NaNoWriMo2008

I've been slogging through my fourth novel, wondering what's going to happen next and how I'm going to complete 50,000 words by Nov. 30. I'm not that far off target right now, but I'm still not where I should be.

It's not easy being a month-long novelist. There's persistence, creative problem solving, forgetting/ignoring the daily pressures of life, giving up watching TV in prime time, and self-trickery/bribery involved (no candy until you finish 1,667 words!). All in my spare time, the little that I have of it.

I'm savvy now to my writing ways, though. That's part of the problem. I've always been a seat-of-the-pants fiction writer. I start out not knowing ANYTHING significant about the novel except the first line. It doesn't always stay the first line, but it always starts there. Some years I've had vague, random situations and images floating in my brain in the days before.

I couldn't catch them easily. They were like shadows passing in the night. Some years, I had a great opening situation and the characters took off improvising their lines and actions in a wild romp.

The first year was the easiest, I think, to quote my wise niece Nico, because I didn't know I didn't know. I didn't know that I didn't know what I was doing. I just did it! I didn't know what I was doing, what to expect, and the sky was the limit. Since then, I've come to think that I know a little something about crafting a work of fiction. Oooohhhh... that was dangerous. Now I have expectations that my first draft won't be crap.

But all first drafts are crap, to paraphrase Hemingway.

So here's the situation: I've crafted 17,550 words so far....and until this morning, I didn't know what the heck was going on. I had vague notions. My two main characters were running around the desert, young girls who should have been back home spending their summer vacation bored and complaining like most self-respecting pre-pubescents. But, no, my characters had to go flying off in a magic carpet for adventure.

As the word count grew, I was throwing all sorts of trouble their way -- mysterious assailants, losing their valuables, running away from danger, buying a donkey that they couldn't take back home with them -- but they weren't growing, the tension wasn't building, and, frankly, I didn't know how I was going to pull 50,000 words out of them.

But now, this morning, I thought, I'd better sit down and figure out, even if it's still vague, some sort of plot arch. What are they doing so far from home? Why did matter that they were there, now? So what started out as a fantasy novel has turned, I think, into a geopolitical thriller involving magic carpets that can travel through time and space, family secrets, a bloodless coup d'etat in a major Middle Eastern country, spies, and poor judgment by a 12-year-old who just might end up changing the course of history.

Who'd have thunk it?

Between Keys

Another longtime friend, Suzé DiPietro, has published her second novel as well! (These literati are coming out of the woodwork these days! See the next post.)

This rock 'n rollers-meet-vampires romp, entitled, Between Keys, is available on Barnes and Noble's Web site.

I'm so proud of her, as well. I have the added pleasure of having been there when the plot was just an intriguing idea to talk about as we walked along the Ocean City beach lo those many years ago.

Sticky Wicket Vol. 2: Watkins Fights Back

I'm very proud of my longtime friend and former editor, Ewart Rouse, for publishing his second very funny book about cricket and the cast of South Jersey fellows who are obsessed with the sport. Read a review in his former newspaper, the Inquirer.

To pick up your own copy, go to this page on Amazon.com, but be sure to read "Sticky Wicket Vol. 1: Watkins at Bat" first!

John and the boys...

Feeding Creativity

Read more here:

NYT: "Can you become a Creature of New Habits?"

More to come...

Northern California, September 2004

This morning I was remembering our great trip to California in 2004 and dug out these old journal entries. Enjoy!

"Don't worry -- I break for emus," I call out from the car as we ride slowly, verrrrryy slowly, down the gravel drive to the Alpicella Vineyard.

Betsy is doing her best to shoo Edwina, their newest emu, out of the way so I can park. Betsy motions the bird to my left and my car to the right, but Edwina bolts to the right.

I'm laughing so hard that I go a little faster than the bird expects, and it spooks her. She rounds on the hood of the car and I have visions of speckled emu feathers flying through the air to land, slow motion, on the gravel driveway, another victim of modern man.

I stop. Just in case.

