Novel Writing for Dummies

My novel sucks so far.

Well, first of all, that’s okay, because it’s supposed to suck. You’re just supposed to put down words as fast as you can. This is about quantity, not quality. Quality can come later. If ever. No, don’t even think about quality, because that will inhibit your quantity. And again, it’s all about quantity.

Not Quantico. Quantity.

Okay, the excess verbiage and random thought-spewing is spilling over into my blog. I can’t tell if that’s good or not. I try to use a certain amount of decorum here. I try to write nice, flowing sentences and I usually try to let each entry have a theme, not just random musings about my day. I try to let each entry be about Something Greater; I try to let each entry say Something about the human condition. After all, my god, people are gonna read this thing!

Anyway, did I say novel? If by “novel” I meant something that has no plot, rhyme, reason, or shred of imagination, then that’s what I meant. I’ve never written a novel before. And so, as this is my first novel, it’s turning out to be… come on, say it with me… autobiographical. All first novels are autobiographical, unless you’re one of those people who has a “stunning first novel” or a “stellar first novel reminiscent of Camus, Naipul and Updike all rolled into one.” (Blech. Mayonnaise and chili and peanut butter, anyone? Great tastes taste great together.)

I’m no good at plot. I’m not even any good at characters, apparently. What I’m good at is intellectualness. Writing about thoughts and concepts and such. Perhaps I’d make a good New Yorker essayist. Well, no, because they actually write about things. My thoughts are all over the place. I’m very internal-oriented, thoughts-and-feelings-oriented, not events-oriented. So not much has happened in my novel so far, except for the main character (a.k.a. me) basically recounting bits of his life through random memories. And I’m trying to type it at light speed without really seeing if anything makes sense. Or even has a common thread. My gosh.

Well, when you knit a sweater, it doesn’t look like a sweater at first. It looks like a glob of yarn. And when I’m finished, this is gonna be a damn butt-ugly sweater. Not even Quasimodo’s gonna wear it.

Anyway: 1,787 words down (the year of the Constitutional Convention!), and let’s see, that makes, uh… 48,213 words to go. Not sure what’s going to happen in the year 48,213, but I’m sure H.G. Wells will be involved somehow. Or H.R. Puffinstuf. But I don’t really know who that is. I’m too young for that. I never liked the Kroft Superstar people anyway. I was all about the Superfriends.

Wonder Twin Powers, activate! Shape of, a walrus! Form of, a bucket of ice water! Come on, Jayna! Grab the bucket with your walrus tusks!

Gleek gleek gleek gleek GLEEK gleek gleek!

Shape of, a novel! Form of, a piece of chaos!

A beautiful, ugly piece of chaos.

Treats

For some reason, my new phone line is already working, so I’m able to tool around on the Internet tonight.

Also, inexplicably, I have cable TV, even though the cable isn’t supposed to be turned on until Saturday. This is glorious. For one thing, it’s the first time that this particular TV set has been hooked up to cable since June 1998. For another thing, this is the first time I’ve both had cable TV and lived alone since May 1997. It’s been four years since I’ve been able to watch cable TV in the privacy of my own home! Amazing! Did you know you can watch the news 24 hours a day? And you can watch movies? And there’s this show with these four foul-mouthed kids made out of construction paper?

Tonight I sat and ate a microwave dinner and watched “The West Wing” with such great clarity of picture. In my old apartment I didn’t have cable and I got rotten reception for the TV channels I did have. And as I watched tonight, you know what I heard from the street? Nothing! And my windows were open so I wouldn’t inhale paint fumes! It was wonderful.

Last night I had dinner with the Piano Man. He just got back from vacation on Monday night, so this was our first time seeing each other in two weeks. We went to a Ukranian diner on 2nd Avenue called Vasilka or something like that. I’m sure you East Villagey people know where it is and how it’s really spelled. Me, I’m having a rare moment of orthographic distress. (Which has nothing to do with birds.)

