My NaNoWriMo Metrics 2014

I intended to start NaNo early because of some upcoming travel, but that was a bust. Nevertheless, I'm going to give it a shot. My goal this year is 20,000 words.

Here we go.


My month shown via widget.


I'm also partnered up with writing buddy A Silent Spectre, so you can see how we're doing here.

Challenge Essay 3: Formerly One Fine Day with Colonel Mustard

Essay 3 from the #Flashback2School College App Blog Challenge. Rules here.

“ Write an essay somehow inspired by super-huge mustard.”

Of all the topics we considered when putting together this blog challenge, the super-huge mustard was the one that gave me the most trouble. No single idea resonated with me completely. I thought about writing from the perspective of a futuristic scientist or space commander who had discovered a massive quantity of mysterious yellow goop. Forced to find a use for this tangy, spicy substance, the scientist-commander would decide to bottle it and sell it as a foodstuff. (Soylent yellow is people! Yes, I considered it.)

I also thought about writing an essay that revolved around Grey Poupon TV ads from the 1980s. A wealthy man being driven around in a luxury vehicle would scroll down his car window and speak to a similarly well-dressed man in another car. Excuse me, sir, would you have any Grey Poupon? No? How about gray coupons? No? Would you happen to have a finely aged poodle thereabouts, then, good sir? I discarded that idea quickly.

I finally settled on writing a short stylistic biography about Colonel Mustard as a young man. The Secret Life of Colonel Mustard, I wanted to call it. (By stylistic, I mean the Colonel Mustard I envisioned was a pompous windbag. Get it? "Super-huge" Mustard?) This explains the graphic I created to accompany my essay.

Well, this essay is about none of those ideas above. I noticed something belatedly that seemed more suited to a personal essay.

Since age 15 or so, I have written almost exclusively from the male point of view or have populated my writing with male protagonists. It’s not intentional. When I’m in a story, I usually see the world through a boy or a man’s eyes, though that male may not be stereotypically male. (If I were to replace all the pronouns with “she” and “her,” I think these characters’ thoughts and behavior would still ring true—with certain exceptions for experiences that are exclusively feminine, of course.)

All of the protagonists in the scenarios I described above could have been female. But automatically, I put myself in the body of a male.

Is my inner writer a man? Is writing from a female perspective too personal? Is writing from a masculine viewpoint my way of trying to understand men? (There were certainly many moments in my teenage years, and yes, even in my young adult years, where I puzzled over things they did or said.) Or do I actually identify with men more easily than I do women?

To answer this question, I examined my few female characters. Worried that they’re too stereotypically female, I react against that, having them take on traditionally male jobs or behaviors. As a person who likes to go against the grain, I wanted to challenge others’ expectations of what these women would do. But these attempts to turn women into nonconformists seemed superficial, hardly authentic. They also became too defined by these showy moments of “Look, I’m not a stereotype!” and got lost in them. Not good.

How do I feel when I write from a male viewpoint? After spending a period writing (and seeing the world) from male eyes, I often feel like I’m turning into a man. I also wonder if my male protagonists are “too feminine” in their thoughts and behavior. Do I need to have them “man up,” so to speak? These cognitions carry with them an entirely different set of questions about gender roles, societal expectations, and personal prejudices. Why not have a male character who is less macho? We know from past research in psychology that men and women are more similar than we think, and that traits we normally assign to women (e.g., being romantic, falling in love first) actually describe men more than they do women. Are we selling men short by not allowing them to be warm, caring beings?

After considering these questions, I’ve concluded that writing from a male perspective serves many purposes for me. I do use it as a way to help myself understand men. Simultaneously, it is also a way to distance myself from the character’s thoughts and behavior, i.e., it is a less personal experience.

But here’s the problem. If I say I’m trying to understand men by writing from “the” male perspective, I’ve fallen in precisely the same trap of stereotyping I was trying to avoid. I can really only understand that given person’s motivations and perspectives, not all men’s, through the viewpoints I adopt in my work.

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Did you enjoy my essay?  Check out my fellow challengers' essays below. Better yet, join us and write your own!
Challenger Susan
Challenger Elizabeth

Challenge Essay 2: Patient File for John "Waldo" Doe

Essay 2 from the #Flashback2School College App Blog Challenge. Rules here.

“So where is Waldo, really?”

PATIENT NAME: Doe, John "Waldo"

PATIENT NOTES: (Page 2)

Day 15. Since regaining consciousness, the patient only responds to the name “Waldo” and becomes visibly agitated if any other name is used.

Day 17. Patient abhors empty spaces. Exhibits anxiety when alone and gravitates toward large groups, working his way into their midst. Dislikes being center of attention, however. Seems happy to stay invisible and observe.

