It’s me again. Did you miss me? My training for Nanowrimo continues with this entry.

According to my trusty calendar, I have 11 days before D-day, the day that it all begins: the start of my new life of luxury and relaxation. Oh, wait. I’m thinking of my retirement day. Wrong day. In 11 days the writing marathon begins, and with it the chance to prove to myself (I won’t say “once and for all” because I don’t want to either never write again if I fail, or think that I’m going to be successful as a writer if the writing marathon succeeds) whether I can dig down into places that “I don’t talk about at cocktail parties” and find the mental energy to write. I don’t know why that line about cocktail parties entertains me so much, but I use it often; more in talking than writing, but there it is. It’s paraphrased from Jack Nicholson’s final speech in A Few Good Men and refers to the quaint discussions found at Yuppie parties, where the topics range from the fastest way to get across town during rush hour to the terrible way that our country treats poor people, and what a shame it is, and, by the way, would you like a refill on your Sapphire Martini?

If I can find the energy and commitment to make it through the 25 days in November, then I think good things will happen with my writing. A huge wall for me is the fear of not finding things to write about. When I stare at the blank computer screen, I begin to doubt whether I have things to talk about, or whether I will end up repeating myself endlessly (which is sort of like that last thought, a thought I’ve expressed countless times before and will no doubt express countless more times going forward). My hope is that once I get over this hump and prove that I can write new (if boring and poorly edited) things every day, then there is this infinite well of ideas and thoughts that I can share and the blank page will no longer scare me. At one time I had started naming my fears. I can’t remember if the blank page was a Carl or Lenny demon, but it doesn’t matter. It is one of my biggest demons and something I try to fight every time I sit down to write.

I’ve spent some time thinking about what I want to write in November. As I said in my last posting, I moved away from the Chair story back to the Pink Sweater story. If you remember, the original Pink Sweater story is about a little girl who wants to be a writer (sound familiar, except for the little part, oh, and the girl part?). The little girl writes a story about a girl who finds/is given a magical Pink Sweater that grants her powers. The trick to the story within the story is that the girl is afraid to remove the sweater for fear of losing her powers. Eventually, her school refuses to let her attend until she stops wearing her ragged, smelly sweater. Hilarity ensues, and eventually the girl must choose whether to gain acceptance of her friends and family by taking off the sweater, or continue wearing it. The story worked on two levels: first, the fear of removing the sweater. Would she lose the powers granted by it? Is it worth taking the risk? And second, the weighing of the sweater’s powers against the acceptance of her friends, family, and school officials—i.e., if she could do great things with her sweater, is it better to accept the ridicule and be an outcast, or give in to the pressure and not do the great things. This, for me, is a common theme that I like to think about. It reminds me of Ayn Rand’s Roark and my former boss Doug.

But the Pink Sweater story part was a late addition. The main part of the story, as I originally outlined it, is about how the little girl gives the story to her teacher, in the hopes of her teacher validating her desires to be a writer. Weeks pass and her teacher give no feedback. The teacher finally discusses the story during the teacher-parent-student conference that the little girl and her mother attend. Her mother, however, has other plans for her daughter. She sees her daughter as a doctor or lawyer, not as a starving writer, and belittles her daughter’s attempts at writing. “It’s just a hobby,” she tells the teacher. “She wants to be a lawyer, and this is just a way for her to practice her writing. No, she won’t need information on any writing classes. As I said, this is just a passing fad for her.” The little girl sits quietly and, like the girl in her story, must choose between her mother’s acceptance and pursuing her dreams of writing.

As you can see, I gave this story some thought, but I never wrote it. I did start a few times, only to find myself at dead ends. It was a cute story, but I had problems with the little girl’s voice and providing the context for the family relations. In short, I grew bored with the concept. I have many notes on this story, but I won’t link to them since you probably wouldn’t follow the links. Another “twist” that I had synopsized (or skeletonized, as Doolies and her doctor friends say) was the teacher, who, herself, was either a failed writer or failed administrator. It’s the teacher, at the end, who takes the Pink Sweater and finishes it years after the little girl grows up and becomes a famous oncologist. The ending the teacher chooses: something about the girl deciding to give up the sweater and becoming popular with the children and teachers who had once made fun of her. What good was the power of the sweater when you couldn’t get people to like you, she would think.