We had a really nice time. I’d forgotten about his sense of humor. It’s very dry and deadpan, and I like it. We sat down to eat, and the first thing he did was pick up the enormous menu and open it, intentionally blocking out his entire face. Trust me, it was funny. I guess you had to be there.

And, even though I’m Jewish, last night’s dinner was only my first borscht experience.

Anyway, it was a nice evening. And I’m seeing him again on Saturday night.

I’m trying to pace it here. I can’t tell whether I’m worried about him moving too quickly or me moving too quickly. A little bit of both, I think. I mean, my life is kind of nice right now, being able to go online or go to a bar and meet people and have sloppy sex with them. I wonder if I want to lose that.

But anyway, I’m going to move slowly, and I’m going to do what feels natural. Even if those goals are contradictory.

In other news, I was thinking about the other night — my paranoia about Wes and TRHG possibly getting together. After I wrote Monday’s night’s entry, I thought to myself, maybe I did something good. I mean, in a way I threw a little party. And what’s the thrill inherent in hosting a party? Bringing disparate people together. Being responsible for their meeting each other. You have Power. You are The Host. You Bring People Closer. So if Wes and TRHG wind up having a night of sloppy sex, or several nights of sloppy sex, or if they wind up becoming friends — then it will have been my doing. I will have been responsible for bringing some more happiness into the world. I will have increased humanity’s collective happiness quotient. And that’s a good thing. See, the happiness pie isn’t finite. One person’s happiness (or two people’s happiness) doesn’t take away from another person’s happiness. Rather, if one person become happier, we all become happier.

Unless your idea of happiness is sending anthrax through the mail. Then we’re all very unhappy.

Tonight I’ve continued to set up my apartment. I’ve found the right place for my bookshelves, I’ve cleaned most of the kitchen, all the boxes are in the appropriate rooms and just need to be unpacked (mostly books and CDs). And right now I have some underwear in the dryer. Isn’t that fascinating? I know, my life’s a thrill. Unfortunately, the dryer is really, really slow. I’ve been trying to get those undershirts dry for at least two hours now. At this rate, my laundry will be done by Thanksgiving.

Oh yeah, it’s Halloween tonight, isn’t it.

On Halloween 1985, I won first prize in my fifth grade class for my costume. I went as the King of Diamonds. Yeah, the card. My mom made this costume for me out of two pieces of sandwich board. She drew the whole thing in painstaking detail. It was pretty amazing. It was a pain to wear, though, because whenever I walked, my knees would bang against the front of the card. Plus it was hard to carry that stupid plastic pumpkin full of candy.

If I seem like I’m rambling tonight, it’s because I’m trying to get in the habit of verbal diarrhea. See, I have to write a 50,000-word novel during the month of November. That’s about 2,000 words a day, and that’s assuming I’m going to take very few days off. We’ll see if I can do it. Choire is doing it, too, as are some other people.

I know there seems to be a lot of Choire-love going on here lately, but I can just say how amazed I am at the man’s capacity to link? Where do you find these things? I’m envious. I miss the days when I could surf all over the crashing waves of the Web at work and find interesting blogs and links. I feel like I’ve been really derelict in reaching out to the blogging community lately; I feel like I’ve retreated into my own blog instead of surfing around and exploring other people’s sites. It would be nice to get back into that.

Anyway, I’m going to go check on my underwear again. Happy Hunting.

Success! and Inner Paranoia

Okay. Remember when I said I wasn’t going to blog for a few days? I lied. After successfully moving this evening, I’ve walked back to my — can I say it? I can say it! — my FORMER apartment, laptop in tow, so I can hook up to a working phone line, check my e-mail, and, most importantly, blog.

I’m sitting on the floor of my old bedroom, typing away. It’s empty now. I moved into this place a year ago — Monday, October 30, 2000. Oh, what a year it’s been. Oh, the memories. Haw.

