So you want to write a novel. Cool. Do you have a writing routine? What are they? Share them with us. I know no one's routine is like another’s. I had none in the beginning. I was undisciplined. Somehow I finished my first novel and looked like a marathoner who came in last. While writing FLESH, which will be published by Black Heron Press in 2011, I was regimented. I wrote every day. Each day faithfully by sticking to the seven rules—7 is my lucky number.
#1—find discipline in solitude, in aloneness so you can meet your characters. It’s like a rendez-vous with ghosts. Then make that meeting every day or every night with no excuses.
#2—write each scene as if it were the only thing in your universe; it must command all your attention.
#3—write one scene well and that scene would breed the next scene.
#4—leave room for readers to participate: don’t overwrite.
#5—stop where you still have something to say so the next day you wouldn’t face a dry well.
#6—read each day to keep your mind off your own writing.
#7—don’t believe in any other rules except yours.
If you were born to write, write something, even if it’s just a suicide note. When you write, you’re the only writer that exists, none before you, none after you. Somewhere I remember ToniMorrison once said, "I wrote my first novel because I wanted to read it."
Let me ask you: Do you take anything you read seriously? I do, only when it really knocks me out. "You wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it." Don’t you love a reader like HoldenCaulfield in The Catcher in the Rye? And GrouchoMarx. "From the moment I picked up your book until I laid it down, I was convulsed with laughter. Some day I intend reading it."
Thanks, Ron. FLESH is a literary novel. In fact, Black Heron Press publishes mainly literary fiction and many of its titles have won prestigious literary awards since 1996.
Then there was the bad weather. It would come in one day when the fall was over. You would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the wind drove the rain against the big green autobus at the terminal and the Café des Amateurs was crowded and the windows misted over from the heat and the smoke inside. It was a sad, evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness. The men and women who frequented the Amateurs stayed drunk all of the time or all of the time they could afford it; mostly on wine which they bought by the half-liter or liter. Many strangely named apéritifs were advertised, but few people could afford them except as a foundation to build their wine drunks on. The women drunkards were called poivrottes which meant female rummies.
The Café des Amateurs was the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard, that wonderful narrow crowded market street which led into the Place Contrescarpe. The squat toilets of the old apartment houses, one by the side of the stairs on each floor with two cleated cement shoe-shaped elevations on each side of the aperture so a locataire would not slip, emptied into cesspools which were emptied by pumping into horse-drawn tank wagons at night. In the summer time, with all windows open, you would hear the pumping and the odor was very strong. The tank wagons were painted brown and saffron color and in the moonlight when they worked the rue Cardinal Lemoine their wheeled, horse-drawn cylinders looked like Braque paintings. No one emptied the Café des Amateurs though, and its yellowed poster stating the terms and penalties of the law against public drunkenness was as flyblown and disregarded as its clients were constant and ill-smelling.
All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops, the midwife—second class—and the hotel where Verlaine had died where you had a room on the top floor where you worked.
—ErnestHemingway(A Good Café on the Place St.-Michel)
19 inches of a green screen tv
The tv was on. Kids stared straight into the tube, heads held by miniature hands.
It was a black & white set, with a piece of green plastic glued to the tube. The old man liked it like that. It stayed like that. Period.
Good post.
ReplyDeleteMany writers don't realize the discipline it takes to write a novel. Congratulations on "Flesh". What genre is it?
I found this post through AgentQuery and shall bookmark it.
Thanks again,
Ron Repp
Ron@RepProductions.net
Thanks, Ron. FLESH is a literary novel. In fact, Black Heron Press publishes mainly literary fiction and many of its titles have won prestigious literary awards since 1996.
ReplyDeleteExcellent rules to write by. #4 is one I should have in front of me at all times.
ReplyDeleteI'm on the same page with Toni Morrison: I write what I want to read. I don't always succeed, sometimes I bore myself silly...but I try.
Hehe. I looked at all the yummy tomatoes you had yesterday and dreamed a horrid dream about my sis.
ReplyDelete