Thursday, 11 April 2013
I haven't read any Reilly but King does (ahem) the odd memorable character and Freeman/Wilkins is frankly pretty amazing. And a writer who really worries about characters (or, if 'worries' isn't the right word, someone who creates truly authentic, memorable characters) is Joyce Carol Oates, who apparently writes from 8-1 every day and in that time has quite possibly written more books than I've read.
I'm in my forties and have published one novel, word count about 60,000 words. I've been writing all my life, so (leaving out the unpublished stuff under my metaphorical mattress i.e. on my hard drive) that's 1.5 words per day. One of my literature lecturers once said that Ernest Hemmingway wrote 500 words a day, so he could concentrate on quality. I write 1.5 words per day, so I can concentrate on deciding whether or not to get my hair recoloured, on whether the calories in a piece of cheese are worth it, on what to wear out on Friday, on Facebook, and on picking off bits of nail polish.
On a positive note, today I've written 600, which is well above average. Even more if blog posts count. If I ever meet Stephen King, I'll have to ask.
Tuesday, 9 April 2013
This morning, I planned to work on my WIP. So far, instead, I have:
1. read a chapter in "Writing 21st Century Fiction";
3. considered creating a blog post concerning why my thoughts seem to be coming out in lists;
4. created, instead, an unpublishable blog post about plotting or pantsing, during which I (mostly) discouraged myself with the reminder that it's very possible to fail at either;
5. created a mental list of possible titles for my WIP (ranging from 'Burned' to 'Strawberry Jam and the Homesick Soul'--my attempt at the worst possible title, because after that, the right one will sound right... right?);
5. written, as an exercise, a paragraph of my WIP in which the action takes place completely in reverse (thank you, Martin Amis, for ''Time's Arrow");
6. replaced all my original commas in this post with semi-colons;
7. stared out the window at my view of hills, pock-marked with new housing development, and wondered about the death of the semi-colon; and
8. rehung my collection of cardigans so that all like-colours are grouped together.
Thus does 'Strawberry Jam and the Homesick Soul' come to life. Or not. Meanwhile, life will be a lot easier next time I'm wondering where all my yellow cardigans are.