NaNoFiniTo

I finished my NaNoWriMo "novel" yesterday.

I'm sure that will come as a great relief to all of you. I've basically spent this whole month telling you about a cake that you'll never be able to eat. I've explained my hardships with kneading, my struggles with creaming, my worries about whether I'll burn the base.

Nobody cares. You're all still hungry.

But still, it's something to be proud of. And ashamed of. More proud than ashamed.

The final word count was 51,337. It had an ending and everything. And an epilogue.

Expect it to be in the shops this time next week. They won't be selling it; I'll just be leaving memory sticks around. Each one will have a different chapter. Try to collect them all!

You can download banners that proclaim you a NaNoWriMo "winner". I wouldn't feel comfortable with displaying one of those. I am the opposite of a winner. I already have a "loser" banner. It is my face.

This has been downbeat so far. I'm actually very pleased to have finished.

Next month, I'll be able to get back to the classic Headscissors formula of talking to you as though you exist, and then making myself laugh with a reference to Lloyd Dyer.

AAAha. Lloyd Dyer. Brilliant.

NaNoAttentionSpaNo

"Confident and cool, he's the type of comic you want to befriend, whilst simultaneously making you hate yourself"

That comes from the second review of my recent stand-up show, which was very nice. I like the above quote, because I've never thought of myself as confident. And I've certainly never been accused of being cool, either in attitude or temperature.

I've already posted a link to the review on Facebook, which made me feel a bit boastful. But I can post it here, because my blog readers and I are like a secret club. A club of one. We can share anything here, and not have to worry about how self-absorbed we sound. Because we are our self. Where else could we be absorbed?

I'm still writing. 42,198 words. My story has got a bit silly, but that was bound to happen.

I'm feeling in a good mood. I think my moods are almost entirely dependent on Saints doing well at football. I don't like the idea that my mental well-being is so precariously balanced. I should probably become a drug addict. They have zero problems.

My iPod has broken. The sound comes consistently out of the left earholephone, but only sporadically out of the right one. I could get it repaired, but I feel that I might as well get a whole new one, even though it will cost me much more money.

I've had my current iPod since 2006. That was before this blog even began. Before Blog. BB. What a time that was. I hadn't even dreamed of italicising certain words and posting images of novelty lamps.

But we're in the future now. After Blog. AB. Anno Blogini.

I have another stand-up gig in London on Saturday. I'm going to do lots of London-centric material. It will be all whelks and Marble Arch.

I'm not concentrating. It's probably because I've had to focus on my NaNo story for so long. My imagination is used to bouncing around like a rubber doorman. It has been shackled for too long.

This is where I come to let it off its leash and go and fetch a stick, but by the time it gets there, it's Lorne Michaels, the creator of Saturday Night Live.

***

I just got so distracted that I forgot I was even writing this.

NaNoWriMo is nearly over. Thank heavens for that. December will be a Golden Age-Month.

NaNoPerNod

I will shortly have checked in.

And... there.

I am now checked.

I don't think I've mentioned it, but I now have a synopsis and extract of my NaNovel up on the internet-machine. You can find it here. I'm particularly proud of my synopsis, which tells you all you need to know.

I'm currently at 37,614 words. I would describe my work so far as "incoherent". I'm still just about on track, but I'm not counting my chickens (even though I am counting my words).

I'm far too busy. I'm worrying about Christmas shopping and a hundred other things. I long for the days when I was free of all worries and responsibility. Those days are fictional, but you can long for fictional things. It's allowed. I long for Long John Silver, and he's fictional.

Is he?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_John_Silver
  
"Long John Silver is a fictional character and the primary ant"

Yes. He is. (I might have ended that quote prematurely, but I might not have, for all you know.)

I haven't really got anything to talk about other than concerns, so here's a hilarious sketch I've just about to have written:

Doctor: Come in.

Patient: Hello, doctor.

Doctor: What seems to be the problem?

Patient: It's my wife, doctor.

Doctor: Oh yes?

Patient: Yes. She seems to have broken her leg.

Doctor: Oh. Well, why isn't she here?

Patient: She's afraid of doctors.

Doctor: Oh dear. Why do you think that is?

Patient: Because you broke her leg.

Doctor: Your wife is a LIAR. A one-legged LIAR.

Ernie Els: Anyone for a quick nine?

Doctor: Who's asking?

Ernie Els: ERNIE ELS.

Patient: ERNIE ELS.

Receptionist: ERNIE ELS.

Waiting Room (chorus): ERNIE ELS.

