Camelot's begun
I've spent much of the afternoon attempting to clean out my closet; my room is a perpetual disaster area, and nothing short of nukes, I fear, will ever purge it. It's really amazing what 23 years of accumulation actually amounts to. Probably the most entertaining find was a graduation card--from high school, mind, class of 2000--with $10 still in it. I also discovered all the essays I wrote for my Senior AP English class, assorted shells (unbroken, amazingly) that I had forgotten I had even collected, my sole troll doll, half a big photo album's worth of unsorted pictures from some of my lowest points in high school, the beginnings of two novels (I think the first one dates back to elementary school, and the other one I had forgotten I had even written), the first few pages of a novel beautyofevening wrote (remember the Brazilian Orchid?)--oh, and the first, fourth, and fifth sonnets I ever wrote.
The novels, especially the one I had forgotten about, were particularly interesting. I sorta remembered having some plot figured out with it, but all I really remembered about it was that it had to do with war and patriotism. When I found the folder containing it I was shocked at how much I had actually accomplished. I wrote about 15 pages (handwritten), but more interesting to me is the fact that I actually wrote a complete chapter-by-chapter synopsis of what was supposed to happen and (very short) character sketches.
Now here's the thing. I've started writing about 15 different novels in the last 15 years or so, and even managed to get 120 or so (handwritten) pages done for one back in middle school. I had a pretty decent idea of how each of them would end too. But as far as I can remember, most of them have fallen in the "Step One: Steal Underwear. Step Two.... Step Three: Profit!" category of planning, by which I mean I'd have a great intro and conclusion but no idea what would happen in the middle. I don't even have the attention span to write a decent short story. Which is why I mostly stick with sonnets these days, or, better, haikus. Or shamelessly self-promoting LJ entries.
So the fact that I had a decent plot... and the characters! I was shocked. I mean, obviously it was the work of a high schooler. It read like what I imagine a script for Dubya Presents The O.C. would sound like--but, I dunno. Characters I don't even remember writing sound like they're talking with a southern drawl. I could actually hear them and see them. It was unreal--like, did I actually write that? I've never thought about any of those old novels with anything more than mild amusement. This one... if I can cut down on some of the sermonizing... this one actually shows some promise. Now, if I can only motivate myself, maybe I can actually tackle this whole "writing" business after all...
The novels, especially the one I had forgotten about, were particularly interesting. I sorta remembered having some plot figured out with it, but all I really remembered about it was that it had to do with war and patriotism. When I found the folder containing it I was shocked at how much I had actually accomplished. I wrote about 15 pages (handwritten), but more interesting to me is the fact that I actually wrote a complete chapter-by-chapter synopsis of what was supposed to happen and (very short) character sketches.
Now here's the thing. I've started writing about 15 different novels in the last 15 years or so, and even managed to get 120 or so (handwritten) pages done for one back in middle school. I had a pretty decent idea of how each of them would end too. But as far as I can remember, most of them have fallen in the "Step One: Steal Underwear. Step Two.... Step Three: Profit!" category of planning, by which I mean I'd have a great intro and conclusion but no idea what would happen in the middle. I don't even have the attention span to write a decent short story. Which is why I mostly stick with sonnets these days, or, better, haikus. Or shamelessly self-promoting LJ entries.
So the fact that I had a decent plot... and the characters! I was shocked. I mean, obviously it was the work of a high schooler. It read like what I imagine a script for Dubya Presents The O.C. would sound like--but, I dunno. Characters I don't even remember writing sound like they're talking with a southern drawl. I could actually hear them and see them. It was unreal--like, did I actually write that? I've never thought about any of those old novels with anything more than mild amusement. This one... if I can cut down on some of the sermonizing... this one actually shows some promise. Now, if I can only motivate myself, maybe I can actually tackle this whole "writing" business after all...