... when I began to write. It was November 1st... the day I wrote the first words (Once upon a time... ) of my now famous novel, Robbin' Hood: He stole from the rich and gave at the office.
It was NaNoWriMo--National Novel Writing Month--when lots of writers around the world vow to put at least 50,000 words on paper by the last day of November.
Many don't make it. Last year I killed-off all of my characters before the ides of November. Some writers can't get that very important first sentence... 'the grabber,' just right. It's as if they were trying to win the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction contest for the worst first sentence ever... like these did:
"Toads of glory, slugs of joy," sang Groin the dwarf as he trotted jovially down the path before a great dragon ate him because the author knew that this story was a train wreck after he typed the first few words.
Leopold looked up at the arrow piercing the skin of the dirigible with a sort of wondrous dismay -- the wheezy shriek was just the sort of sound he always imagined a baby moose being beaten with a pair of accordions might make.
Like a mechanic who forgets to wipe his hands on a shop rag and then goes home, hugs his wife, and gets a grease stain on her favorite sweater - love touches you, and marks you forever.
As a scientist, Throckmorton knew that if he were ever to break wind in the echo chamber, he would never hear the end of it.
Andre, a simple peasant, had only one thing on his mind as he crept along the East wall: 'Andre creep... Andre creep... Andre creep.'
Although Sarah had an abnormal fear of mice, it did not keep her from eeking out a living at a local pet store.
Stanley looked quite bored and somewhat detached, but then, penguins often do.
Like an over-ripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the corpulent remains of Santa Claus lay dead on the hotel floor.
Mike Hardware was the kind of private eye who didn't know the meaning of the word 'fear'; a man who could laugh in the face of danger and spit in the eye of death -- in short, a moron with suicidal tendencies.
Well, I tell you, it's really not hard to write a novel, it's just hard to make it good enough for anyone but a close relative or someone who REALLY loves you, to want to read. Here's why I write short stories:
- You don't have to remember your characters for the next day of writing, because there isn't any.
- You don't loose sleep over what you will say in Chapter II.
- You don't have to overwhelmingly burden anyone who HAS to read it because they love you. It only takes a little burden... sort of like having a zit instead of an amputation.
- You don't develop carpal tunnel syndrome--that's for suckers.
- You don't excessively use $75 worth of ink for your printer, or waste reams of paper that would be wadded up on the floor because you missed the waste basket.
- Your title can be as long as you want because hey, what's a few dozen extra words if there aren't many in the first place.
- You can finish it before you die.