Everyone in England: ERNIE ELS.

Every Human: ERNIE ELS.



GOD: Ernie. Ernie Els. Ernie bloody Els.

***

Let's all knock off early and go get cocktails. My treat!

Yum.

I like cocktails.

NaNoMicrophoNo

I'm all hopped up on Earl Grey tea, so let's put some words down.

I'm slightly behind schedule with the old NaNoWriming, but there will probably be time for that later. That's the clarion call of the failed writer, but I have confidence in myself to get back on the writing horse and... I don't know... do a whole chapter about stirrups or something.

Have I used "clarion call" correctly? Let's see.

Ah, a clarion is a kind of bugle or trumpet. That makes sense. It's probably connected to "clarinet", and also to Clarissa Explains It All.

It probably is.

Good old Earl Grey. It has never made me not make sense once.

I had a stand-up gig last night. It was another good one.

There's a review of the night here. I'm pleased with what they said about me, but I am slightly annoyed that they misquoted me. I would never use the word "hipster" as an adjective.

It was all new stuff, though a big chunk came from a previous blog post. You see? You guys get the inside track. You will always know about these things first. It's like being inside the head of a great artist. Or within a five mile radius of Quentin Tarantino.

There was quite a bit of improvised stuff in my set, including having to deal with a broken tripod (which I referred to as a "monopod" to little reaction).

The main thing that stuck with me was my interaction with a girl in the front row. "Girl" might be a bit patronising, but she was so young and innocent looking that it made my eventual abuse of her all the worse. Her phone went off early on, and I did some not-particularly-hilarious bit of mock outrage that I was worried she took seriously. I don't like to pick on people in the audience, because I hate being picked on myself.

She was in the front row. Nobody wants to be in the front row. For all I know, she was reluctant to sit there on the grounds that she might get singled out. "Don't worry! No-one will talk to you!" her friend might have said. Her friend should be ashamed for being so hypothetically wrong.

A while after the phone thing, she reacted to something I said in an interesting way. I talked to her again, concluding that, coupled with the phone call, she must be an "attention-whore".

It was meant in a gentle way, but there's something about the word "whore". People don't tend to like it. She and her friends reacted in a really outraged, sitcom way. I felt terrible immediately.

I tried to dig myself out of it with an improvised bit that I found quite funny, even if the audience didn't. I'm paranoid about being thought of as a misogynist, so was insistent that there was a hyphen in 'attention-whore', rendering it politically correct. "That hyphen makes me not a sexist," I said. I was pleased with that, because it was strange logic expressed in a strange syntax.

If it was anyone else, it would have been fine. But she looked so sweet and nervous that I felt like I'd punched Bambi in the face.

I'm sure this is all incredibly patronising, and that she was absolutely fine about it. But I like to chastise myself about meaningless things. By doing it, I make myself seem sensitive and considerate, without having to take any action to remedy my behaviour.

I also sang a made-up segue song that didn't really work.

All in all, a nice evening with a nice crowd. I didn't even have any awkward conversations with strangers.

I should really get back on the novel horse. My story has reached an exciting stage, where an anthropomorphised cliff is having to explain to his father why he won't join the army. I think the next chapter will be about that not happening.

NaNoClueDo

One of the things I did NOT want to include in my NaNoWriMo novel was:

• a character who is basically me, or any other Charlie Kaufman bullshit

I have managed to stay true to this principle so far. There isn't a character who writes an under-appreciated blog and loves sweet potato salad. There's nothing about comic books or wrestling. There isn't a character who, in that fictional world, is taking part in NaNoWriMo.

(I bet there are dozens of NaNoWriMo attempts that end up incorporating NaNoWriMo into the story. You're supposed to write about what you know, and for most of November, the participants know nothing else. There should be an option to select 'NaNoWriMo Ouroboros Meta-Novel' in the genre section.)

But whilst I am not on the page, but I have found myself inside the story.

I'm still making it up as I go along. I have no idea what's going to happen next. I keep setting up cliffhangers for myself that I have to resolve.

This is not a good way to write anything.

What has made it all the more difficult is that my story seems to have turned into a mystery. It's difficult to write mystery stories when you don't know what's going to happen. You're supposed to start at the end and work backwards.

Instead, I've started leaving lots of clues. But I don't know what the clues are leading towards. I don't know what the solution is, or even if there is one.

What this means is that I have to try to piece together the clues at the same time as my characters do. I'm trying to work out secret codes and odd connections that don't have a resolution. I have to be the detective of my own story, trying to make sense of random nonsense.