There really aren’t many exciting memories about this place, or even many good ones. But a few things stick out. I remember waking up in the middle of the night after living here just a week, an insomniac, doing a jigsaw puzzle at 3:30 in the morning, and then turning on the TV to be confronted by the strange news, four days before the presidential election, that Texas Governor George W. Bush had been arrested for drunk driving back in the late ’70s. Huh? Was I really awake? Is this for real?

Then there was that crazy night, a few nights later — Tuesday, November 7, 2000. I sat on a chair in my barely unpacked apartment, glued to the TV, switching news channels like crazy until 5:00 in the morning, mesmerized as surreal, crazy, unforgettable Election Night 2000 unfolded. And then folded. And then unfolded again.

What other memories do I have of this place? Not many. Mostly having sex with people. Or blogging. Or sitting on the couch on Wednesday night watching “Dawson’s Creek” and “The West Wing.” Or coming home late on a weekend night after carousing in Manhattan. Or staying home from work one day in early spring, sitting up in bed in my sweatpants reading “Battle Cry of Freedom” and eating fried egg sandwiches.

That’s about it. Not much drama happened here, but there was some living. Plain, ordinary, unexciting living.

As for the move tonight — it couldn’t have gone more smoothly! There was no problem picking up the U-Haul. There was a scary moment this morning when I realized that the location of the U-Haul place was inaccurate on the map, meaning it was not within walking distance, and I had no way of getting there. So I wound up switching to a different U-Haul dealer and getting a smaller truck — for ten bucks cheaper, by the way.

There were five of us moving my stuff. Five motivated, energetic people: two of my coworkers, females, and two of my gay Jersey City friends, males. Those two males, by the way, were Tall Red-Haired Guy and Wes. If you’ve been reading, you know all about my history with Wes. And if you’re good at remembering things, you will recall that Tall Red-Haired Guy is my friend and occasional make-out partner. (And he helped me get boxes on Saturday.) Neither of the two had met before, and it was weird seeing them in the same place, moving my furniture together.

The move went great. We needed to make two trips with the U-Haul, but the new place is only eight blocks from the old place, so that was no problem. We began moving at about 6:15 tonight and we finished before 9:00. I had everything boxed and bagged, ready to go, and there were so many of us, so it was so quick and smooth. It was like clockwork.

Afterwards, my two coworkers went home, and Tall Red-Haired Guy, Wes and I had dinner. First I had to return the U-Haul, so they followed me in Wes’s car. I felt sort of envious that the two of them were riding together. Why should I care, right? I mean, I’m not interested in dating either of them; I know both of them find me attractive, because I’ve fooled around with each of them several times was seeing Wes for a bit. And in fact, I have my own guy on the horizon now. So, again, why should I care?

It’s an ego thing, a self-esteem thing. Part of me is bothered by the possibility of them getting together, even though I know that a) it’s none of my business and b) it doesn’t reflect badly on me if it does happen. Yet it still makes me a tad uneasy, deep down. Perhaps some of you can identify with me on this? Have any of you felt this way before?

Let me emphasize that I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I know that if I had more self-worth as a person, this wouldn’t bother me at all. So I don’t need a lecture from anyone telling me that this is a stupid thing to feel. I already know it’s stupid.

I’ve often felt awkward in groups of three, though — groups of three guys, anyway. Doesn’t matter whether they’re gay or straight — The Number Three makes me uncomfortable. Two is easy. Four isn’t bad. But three is so rough, because I’m so afraid I’ll become the third wheel.

After we dropped off the U-Haul, the three of us went to this little indoor cafeé for dinner. They both talked about their jobs and financial-type stuff — they had some common ground.

I kept looking at Wes.

God dammit, Wes is so fucking cute.

God DAMN he’s hot. Blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, a fucking gorgeous smile, skin that is tan and clear as cream. And his body is smooth, tanned, and hard.

