Nanowrimo Winner

[Total word count: 14,267]

So last night I went to one of their things. The Nanowrimo people.

Julie couldn’t believe it.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, through clenched teeth, “You virtually missed Steve and Sue’s party because you needed to write. You did miss the fireworks because you needed to write. Tonight, though, tonight you can take time off and go out. Just not with me?”

“It’s not a night off, it’s a write-in,” I explained, “You can come if you like.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She didn’t come. You know, gentle reader, it has begun to cross my mind that this Nanowrimo thing might not strengthen our relationship in quite the way I was hoping. Oh well.

It was in this upstairs room in a kind of a coffee place down in Balham (‘Gateway to the South!’), where strangely there seems to be a particularly flourishing community. People sort of get together and talk about what to do with their MC (main character), and even do some actual writing. There were a few characters in attendance, actually.

Richard

He is dark with a beard, and apparently has done it all many times before. He says he’d found the best approach was to have the structure roughed out in some detail first, and set out full details of your characters and locations in advance.

“You have to be careful,” he says, “To stick to what you’ve decided, and make up your mind about the details beforehand. Otherwise, you find character’s names change from one chapter to the next, and that sort of thing.

“Like Savonarola Brown.” I say. I enjoy telling people the story of Savonarola Brown..

“Indeed,”

“Great story, that.”

“Yes, though Enoch Soames is really my favourite. I think short stories were really Beerbohm’s natural literary form, though I love Zuleika Dobson too, of course. That parody, you know…

Thee’ll not vind nor bread nor bed that matches
Them as thee’ll vind, roight zure, at Mrs. Batch’s . . .

… but the best bit is where…”

Hey! I beseech you in the bowels of Christ, think it possible that other people may have read Zuleika Dobson, mate…

Mrs Pringle

She is a well-dressed and well-spoken woman, sharp-faced with one eyebrow perpetually raised in what seems a combative way, though I’m not sure she means it like that. Her conversational style supports the impression in any case: she has a way of suddenly turning her head and looking straight at you which is rather disconcerting.

“So this is your first time?” she asks, with a penetrating glance.

“Yes…”

“I see. What are you writing about?”

I give her a vague outline of Wenham, gradually losing conviction as I go.

“So…” she muses “It’s a detective story. Is there sex in it?”

“Well, not really.”

“Well you must put some in. Sex is what it’s all about, after all. My books are always full of it. My view is, if we must write about sex – and we must – we might as well get down to it straight away. That woman you mentioned – your MC – you should get her to take the chauffeur out in the car and give him ‘the seeing-to of a lifetime’, as the young people say, in a big pile of leaves. Good for three thousand words if you do it right. I can give you a few tips if you have trouble getting started. What I can’t stand is people who go all coy about it.”

Miss Mouse

That’s not her name, obviously, but she mutters it so quietly I can’t quite catch it, and she looks so shy I don’t like to ask her to repeat it.

“Oh, you’re John Faletcher!” she says, gratifyingly.

“Yes, yes I am. One of the Berkshire Faletchers. An old family, they say, descended from Giacomo Falucci, a Florentine merchant who settled in London during the reign of Henry VIII.”

“Really?”

“Well, that’s what the family says. The reference books say the name is an illiterate version of Fletcher, originating near Nottingham. I’m sorry, but if we’ve met before I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind for the moment.”

“No,” she says, “I came across your blog. Your Nanowrimo blog. It’s very clever.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

I can see now that behind the round glasses she looks intelligent and sensitive. The way she’s got her pale brown hair tied up doesn’t really suit her: it somehow adds to the impression of self-effacement.

“What’s your book about?” I ask encouragingly.

“It’s terrible,” she says, “It took me so long to make up my mind I only started yesterday. It’s called Lady Muck. My MC is born early in the twentieth century: she comes from a poor family, but even as a little girl she aspires to gentility. After, you know, a lot of difficulty and a doomed love affair with Jimmy, a bohemian socialist and war hero, she eventually attains her ambition of becoming a lady of leisure and refinement. She lives long enough to tacitly despise Mrs Thatcher’s vulgarity, and pick Jimmy up out of the gutter, where he is lying after being beaten up by a group of young thugs. But I’ve only written two hundred words yet.”

“Sounds a great story, anyway,” I say encouragingly. “A bit Catherine Cookson?”

“Not really. I hate Catherine Cookson.”

A sudden look of real ferocity comes into her sweet little face.

Steven

He has a jumper on, and has not shaved for a couple of days, I should judge.

“So – have you done this before?” I ask cheerily,

“No.”

“Nor me. What are you writing about?”

“Actually, I don’t like talking about it. It puts me off.”

“Does it? OK. Well, mine’s a sort of detective story.”

A long silence followed.

“Are you well up to schedule? Is your word count OK?.” I ask.

“I don’t really keep track until I’ve finished.”

“Oh. I’ve got a bit behind, one way and another, but nothing I can’t catch up on.”

Another silence.

Anyway, since I’m not sticking to chronological order, I decide to whack out the very end of Wenham, which I’m pretty clear about. I make my excuses to Steven, who jerks his head in silent acknowledgement, plonk myself down and open a new file in which to work temporarily.