Day 19. Patient escaped clinic grounds. Four hours passed before local law enforcement located him at a crowded parade on Main Street. Did not struggle when he was brought back in. Seemed quite pleased to be found.

Day 20. Therapy sessions begin. Patient must be restrained. Without restraints, patient attempts to conceal himself in corners or behind decorative plants.

Day 22. Forget about restraints. Patient is cooperative and talkative if allowed to remain behind couch. Patient requested that I conduct the session from under my desk. Asked me why I’m interested in other people’s behavior. Does asking him questions teach me something about myself? I just whacked my head on the keyboard tray for my trouble.

Day 23. Patient recalls he was fond of hide-and-seek games as a child. Claims he has a natural talent for blending in and seeming ordinary. Always played background characters and sang in the chorus in school plays. Asked why I want to stand out so much. Did I think those diplomas hanging behind my desk really mean anything to anyone? Patient is surprisingly astute.

Day 24. No session today. Patient snuck off-grounds again. Was captured at a hamburger-eating contest 50 miles away. How did he get there?

Day 27. Patient spent duration of session pawing through the books on my shelves. Always wished he could write a book, he said. Well, we’ve got that in common. Then, he reconsidered and said he’d rather be a character in one. Characters have more fun than writers, according to him. Right. Asked him if he wasn’t having fun with us. Did he want to escape? He just stared at the clock and chewed on his lip.

Day 28. Had a feeling he would ask about the lack of personal effects in my office. That’s because I stuck them way back in my desk drawer as a pre-emptive measure. I don’t think my personal life is any of his business.

Day 29. No session again. Patient disappeared overnight. By the time he was discovered mingling at Santa-Claus-themed 5K Fun Run, it was after hours. Santa Claus Fun Run? It’s not even winter!

Day 30. We have a breakthrough! Patient caught sight of my camera kit and became agitated. Broke down at the sight of my telephoto lens. Kept repeating, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” as he was carried away.

Day 31. Today’s a holiday, but he doesn’t know that. I want to get to the bottom of his reaction yesterday. Does he finally remember? Can he cope?

Day 34. Now we have it. Full transcript of recorded session below:

“I—I wanted to use my talent for blending in somehow. It’s...it’s really the only thing I’m good at. So after failing at odd jobs here and there, I enlisted. My mom was so proud. She was tired of getting spooked by me everywhere she turned. I don’t even try to be invisible. I just am. 

Where was I? Oh...yeah, so I enlisted. Army photojournalist. I wasn’t fit for combat. Wrong mindset. I’d never advance in the ranks. ‘No leadership skills, lack of initiative,’ my commanding officer said at some point. ‘Might as well let him be invisible.’ 

My unit was stationed in Aleppo. You know that place? Glittering, modern city. Cars, people. Families. Not—not anymore. [Patient begins to cry.] It’s just rubble. Ruins of buildings, the crumbled stone charred from blasts. Deaths every day. No...not deaths. Murders. Massacres. 

The lucky ones got out. I don’t know where—Turkey, Iraq, Jordan—there were too many. Mothers and children separated; husbands and wives torn apart. Every day, holding their breath and praying not to see loved ones’ names among the lists of the deceased. [Patient sobs.] 

I witnessed terrible things. People did terrible things to stay alive. They had to. And I couldn’t look away. I had to point my lens at them and push down on the shutter, committing these atrocities to memory. 

The—the last thing I remember was a blast. It was deafening, so bright and white-hot. There was a child screaming... [Sobs.]

I couldn’t save her in time.”

END NOTES

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Did you enjoy my essay?  Check out my fellow challengers' essays below. Better yet, join us and write your own!
Challenger Susan
Challenger Elizabeth

Challenge Essay 1: Ren Diller's Ultimate Guide to Surviving Alienhood

Essay 1 from the #Flashback2School College App Blog Challenge. Rules here.

“If you could be raised by robots, dinosaurs, or aliens, who would you pick?”

I’d choose to have aliens as parents. Here’s the thing, though—my parents are already from another planet.

Okay, back up. Let me explain.

I was the birthday girl who proudly toted a tray of ice-cream-cone cupcakes to school in second grade. My mom had struggled with what to make for the occasion. We didn’t “do” cupcakes at home, so I felt extra-special as I bestowed a cake-filled cone upon each of my classmates. As the kids around me bit into their frosting-free treats (no frosting, my mom didn’t do frosting, either), I began to hear exclamations of disgust. “Eww! It looks like poop!”