It makes me feel good that Wes, someone who is so physically attractive, used to stare deep into my eyes and tell me that I’m adorable. “Ya kill me,” he said to me once, staring at me, a smile on his face, shaking his head in wonderment. He thought I was cute as hell. Me! Someone like him liking me. Wow.

The dinner conversation continued. They talked, and I basically just listened and nodded and laughed at all the appropriate moments and interjected a comment when possible. They weren’t shutting me out at all — but I was still paranoid that I’d get shut out on my own, that I’d get lost, that they were speaking this secret language with each other that I wasn’t in on.

There is something deeply wrong with me.

It turns out they both work out. Wes works out in the morning at a gym in Jersey City. Tall Red-Haired Guy works out in the afternoon or evening in Manhattan. But TRHG said that he himself should start working out in the morning. So he asked Wes if he works out with anyone, and he asked if Wes needs a spotter or anything in the mornings, and he said it would be cool to work out together. So Wes said he’d be happy to get him a guest membership.

Great. These two guys with wonderful smooth hard bodies (though of different sizes — Wes is 5’7″ and TRHG is over 6′ tall) will start working out together, and they’ll wear sleeveless t-shirts or whatever and watch each other’s muscles flex and sweat, and they’ll make sexual lustful eye contact, and finally they’ll wind up going back to one of their apartments and make out like crazy, and they’ll say to each other, “Wow, you’re so much better than Jeff.”

Yeah, I know, that last part won’t happen. (For one thing, because it’s not true. To be totally honest here, they both have great bodies, but neither of them is very good in bed.)

But it’s still my fear. My totally, totally irrational fear. Even if the truth is that they won’t be thinking about me at all. But isn’t that really the basis of the fear? Not being thought about? Being pre-empted by thoughts of someone else?

Anyway.

After dinner, we went our separate ways. Wes drove home, and I walked TRHG to his car. But first I put my arms around Wes and hugged him, and he hugged me in return, his arm moving across my back, and he told me we should hang out again sometime.

He’s so fucking cute.

We’re not dating, but I’d still like to sleep with him again.

And then TRHG and Wes said they should hang out sometime and Wes said he’ll get TRHG a guest membership at his gym and TRHG gave Wes his card. I watched their eyes closely to see what kind of eye contact was going on. There wasn’t much.

As TRHG and I walked, he said to me, “Wes is cute. What’s his story?”

I’d told him the story about Wes before — how we’d seen each other for a month, how we’d had a bad night together at the Phoenix. But he hadn’t realized this was the same guy. So I connected the dots.

Anyway, whatever, right? I shouldn’t care about any of this. And I don’t, really. There’s the Piano Man, this wonderful guy with whom I connect in a way that I haven’t connected with anyone in a really long time. He really could be the one. He doesn’t have a great body and he doesn’t have movie star looks, but he’s cute in his own way, and he’s intelligent, and interesting to talk with, and cultural, and we have so much in common, and I can be myself around him, and he’s a fucking incredible kisser. He’s the one I should think about. Him. Not the other guys. Him. Someone who can potentially make me really happy.

Please forgive my inner drama. Forgive my writing about these stupid feelings. But that’s what this place is for. This blog is a place where I can detail my emotions — even if they’re stupid emotions, emotions grounded in a lack of self-esteem. I have to tell the truth here.

Remember the Piano Man. The Piano Man. The wonderful, wonderful Piano Man.

And hey! I’VE MOVED! I have a new apartment! I can sleep there tonight, and it will be quiet, and it’s a great place. I have so much unpacking and organizing to do, and I have to step over boxes in order to get from one corner of the apartment to another, but it’s wonderful. We even unrolled the oriental rug that used to be in my parents’ dining room and we set up the sectional couch. One of the window blinds in the bedroom fell off the window, so I might be woken up by the sun tomorrow, but I’ll fix that. There are little things to repair in most new apartments. It could be a lot worse.

Wow, my life has changed in the last couple of months. A new apartment, a new job, a new guy. Things are possibly going really, really well.

Amen to that.

Good night.