In between the blur of beer and video games of my sophomore year of undergrad, I started writing a novel. I thought, in typical 20-year-old fashion, that I had learned enough about life and writing and had the requisite knowledge to write an entire book. I created an elaborate outline and starting clacking away at my little re-furbished Asus with literary abandon.
I thought the premise was brilliant: a young, misanthropic college student records the behavior of the undead (Jane Goodall style) in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. At the climax of the story his hubris leads to him getting bitten and he revisits his diary, making footnotes as he begins to slowly turn into one of the things he’d been hiding from/studying for an entire year.
But very quickly, because of my lack of any focus and real experience, the story degraded into nothing but random scenes and overly visceral descriptions of the reanimated dead. I wrote ~3000 words about the nuance of how flesh falls off of a zombie’s face, for some reason.
Wall of Text critically hits you for 90,000 damage. You die from boredom.
I got lost in a maze of wanting everything to be the best writing in the history of writing, throwing out stupidly complex vocabulary, piling on unnecessary details, and inserting random asides just because I thought they sounded great. I hadn’t learned any lessons about my own writing, so my voice was weak and dense and boring.
I was drawing from years of exposure to the zombie subculture, but doing very little creating of my own. Everything was a cliche; the way the virus spread, the way the zombies looked, sounded, and moved, my character’s motivations and assumptions about the world.
It had no dialogue. At all. The protagonist was an archetypal asshole. I couldn’t figure out how to transition between chapters, so I just didn’t.
This generic, boring tragedy went on for about 4 months. I stopped writing at about 41,000 words.
Until this morning, I hadn’t looked at that manuscript since the “Last Modified Date” (9/3/2007), because I was afraid of what I’d find. It’s ugly. Repulsive. A perfect collection of unforgivable mistakes and errors that sums up how terrible a writer I was, packed to the margins with my insecurities and collegiate arrogance.
But I refuse to delete it. It is awful and will exist in a perpetual state of editing, but it was my first attempt. My first-born. The first time I really committed to trying something outside of the familiar, the comfortable. This document is milestone zero on my journey to become a writer. To delete it would be a futile attempt to forget where I came from.
Revisiting it now solidifies a lesson that I think a lot of us can take away from NaNoWriMo: Not everything we write is going to be great. Not everything is going to be as clear and coherent as we hoped or expected. Not everything is going to be publishable.
It is great to aim high. I’ll pretty much always suggest that someone aim as high as their imagination allows. Stretching and trying and growing is how you’ll improve, even if you don’t actually reach whatever goal you set.
But at the same time, be realistic. A musician doesn’t expect to write a number one hit every time he picks up his guitar, so don’t expect the Pulitzer for the essay or short story you jotted down after work. Practice and have confidence in your ideas, and you can’t help but improve.
If you pour yourself into your art, eventually the art will pour out of you.
The first big thing you ever write is an act of artistic puberty; an awkward time where you’re forced to experience all kinds of unpleasant things all for the sake of maturing. The acne will clear up. Your hormones will stop raging. Your voice will no longer crack at random, but be strong and consistent and uniquely yours.
As you continue to write, take some time to look back on your earliest work. Open up those NaNo novels in a few months (or even years). It’s amazing to see how far you’ve come, and gives you hope for all those miles you still have to go.
The entire thing reads like this. I am so sorry everyone.
Tagged: first attempts, first novels, forgotten friday, learning, looking back, NaNoWriMo, novels, oh my god this is so bad and I am ashamed, writing
I like the concept, though! Is there any chance you will revisit and rewrite? I’m amazed you got to 41,000 – there has to be some gems in there worth revising for!
The analogy of “finding your voice” as an adolescent vs. writer is super.
I think there some good ideas in there (like a fat zombie who got a lawn chair stuck to his ass that my protag named “Mao”) but the way it’s written is just…bad. I’d have to salvage the concepts, none of the actual writing 🙂
First: Love, love, love the caption of your first photos.
Second: I heard this quote in a writing workshop, “Writing is a series of mistakes that you correct.” (Tony Kushner) I tell it to current writers and students I tutor who claim that they can’t write. It’s important advice to remember. Don’t delete that story; it proves how far you’ve come!
Thanks for the caption love; I try to make them engaging 🙂
I won’t delete it, but thanks for the extra resolve! I’d love to look back on this in another 5 years when I (hopefully) will have an actual published book to compare it against 🙂
I agree with Carla, really fun concept. And you can see that even though you’ve matured as a writer, the talent and drive was always there! Glad you held on to this stuff…it really is good to look at your old material when you’re having second thoughts about this journey you’ve set out on.
Thanks Phil. Seeing that a few people seem to like this idea, I may revisit it, at least conceptually!
I doubt that there is a writer alive who doesn’t cringe while rereading work from “the beginning.” Thanks for reminding us all how much we have in common when it comes to our craft.
We’re all in this together 🙂
I find “desolate stomach” to be weirdly charming.
Haha, me too, actually. I have some very odd combinations of words in this manuscript.
I love going back to things I wrote years ago. Usually it’s dreadful, but sometimes there’s a gem or a fine thread I can pull into something greater now that I’m more experienced and, sometimes, more mature. Also, I agree with other commenters: It’s a great concept, if done right.
Thanks! I really think I’m going to revisit the outline and try to clean up since I got such good feedback on it.
I like the idea of pouring yourself into your art. It’s inspired me to go off and do some pouring…
I like to think of it as a controlled spill, sometimes. You have to put a lot of yourself into it, sometimes sacrificing other things, but if you do, you’ll get a lot out of it!
Great read. I’m tempted to open up my own Quasimodo to have a poke around. Continuous refinement and evolution is one of the things that makes the blogging medium so interesting (as compared to a more static format).
Agreed. It’s awesome to look back even a year on this blog and see the evolution of my voice.
I love the caption on the first picture. And I have also got several monster manuscripts lurking in my folders from years ago. It’s always painful reading them, but the flip side is that it *is* encouraging seeing how my writing today compares.
Thanks for your courage to share your hideous first drafts with us; it’s reassuring to know that my first drafts weren’t alone in their grotesqueness.