What are the odds that I'll reach a satisfying conclusion? Not great.

Then again, aren't all writers really detectives?

No. They're not. They're writers.

***

I'm writing as I write this. That may seem tautologous. I just mean that I'm writing this blog post and my "novel" simultaneously.

(I haven't been consistent with my sceptical framing of "novel". Just so you know, I'm aware that it's a loooonnnng way from being anything close to a novel. If I ever use the term, it's just for a lack of synonyms. It's either that, or "wordslick".)

I should probably go back to it. I can't be wasting precious words here. Just to keep you interested, here's the last thing I wrote for it:

 

“Think of it as Die Hard in a Balloon,” he said, spilling his drink.

I'm disappointed in myself. And when I'm a ghost, I'll be disappointed outside myself, but about myself.

NaNoMateriaLo

I'm checking in again.

I...

Hang on, I've forgotten what I wrote last time. I'd better re-read it, so I don't repeat myself. I'll be back in a second.

***

OK, I'm up to speed.

I'm still writing. It's still the same. I don't know if I'm enjoying it, but at least I'm doing it. Of course, I'm only a third of the way through it. I'm sure I'll hit the wall at some point, and will come back here to vent my frustrations.

The main problem with NaNoWriming is that I have no time for anything else. It's not like my schedule is usually chock full of incident, but even by my standards, I have little to tell you about.

Have I worked out any interesting theories about stuff? No.

Have I cut myself shuving? No.

Was I mistaken for Clive Owen? Well, yes. But that's only because his grandmother is blind. I claimed to have a cold! She gave me lots of money, and then I ran off. He'll never know. Take that, Clive.

In addition to my pretending to be Clive Owen and trying to write a novel, I have two stand-up gigs to prepare for. One is in Oxford, one is in London.

I have no idea what I'm going to do. The Oxford gig is my usual one, so I feel I should come up with something new, or at least relatively new. And the London one? Should I fall back on old standards, or push the boundaries of comedy by making fun of Mitt Romney? I don't know.

I don't like to be ill prepared.

This month has far too much going on. November... And then there's Christmas to deal with! I wish I lived on a planet that didn't orbit the sun. That would solve everything.

Writing prose fiction has made me yearn for the simplicity of scriptwriting.

Nana Owen: You seem different somehow, Clivey.

Me: That's because I have a part in a film.

Nana Owen: Oh, that's nice! What's the role?

Me: It's the role where I tell you to SHUT UP.

Nana Owen: That doesn't sound very mainstream. You should be in one of those Twilight films. You'd be a good Frankingstein.

Me: Yes, I suppose I... Hang on a minute! Don't use your mind tricks on me, woman! Now where's that cheque?

You see? It truly is the noblest profession.

Here. Take this video. Hide it somewhere safe. Only watch it if you're being pursued by someone who wouldn't like it.

NaNoProbLemMo

I'm just checking in. I don't know who with. Myself, probably.

I've been writing. My NaNoWriMo "novel" is progressing at just about the right speed. I still don't really know what I'm writing about. Things just seem to happen and I have to go with it. I'm sure it's part of my subconscious insecurities - I feel that if I plan what I'm writing, I'll have no excuse when it doesn't work.

At the moment, I'm creating mysteries that I'll have to solve later, and am referring to interesting events that haven't been thought about. I can see it all collapsing in on itself in a couple of days.

I'm worried it will turn out like Lost, where I just pile meaningless incidents on top of each other and hope I can bluff my way out of it later.

At the moment, the story is called Neon Tiny Fires. Why? I don't know. It sounds like a bad band name.

Here's a short extract:

“It will come as no surprise to you that-YARGHHH!”

There. Remember, I'm not editing anything, I'm just writing. Quality control is not welcome here.

I've written 7224 words so far. The most fun thing about doing this has nothing to do with creativity or hard work. It's all about the statistics. You can enter your word count, and get all kinds of stats about how well you're doing, what your average word count is, and how long it will take you to finish. There's even a graph!

I don't care about writing - I only care about getting my average up. Which is the idea, I suppose.

This is probably of no interest to anyone.

So, here's Something Of Interest To Everyone:

We saw some fireworks on Saturday, and got muddy. Then we had burritos.

Thus ends this week's edition of Something Of Interest To Everyone.

***

I shouldn't be wasting my words here. What if I run out at a crucial moment? I might have to start using numbers instead.

I'll end on a joke.

What's the difference between Mitt Romney and a kettle?

One boils water, and the other one... waters... boils...

Vote.