My mother had had the inspired plan of sprinkling the cake batter with peanut M&M’s. Festive, right? As the cupcakes baked, the colorful candy shells melted off, leaving gooey brown lumps lodged between crumbs of golden cake. Sure, they didn’t look so appetizing. But what right did my classmates have to say so?

I was crushed. Some of the kids finished their cupcakes, no harm done, but many of them discarded theirs after the first bite. Who could blame them? There were images of poo-cones dancing in their heads.

At home, when my mom asked how her cake cones had gone over, I just mumbled a few unhappy words and went to go hide my disappointment inside a book. She never tried to make them again.

It wasn’t just that we had different languages. It was hard to pass along customs. How do you explain your traditions and culture when they’re the only ones you’ve known? To an alien, these seem automatic and natural, not something you teach. In our house, the right way to receive compliments was to put ourselves down. With my mother, this extended to accepting gifts. Every single birthday gift, Mother’s Day gift, holiday gift...she found something about them to critique. She refused them; she returned them. I grew up with a distinctly warped way of reacting to gifts that didn’t win me any new friends. In fact, I may still owe a few apologies.

My alien parents were a source of frustration, and occasionally mortification, for most of my life. My childhood is filled with stories of awkwardness, of unintended rudeness, of brazen why-are-you-two-so-unreasonable arguments.

It wasn’t until I became an expat at the age 28 that I began to understand all of these inexplicable events of my childhood for the first time. I knew theoretically the life of an alien was hard. I had seen how my parents struggled to make simple requests while shopping. I saw how they shied away from school events, too embarrassed by their English skills, too proud to make some unknowing social faux pas.

I saw that they favored businesses, teachers, and doctors where their language was spoken. There, they felt at ease. They could communicate elegantly; they could be understood perfectly. Not just their words. At other establishments frequented by aliens, people understood their background and family history, their customs, their fears, and the challenges they faced. There was no “being alien.” Not among your own people. But I didn’t understand just how frightening it is to be an alien until I became an alien myself.

I’ve navigated over 30 years of culture shock, language barriers, different customs, and strange beliefs, all within my home. Outside my home, that was an adventure, too. Things that were simple for my friends—what to say when ordering eggs, what to wear to a dress event, the right things to ask during a college interview—they weren’t easy for me. I didn’t have coaching. It was like everyone around me had gotten their own user manual for living life, but I could only check mine out of the library. But the funny thing is, I think everyone feels this way, maybe just a little.

I got used to being a little “weird,” a little out-of-place. I never quite fit in, but I didn’t mind. I grew to like it. I found that I didn’t really care what others thought of me. This became a wonderful gift—the gift of freedom from judgment, from expectation. I can break away from the conventional. I’m not afraid to voice the unpopular opinion, to make my own choices.

And other bonuses? I’m curious about other aliens. I learned to view “different” as exciting, not threatening. I can share my alien-ness with others.

Yes, my parents are aliens. In the best sense.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Did you enjoy my essay?  Check out my fellow challengers' essays below. Better yet, join us and write your own!
Challenger Susan
Challenger Elizabeth

Blog Challenge: This December, I’m Going Back to School!

You heard me. My friends Elizabeth, Susan, and I are hard at work on our college application essays—our creative college application essays.

Inspired by this New York Times piece on the increasingly whimsical and thought-provoking questions that elite colleges employ to stretch their prospective applicants’ imaginations, we (writers in our late 20s to early 30s) are challenging ourselves to take on some of the REAL essay questions being pondered by current high-school juniors and seniors.

We’ll be answering the same three questions and posting our essays here. Follow along—or better yet, join us.

Creative College Application Essays
Topics:
(Dec. 16) “If you could be raised by robots, dinosaurs, or aliens, who would you pick?”
(Dec. 18) “So where is Waldo, really?”
(Dec. 20) “Write an essay somehow inspired by super-huge mustard.”

Here are the rules:
• We write as our current selves, not as 17-year-olds.
• Work in personal elements where possible (these are personal essays), but be as creative as you like.
• Upper word limit per essay is 750 words. No lower limit.

Logistics:
• We post our essays to our writer blogs by 5 PM Pacific on their respective due dates.
• Link each essay back to this challenge info.
• Once each person has posted her essay, share the direct link to that essay with the other challengers, so that we can link to essays on the same topic.
• Use hashtag #Flashback2School on your social media if you like!

All essays are now linked below. Enjoy!

Essay Topic #1:
Ren's essay
Elizabeth's essay
Susan's essay

Essay Topic #2:
Ren's essay
Elizabeth's essay
Susan's essay

Essay Topic #3:
Ren's essay
Elizabeth's essay
Susan's essay