There Is No Finish Line

I would like to comment about life and death in a round about way.

I have heard several bloggers say they are blocked when trying to write their blogs. I commented about this in one of my previous postings not long ago. I put it down to post-winter angst. Whether the winter has been mild, as it has been in Chicago this winter, or brutal, the long succession of dark days, when it is not possible to spend all my time dressed in shorts and t-shirt, eventually weary me, even though I sit around most of the day in my pajamas until it is time to go to the local bar. I shudder when thinking about the days I had a real job forcing me to travel much of the time.

I write everyday; writer’s block is not my problem. Last August, I discovered blogging, another tool that helps me write. Spending the day writing pure and unadulterated shit is better than writing nothing at all. This blog posting probably qualifies as that. It’s just a blog entry someone might chance to read, but that’s a remote possibility. I don’t care about the publishing of it and its fate afterwards. I do care about writing it as well as I can in the time constraints given me. My blog gives me a public place to publish each day while I work on something “real”, something not the blog. The word count on my word processor says that as of the last sentence I’ve written over 250 words. That means I’ve already defeated writer’s block today even if this is the only thing I write.

I have written three novels since 1998. None of them are publishable, for they are flawed by failures of technique and craftsmanship. It hurts me to admit it, but I tell myself I am learning how to do it, which is true.

There are as many methods writers use to complete a good novel, as there novelists. I did not read far into the writer interview literature before arriving at this conclusion. I am using a new method to complete my next novel. The first thing I did differently was to write the whole first draft (238 pages) in five weeks. You cannot imagine how bad the first draft is. When I couldn’t think about anything to write, I wrote about my life and ascribed it to one of the characters in my novel. For instance, on days when I was blocked but felt horny, I wrote sex scenes. I like what I have written so far as bad as it is. Something genuine shines from it. That’s a good start.

I am working on the second draft of the novel. The first flaw I am trying to correct in the novel is its lack of plot. I have tried to be analytical about the plot and write an outline for it, but I am blocked. I suppose if I must be blocked on a piece of writing, the outline is the best place for it to happen. Nobody is ever going to read the outline no matter what happens. I will quit the plot outline and return to rewriting the first draft with the vague idea that the novel needs some sort of traditional plot. My dream, completing the second draft with a complete plot, was merely that, a dream.

Then there are all the other drafts where I must add and shape the other elements. Who knows how many drafts there will be? I don’t. I can at least identify the relevant elements. That’s good enough for now. I am at the one or two mile mark of a marathon, feeling rested, comfortable, and settling into the most comfortable pace and efficient stride.

On the back cover of a Seventies issue of “Runner’s World”, Nike ran an ad, a picture of a runner running alone on a country road, a road much the same as the roads I ran when I lived in Iowa. The caption to the ad was, “There is no finish line.” I cut the ad, took it to work, and hung it over my desk for many years. It inspired me and served me well.

Death is the only finish line and I ain’t dead yet.