Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Novellage - Year the Fifth
Back in [Banal Minutiae High], in grade 12, I took English Writer's Craft. That was a disastrous time due to the fact that our teacher, [Mr. Baldwin] didn't know what he was doing. It was muddled and poorly crafted. Some things had nothing to do with creative writing, and just took away from time students could have spent doing more conducive things. Spread few and far between were some treats, however. One treat happened to be the main project. Students had to independently pick a genre, research it, read books which fall into the nomenclature, write an essay, and most importantly, write an original work in the genre. I of course chose Black Humour fiction. Black humour isn't really a genre, not the way romance is. 80% of the class chose romance. Incidentally 90% of the class was made up of girls. The rest chose incarnations of horror, a couple did biographies, and one did poetry. The other guys in my class wrote sports stories and mysteries. Those are all undeniably genres of the pigeonholed variety. Black humour's an element, however, and could pretty much be incorporated in any genre, but I managed to talk [Mr. Baldwin] into letting me write in it. So the other stuff was baggage, but I didn't mind. But I was elated by the idea of writing a story and getting credit for it. Add to that the fact that I discovered a contest where I could get my novel published and receive an advance of $9000 USD (back when the US Dollar meant something), and you can see I had a lot on the plate. This time of my life has been alluded to on my bio page. When I get into my navel gazing fits, I tend to reflect on this time the most. If my life were a bildungsroman, that would be the defining moment, the moment where I finally figure my place in the world and in life, where I figure what I want to do, and where I want to be. I haven't looked back ever since.
Come November 28th 2002, I found myself up in the late hours of the night/early hours of the morning banging out the first pages of what would come to be [The Obscure Opus]. The essay portion was already in, and it was time to do the presentation. For the presentation I had to read part of my story to the class. Problem was, I only had an opening paragraph.
I had already dreamed up vague scraps of what [The Obscure Opus] would consist of. I had to, as the teacher wanted an outline for it (how boring). Though, actually, I confess, I did enjoy the initial brainstorming, I still have the paper where I first started cooking things up. It had little doodles which represented their characteristics. I wrote it up in the back of my economics class. It was the class I got to do homework in because the teacher [Mr. Pignati] never did anything but go to the donut shop for the period and come back for the last 10-15 minutes. He eventually did come back early once, and walked by my desk. He read my outline, shook his head, and said, "Todd, you are a sick and sad man." I laughed and said, "I know.
It was useful to make one. It gave me a kick start, and I'm still using one today. Different from the one back then, but I'm still using one. Next time around, I want to take the raw approach and just write, letting the current take me wherever.
With an outline done, and a presentation impending, I figured it'd be pragmatic to churn out a few pages. I cranked out 8 pages that night, covering two different character's scenes.
When I went up for the presentation, I made a killing. I had a presentation done up in Corel Presentations (I'm more comfortable with it than Powerpoint), I had a CD of Danny Elfmanesque music playing, and people seemed to enjoy the ironic, mordant, and self deprecating wit I peppered my speech and text with. "Black Humour Fiction, (Unfortunately) presented by Todd S. Gallows." "Thanks for your attention, you vile mounds of flesh." Stuff like that. I set them up with what my book was about. The girls laughed at a dirty double entendre I made regarding a major plot point of the book. I played a blackly humourous song about serial killer Ed Gein, then read my story. It was initially met with furrowed eyebrows, but then they actually picked up on the humour. I heard chuckles throughout the whole period, though, in retrospect, it could have been that I was doing something embarrassing, like in another presentation where I held a book upside down for the first two minutes. But I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. I made my entire class and [Mr. Baldwin] jump out of their seats when I read a line of the book in a burst of a raspy and maniacal voice. It was then followed by relieved laughter. The presentation was met with a standing ovation, to which I commented, "I'm glad it's over too. Not a moment too soon."
From that day, to December 19th, I worked like a maniac getting the 100+ page first draft done. Sleepless nights, and a few skipped classes went a long way. I handed it in to [Mr. Baldwin] at the last minute. And walked home in the crunchy snow, steeped in satisfaction.
Too bad that satisfaction was short lived. I got a good mark for the book, even though [Mr. Baldwin] thought I was clinically bughouse after that. But I personally hated what I saw. Almost every word made me want to vomit over and over and over again, but with a 30,000 word count, if I acted on my desire, I would have barfed out my intestines. Having figured the draft was a mess, I didn't send it in. The summer after that year, I decided to give it a rewrite, and I've been doing that ever since.
I took some time off of school to do it, and am glad I did, but it's still not where I want it to be, which is in bookstores. It did, and can still use some fine tuning, but it's way better than what it was before. A lot more things happen in it, there is more technique employed, there is more depth, and the characters are far better developed. It's not as outrageous as it once was, either though. It initially read as a script for a David Lynch/Monty Python collaboration, which isn't a bad thing, but it was just scant in details, and my actual writing was "bleh!". Not to say that it's any more mundane now than it was before. It's still barmy, still absurd, and still not anything somebody could consider realistic. But it's in a much more sedate and sophisticated style, hopefully in the vein of Haruki Murakami.
So now, here I am, 5 years later on, still at it, on draft... I lost count, ripping, tearing, fixing, mending, trimming, and adding to this monster which has consumed my already deficient soul. My nephew who was born that year, a toothless and helpless mound of flesh is now a walking, talking, karate chopping kindergartener. My friends and classmates who pursued post secondary studies have finished school, while I just started back with post secondary studies last year. They're on to getting grad degrees, some are pissed off that their time in university isn't getting them illustrious careers, and a couple actually managed to find decent but mind numbing jobs. Some of them even have kids and some of them are married. I still feel like I am where I was when I was 17 in that sense. Over the years, I've gleaned more knowledge, learned more about myself and what I need, but I still have that sense of wonderment (read: naivete) where I feel the sky is the limit. So where as many of my classmates are becoming disenchanted, or settling down, I'm still dreaming big. I still feel that I have a right to. I'm young, I'm dabbling in things which I hope I can get a good career out of, I have no children (and it will stay that way), I'm not married (I'm ambivalent to the concept), and my only responsibility is my book, basically. Off and on, I've been stabbing around in the dark to figure out what works and what doesn't in this bloody opus of mine, and save for some of the people I wounded while engaging in this process, it's been working well. I often get lost, and can't figure out how to get through parts, but I always know I will in the end. Sometimes I think I'm right on top of things, and other times I read what I write, and I'm ready to delete the whole thing, curl up into a ball, and stop breathing. I can beat myself up over my writing at times, but at the end of the day, I have the confidence of a paraplegic dwarf who persists to try out for the NBA. Hopefully, I'm as lucky, and actually pull through. I hope to, by early next year, start sending the manuscript off to publishers. Time will tell if I actually do, but when things happen, the world will know, because it will be a miserable place... even more miserable than it is now.
In the words of [Spaghetti Western], I will again say, "See everyone in hell."
P.S. I think I'm going to have to steal that one, make it my own signature quote. Sort of like when Porky Pig says "A-bli-a-bli-a-bli that's all folks!"