The new Earl of Wenham stood before the congregation with an unaccustomed smile on his face.

“Now some of you will know me as that strange artist fellow, a suspicious character,” he began, “I can’t blame you if you haven’t found me agreeable. I haven’t liked myself much, to tell the truth. For years I’ve been living my life under a cloud. Haven’t we all? I think there’s been some curse on the Fidgett family that has spread its evil influence over the village. Well, I have come to put an end to that, and make amends for all the harm my family has done over the years. Luckily, once I have sold my remaining paintings, I shall be wealthy enough to do the job properly.”

“As of today, I am a painter no longer. I have already burnt my easel and brushes.”

Lady Jane Pimsey groaned.

“On Monday, I shall begin repairing and restoring the castle: I shall need many workmen and I intend to recruit them all as locally as possible. The school and post office will also be redecorated, and both will re-open at my own expense as soon as we can manage it.”

“I intend, with the aid of a grant from the European Community, to turn the gardens of Wenham Castle into a leading tourist attraction. Besides enhancing the village and providing a valuable local amenity, this will guarantee jobs in the longer term not only to employees of the castle, but to shops and businesses in and near the village – which, I may add, I shall be eager to invest in should it be required.”

“This all represents no more than a beginning. In short, neighbours – and I hope I may soon call you friends – I hereby dedicate my life to ensuring that prosperity and happiness reign in Wenham as they should always have done.”

Lady Jane groaned again.

“And now, will you join me in a hymn?”

“Look,” whispered Lady Jane, “I can’t stand this. You can stay if you like – meet me in the pub when it’s all over.”

Charlie nodded, and standing up, added his voice to those of the excited villagers. He had a good, sound baritone, hitting all the notes with careful accuracy and great attack.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

The clouds ye so much dread,

Are big with mercy and shall break

In blessings on your head.

THE END

“I always think it’s cheating to put songs in,” said a voice over my shoulder suddenly.

I hate it when people read over my shoulder.

I turned round and there was a round-faced, red-haired individual grinning at me.

Tom

He is dressed in jeans and a plain green shirt.

“I knew of a fellow last year who put the lyrics of all the songs in his CD collection in,” he adds. “He pretended his MC was lying in front of the stereo having a marathon singalong. It didn’t really do him any good, though: it took so long to transcribe the lyrics he would have been quicker to make them up himself. Is this a detective story?”

“Yes, How could you tell?”

“Oh, I think Lady Jane Pimsey has a sort of sound of a whodunnit about her, that’s all. Sorry to disturb you.”

“Not at all. What’s yours about, then?”

“Mine’s a detective story, too. It’s called Snarking Asshats. There’s this web forum thing, you see, and everything is going along just fine, and then they notice that the number of posts on the forum is dropping off. Nothing odd there, but it turns out that some former member who’d flamed out and left is now hunting down the members who crossed him and killing them off. He starts to post messages, calling himself The Filter Monkey. It’s easy for me, because I just describe some bastard’s life and then when I run out of ideas the Filter Monkey comes up and does him in, and I can start afresh with the next target.”

“Yes, I might take a similar approach to the Fidgett family. You can always think of some new and exotic way for them to be bumped off.”

“That’s it. Do you want a proper drink?”

This last question followed so rapidly I was left searching in vain for the thread of the conversation for a few moments.

“I mean, me and some of the folks are going down the pub for a couple of pints. Why don’t you come with us?”

“Well…”

“Come on, I just saw you write ‘The End’ – you can’t be needing to do any more writing.”

“Well, alright.” I said. To be honest, the idea of writing communally seems a little odd: it’s inherently a solitary thing. You come out to meet people, don’t you? We went to a place called the Granby. If it hadn’t been evident before, it became clear now that Tom was the life and soul of the party.

It was some hours later that I made my way back to Julie’s flat, where she had already gone to bed. I sat on the sofa for a while, tired but somehow not able to summon the small amount of energy needed to go to bed.

I thought the people I had met that evening confirmed my views about the ambiguity of the psychology behind the whole Nanowrimo thing. The vocabulary was very much that of the marathon run, as though the whole thing were simply a feat of endurance; yet at the same time people were clearly concerned with the possibility of publication. These were people who valued literature; and yet at the same time the whole business of trying to write a smallish novel in a single month suggested an impatience, a desire to be rid of the whole thing. Most of these people would find that the feat was simply beyond them; others would find, as I had found with The Mallison Institute, that they had 50,000 words, but they hadn’t, properly speaking got a novel. Neither of those results, by far the most likely, seemed particularly worth the effort, but the point seemed to be that the thing would be done. Many people described the project as a springboard, or a motivating factor, but it was difficult not to suspect that unconsciously they just needed to be confirmed in their instinctive guess, that literature breeds distress. Richard would know where that quote comes from, the smug bastard.

But another concern thrust itself irresistibly to the surface of my mind. I had added only 400 words to my count today, and two of them had been ‘The End’. I’m not superstitious, but it did now occur to me that writing the end of your novel might not be the best way to prepare psychologically for a new burst of the old fecundity.