see synopsis below for more on why)

Screenshot from Storylines, a component of Writer’s Cafe

5) Plan ahead. I am not an outliner but I did benefit from the instruction of New York Times bestselling author Michael A. Stackpole. Prior to November 1st I spent time developing detailed character profiles. The story then grew from these collected thoughts.

6) Celebrate your progress with a writing group. I am fortunate to have a dynamic group of people that also competed. My thanks to the The Quillians. Don’t tackle it on your own.  Don’t have a group? NaNoWriMo offer regional groups in most areas of North America.

And after? Now comes the real work, taking my 52,000 words, expanding and creating a second draft that can be shared, a third draft that can be fine tuned, a fourth draft that can be re-written….. Here is a synopsis of my latest Novel: Mexican Film

Most people, at one time or another, wish they could be in two places at once. Mathew wakes up one day to find it has really happened.

An homage to the folk magic in Mexican films, a novel based in today’s world in the tradition of magical realism. Mathew’s double heads out on the ‘path not taken’.

The symbiotic relationship is at first is exhilarating as the two characters share experiences and knowledge. It is only when the two worlds bump up against each other that Mathew must find the Crone who cast the spell and merge the two persona’s back into one. Meanwhile his double begins wondering how he can make it permanent.

Just in case the  NaNoWriMo progress stats from the webs site are not enough, my daughter tracks my progress on a giant flip chart pad. This image is from completing the 2009 challenge.

© 2010 Kevin S. Moul

In her 1976 autobiography, O’Keeffe explained, ‘…one evening when I was living in Taos [New Mexico] we walked back of the morada toward a cross in the hills. I was told that it was a Penitente cross but that meant little to me at the time. The cross was large enough to crucify a man, with two small crosses-one on either side. It was in the late light and the cross stood out-dark against the evening sky.’ Still active in northern New Mexico, part of the territory settled by the Spanish as early as the seventeeth century, Penitentes are secret lay brotherhoods that meet in remote moradas (chapels) near which they may erect crosses for their devout Passion week rites.” 

Text Source: http://www.davidrumsey.com/amica/

At the end of June I experienced a similar morning. A resident of Los Angeles stood next to me and told me, “It’s called June gloom”.  A low hanging mass of cloud shielded the sky but she assured me that “it wasn’t going to rain”. A small group had gathered on the 10th floor roof-top patio of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. My other life, my ‘day job’ (not the writer/photographer) had brought me to a luncheon meeting in a very privileged location.

Standing at the railing, I allowed myself a moment to understand the view. The suspended mist acted as a shortsighted filter that softened the edges of the buildings that were more symbols of wealth than bricks and mortar. On a map my finger would be resting on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Rodeo Drive. At street level, tourists by the hundreds take pictures of the “Pretty Woman” hotel.

An elegant meal was served while animated conversations unfolded around me. I collected my notes in very different folders. My business purpose was very clear and focused on the task at hand. The lunch was dynamic exchange of ideas and networking amongst business associates and clients. On a more subtle level, something triggered a need to assume a more Zen like posture and truly connect with the place.

During the lunch it was a tactile sensation that triggered a memory. The intermittent appearance of the sun warmed my bare skull. Then during the in-between moments, the June gloom absorbed the warmth, a residual cool breeze wicked the moisture, applying a mask of coolness. For the scientist amongst us, the human body using sweat glands to cool, latent heat expelled through evaporation.

Residents of Arizona don’t often get to experience this. With an average annual humidity of under 10%, moisture evaporates before it can leave an impression. It is the same phenomena for chilled beverages. Arizonans can often be seen tracing circles in the bubbles that form on the outside of a glass, watching with uncommon fascination as the disturbance produces tiny rivulets that coat the end of the finger and run down the glass creating circles on the countertop.

But on that day in LA the coolness in the air was a poignant reminder that there was an ocean nearby — something else that this Arizona resident longs for.  In our world a cool breeze is always traced to an A/C unit.

On a very personal level the physical sense memory that emerged was from the previous summer. An idyllic week spent on the Northern Gulf Islands of British Columbia at Hollyhock, a retreat on Cortes Island.

It was a triptych of three specific memories. Idle time spent soaking in a hot tub gazing out at the ocean. Peaceful walking meditations on the cool corrugated tidal sands. And finally, the start of the journey home, a bitter sweet water taxi ride back to Campbell River. The first of many transfers en route to Arizona. The rush of the bow in the dark waters, the wind curling around the fiberglass bulkhead, no hair on my closely shaved scalp to be tossed in my face – just the sweetness of salty air and a gentle coolness as delicious as a scalp massage.

At the time I was acutely aware of the threshold that I was crossing, leaving the embrace of a sacred place and returning to my everyday life. A life which a year later took me to Los Angeles and a day which had me looking up at the June Gloom and awakening to those memories.

A simple cool breeze generated a flush of gratitude to be able to connect these seemingly disparate moments, those in-between moments. That wasn’t ‘my other life’ but a continuum of this one that as a writer I get to string together with words.

In search of refreshment, I stop halfway to the kitchen to observe my ten year old daughter. In a cartilage induced slump, she has flayed herself half on, half off the couch, her pony tail brushing the area rug.

“Bored” she said. Then her eyes came to rest on the natural wood chest that doubled as a side table. With a twist she flopped onto the floor and rose up onto her knees. Carefully picking up a pillar candle by its iron base, she continued with the wire basket of sparkling paper-mache apples until the hinged top was clear.

My journey to the refrigerator momentarily resumed before asking. “What are doing?”

“This used to be full of games, might be something to do.” She said. Her head already bowing into the cavity.

Reaching for the juice container, I am infused with a slight pang of guilt. I should offer to play with her.

Turning back from the fridge, she stood at the granite topped island that separates the kitchen from the great room. She looked at me and held up a rectangular wooden box. The contents clicked as she slid it onto the counter. “I am going to build one of those falling down things.” She then proceeded to unpack the box of dominos.

My thoughts drifted to just moments before. “When you’re done, let’s video tape it.” The game had become a production and my daughter’s sense of showmanship ignited.

She finished building the domino fence long before the orange light stopped blinking to indicate a full battery charge. Impatience consumed another hour and the filming begun, complete with dramatic commentary and even a song.

Later that day the camera was pointed at one of our dogs during a run in the desert, the guinea pigs ‘popcorning’ (strange vertical jumps in their pen), and our cat’s lazy gaze. All of these simple domestic moments were captured onto the tiny video cassette. I was participating in a day in my family’s life.

The use of the video camera had an unexpected result. Looking through the tiny 3 x 4 lcd monitor, the gentle moments came into focus. In these days of stressful pre-occupation about the economy, difficulties in the workplace, friction with my children, family finances; I was aware of how much I have to be thankful for. All the other distracting and draining thoughts were momentarily off-frame where they belonged. Even behind the camera I was more engaged than I had been in months.

Only now, a week later as these thoughts tumble into a journal entry do I realize that the day I picked up the camera was US Thanksgiving.

As a Canadian living in the United States, I have always felt detached from this favorite American holiday. I admire the family focus it engenders but I recoil at the connection to shopping.

I often wonder about the salutation “Have a Happy Thanksgiving.” To give thanks is an outward gesture of compassion. It always feels more appropriate to wish “Have a happy holiday.”

The dominos splatter across the shiny granite surface, each pushing the next one down. The fallen henge silent as the camera moves in on my daughter’s smile.

Ultimately I found my own way to be thankful. Through the serendipity of closet, camera, daughter then family I give thanks and had a most Happy Thanksgiving.