Betsy finally coaxes the bird toward her and I quickly park. John and I are out of the car in seconds, and words are spilling out. I'm talking to Dan about the emu and he's apologizing ("She's new and got out of the pen. We don't usually let the animals run around.") and John is getting the lowdown on the emu from Betsy ("She's new. Our other emu was killed by a mountain lion earlier this year. They hunted the animal down and killed her, but I think there are still two not-quite-grown cubs out there.").

Alpicella Vineyard, 1,500 feet above Santa Rosa in Sonoma County, California. The sign at the entrance says "The End of the World 500 feet" and when you arrive and see the two emus, the two llamas, the two miniature Italian donkeys, the deck overlooking the valley, the wine cellar where Dan ferments his wine, and the pool that Betsy says you can skinny dip in, it is true. You are the end of the earth. And it feels really nice.

There is just one cottage available for rent on the property and we're the lucky residents for the three-day weekend. Betsy shows us around the place -- the deck, the pool, the grape orchard down below, and the cottage. The cottage is an appendage to the main house, but completely separate. The Tuscan kitchen with its terra cotta tiles transports you overseas and, looking out the back window at the mountain rising above you, you know why the Italians settled Napa and Sonoma to grow grapes.

A complimentary bottle of organic 1998 Alterra Sangiovese wine is waiting for us in the kitchen and the light is getting just right. Time for sunset and Sangiovese on the pool deck.

We capture the sunset in dozens of photos before we finish a hunk of cheese and one glass each.

It's heaven. Wine with the reddening horizon and a crescent moon shining like a slivered pearl descending into the west.

How could anyone think of living any other way?

* * *

The next morning, we have a leisurely breakfast on the back porch of our cottage. Grapes grow next to the railing. Tiny black fruits are shriveling down to raisins on the vine. Then, it was off to the grape harvest. Goal: two tons, with the help of four expert pickers, along with Dan, Betsy, and their friend David.

The workers use a sharp curved knife and economy of motion to fill yellow tub after yellow tub with rich blue-purple grapes. In the time Betsy takes to fill one tub, the workers have moved up and down both sides of an entire row. The workers, only one of whom speaks English, work in pairs. The first would move ahead fast, pulling off leaves that hid the grapes and giving the other worker a clear view of the dozens of grapes hanging down. After a few yards, the first worker doubles back and begins cutting bunches off the vines.

As they work, the leave two lines of leaves and, every few yards, a tub of grapes.

Betsy hands John a bunch to taste. I don't know how many he's had, but he wants to try his own hand at cutting the grapes, so he hands the small bunch of grapes to me. Each grape tastes sweeter and richer than any I have ever tasted. Sangiovese grapes aren't the usual supermarket fare. I spit out the seeds as I go and instead of taking picture after picture, I watch the grape pickers. They ignore me, as they should. I'm just a tourist -- they are there to work.

Two hours, two tons. "We only have 15 minutes left," Dan calls out. "Betsy, you'll have to help."

We leave them to their work, walking back up the hill. Their work that day will yield 400 gallons of wine.

* * *

The stampede starts around sunset.

Cuca, a miniature Italian donkey, is full of energy, just like any youngster.

John and I have our wine glasses and cameras at the ready.

There are six members of the ranch herd: Eddie and Edwina Emu, Bahama Llama and Rama Llama, and the donkeys, Momma and Cuca.

Cuca just can't settle down. He runs at his mother and she ignores him. Perhaps she's been worn out by his boundless energy all day.

The llamas and emus are another story.

Cuca runs at them and they bolt, thundering hooves and bird feet hammering the dry soil. They run yards and yards to the right, rounding the edge of the house, which is perched on the side of a hill. There are fences to keep them confined near the house and hopefully to keep more mountain lions out. The sounds fade and we have a moment's respite to sip our wine.

Then the thundering starts again.

This time, Cuca is dashing back towards us, emus and llamas following close behind. I track the donkey's progress with my camera lens as they pass. Got it.

They reach the next fence to the far left and the ritual repeats.

"They do this every night," Betsy tells me.

The sun fades. We relax and enjoy the spectacular view. The animals eventually tire and quiet settles over the vineyard.

Ezra and Soren in Sycamore Park