Second days are harder than first days. I fueled yesterday’s writing through novelty (relative novelty, that is—this wasn’t the first time I set a goal, but probably my fourth goal setting maneuver). I struck out to write words and spent whole paragraphs (my only currency when staring at the blank screen) on the who’s and why’s of the goal. But today, like most second days, I find myself staring, unsure where my fingers will take me, or whether, I should state, they, in their digit-like glory, will take me anywhere.

Like most slow days, I’ll start this writing with my daily recap as an exercise, a way to warm up my brain (and, truthfully, as a way to eat up words). The day started rather poorly. I woke up early for a predawn meeting (my definition of predawn is before ten, for the record, if you were so inclined to keep one), and without even a shake of my head, I knew that it was a headachy day. I popped an Advil and went about my morning routine. For the first time this month, I showered before the Doolies in the early morning darkness.

After a cafeteria lunch—during which I ate one of the best and freshest baguettes (outside of Europe) I have ever eaten, with a crunchy and buttery crust, and a not-too-squishy crust bread-part—my headache retreated to the balcony section, leaving me with the feeling that it was watching from far away, waiting for its next opportunity to run down the aisle to stick its power drill in my eye. This didn’t happen, thankfully, and my day turned out rather well.

After writing the above, I spent a few paragraphs of currency randomly spewing thoughts on the page. Nothing worth reading, but the words do count toward that total, and seeing as I’m not ready to throw back and write stories, I figured I’d share. The nonsense turned slowly into a repute of my secret story, again with the “wonderful and unexpected” theme that boils through my brain. What I’m trying to say is that what follows is David’s writing thought process, a painful reading of internal thoughts that I recorded to push my wordcount above where it should be (i.e., push it toward my goal since I haven’t made the goal “story” words). It’s meta-writing at its worst. I just thought I’d warn you, is all. (And, no, this doesn’t count as throat clearing. Really.)

Struggles with worlds of trouble. Random words spewed across the glassy lake. Righteousness rides random rollers across roiling rivers of right-angled railways. Nonsense breeds nonsensical unorganized thoughts.

Think! Unexpected and wonderful! It’s not your first thought of what would happen. E.g. (from “Garden State”): Your protag is home for his mother’s funeral. You want to introduce a friend. How do you do it? (A) He calls the friend when he gets home; (B) The friend goes to the funeral (C) Best (and the choice of Zach Brach—WWZBD?): the friend is a gravedigger watching the funeral. See? This is wonderful and unexpected! Set events in motion and ask, how best should I do this? How best should I introduce this character? How best to make the plot element (introducing a friend) happen? The plot elements don’t have to be hard or complicated (look at this one!) it’s how’s and why’s that are important.

Look at your failed story: Riding in a car, falling in love with a woman on a serial radio program. You want them to meet. How did you do it? He listens to the radio, and during an important part in the program, the signal dies out as he drives through a tunnel because of traffic. He goes to the station to find out what happened and meets the actor playing the woman. Boring! Not terribly unexpected, and certainly not wonderful. Make it so! Think! Don’t just accept your initial reaction. Second e.g.: Want to show that their difference in age is significant and may cause problems. My initial solution: go to a dinner and show the woman’s older friends (in this case, much older friends, even relative to the woman’s age). Stupid old person jokes commence. Hilarity ensues. Boring! Think. Where’s the wonderful or unexpected?

Writing is about story and then plot. It’s about original thought and not throwing down the first thought that crosses my mind. How do I reconcile that with the openness of writing what I feel, what I want to say? They say that it’s the job of the first draft to throw stuff on the ground, and the job of the rewrites to turn the first draft into a story. I’m not sure if that’s true. Once I’ve written the idea (such as the driving through the tunnel—which, I should say after rereading the description, isn’t exactly expected, although what happens next certainly is), it sometimes feels too late to rethink it.

What I experimented with a few days last year during the Marathon was throwing down a few line outline each day before I started. The outline didn’t have to be followed, but it was my initial thought, and, and here’s where I’m stretching, if I apply some OT (original thought) to that outline, it is possible, and I’m using that possibility in a very loose sense, I might come up with the unexpected and wonderful scenarios that I’m craving. And, yes, since I keep saying that, part of the U&W relates to cleverness. But I have to stop lying to myself. Without cleverness in addition to feeling, I don’t want to write. It is who I am, why I enjoy DFW and why I write asides with too many commas and em-dashes.

Okay, I’m going to talk a bit more about my goal before calling it a night and eating our wonderful chicken leg soup and watching a possibly (but unlikely) wonderful Netflixed movie. Obviously, I’m meta-writing again. And while some meta-writing is inevitable (this is David we’re talking about), I shouldn’t use it as a crutch to meet a Goal. Tomorrow, I’m going to write the Goal with story words, and then, if I have time left over (or possibly words, if I feel I’ve accomplished something), I’ll meta-write about the process.

That bit of meta-meta-writing about the Goal pushed me over said Goal. I’m at 1,066 words with a yummy Mocha.