But what fascinated me more than the mother/daughter/teacher relationship, or even the corny ending, is the Pink Sweater story. I love the idea that the magical pink sweater would become worn and smelly, and the choice that the little girl (or any wearer of the sweater) will have to make to continue using its powers. The rest of the story is rather artificial, and its main character is an aspiring writer, something that is a no-no for most stories (mostly, I’m guessing, because there are so many stories about writers written by writers. “Write what you know,” is what they tell us. But what do we know more about than the horror that is writing? The best example of a successful writer-as-main-character story is John Irving’s The World According to Garp. I think I like that book particularly because Garp, the writer/protagonist, ends up living the good life: writing for a living, and not otherwise working. (Spoiler alert: That he dies a gruesome death at the end is unimportant. John Irving did a wonderful job of forwarding his philosophy that novels are just long obituaries—i.e., everyone dies in the end, and that’s as good as any place to end a story.) I don’t know why I keep returning to this dream, but you did ask about it.

A few nights ago, as I was lying in bed, thinking about what I had gotten myself into by agreeing to the Marathon (that’s the name I’ll use for it from now on—it makes it sound more athletic, like I’m competing in something that requires lots of spaghetti the night before), fighting down the excitement mixed liberally with fear, I began thinking about the story. As I said before, I initially thought about telling the Chair story. I even thought about a first line, which I recorded on my phone before falling to sleep. I listened to it about 30 seconds ago before erasing it. Of course, knowing my horrendous short-term memory, which is only slightly better than my long-term memory, I promptly forgot what it is I recorded before typing it here. It wasn’t a very memorable line: something about living a life of regrets (you should have heard my sleepy voice in the recording). I spent some time going through the Chair story in my mind and remembering the storylines I had developed. At the end of that exercise (or perhaps it was the next day), I discovered why I never followed through with the story. It bored me. If I could create great, memorable characters and an interesting town, then the story would be interesting. But knowing my experience and talents (or lack thereof), I didn’t think I would be able to do that, and I still don’t think I could do that. It just doesn’t seem my style. The story synopsis, when I thought about it, reminded me (give me a second while I find this on Amazon) of Richard Russo’s Empire Falls (wow, lots of book references today), which is about interesting characters in an interesting locale, and a moderately uninteresting storyline. His story is good (Pulitzer Prize wining, if that matters or impresses you) because of the interesting characters and locale. Without it, the story would be boring and painful to read.

So, I was lying in bed, thinking through the Chair story when I decided that I didn’t want to dig up my notes on it and tell that story. Even though it was well planned out (I think I had even written an outline of the major events and characters), it bored me. That’s when I started to rethink the Pink Sweater story. There were a few problems with that story. The most glaring one in my mind was that it was more of a children’s story. When you have a child as the main character, the sophistication of the thoughts can be limited. Looking back, that’s one of the reasons that I thought the mother or teacher would make a better narrator, but, of course, that creates problems as well. How could I tell a complete story from such a limited perspective? The main problem, however, is what I discussed before. The mother/teacher/little girl part of the story just wasn’t as interesting to me anymore. I was more interested in hearing about the Pink Sweater. But the story of the Pink Sweater was even worse when it came to characters and locale. It took place at a school and the main characters were the little girl, her parents, and the little girl’s friends and teachers. Not what I would consider the most interesting characters to live with (at least from an adult’s perspective).

That’s when the eureka moment occurred. What if instead of a little girl wearing the sweater, it came into the possession of an older person, perhaps an older male person. Perhaps, an older, male, cynical person—someone like, I don’t know, myself? (That is not to say that the main character is going to be me or have anything to do with me. It’s just his voice I’m talking about.) This started to come together with fighting the Carl Demon I discussed above: I’m pretty good with writing lots of stuff in musing form using this voice, but when I try to write fiction, I find myself limited by what I can say and how I say it. If I adopt this first-person voice (think of Chuck Palahniuk’s narrator, the same guy story after story) and use it to tell a story, a story about a pink sweater and magical powers, and rescuing damsels in distress (okay, perhaps the last part is going too far), then the words might flow more easily.

That’s about as far as I’ve gotten with this idea. I’m going to spend the next 11 days planning this story and arriving at a decent synopsis and characterization. What I do know is that the man with the pink sweater (MWTPS) is going to find himself with the same conflict between wearing the smelly sweater and taking it off. I’m thinking of an anti-hero scenario, where he wants to help people with his powers, but, first, can’t find where to help people (it’s not like you can just walk around and find crimes to stop), and, second, is ridiculed because of the pink sweater. His job (which I’m not sure what it’s going to be) will be at risk, as will his relationships. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

These ideas, which are swirling contently in my head, I will try to develop over the next couple of weeks. For now, I’m approaching the 2,000 word goal for the day. I’m thinking from Doolies’s reaction yesterday that fewer and fewer people will read these long entries. I’m okay with that. I’m actually probably more than okay, especially once November rolls around. I’m not sure if I really want people reading the drivel (I’m using this word often lately) that comes out of my mouth…errr…fingers.

Word count before editing: 2,060, time before editing: 1 hour. Caffeination: Vanilla Coke and Tall Mocha. Word count after editing: 2,208, editing time: 15 minutes.