I am still working on the NaNo novel from this past November. I barely got anything done over December. Well, I did manage to get through some important stages in the romance between the two leads, but it’s probably the #1 most unrealistic romance I’ve ever written. (And they’ve all been unrealistic.) Obviously, since it’s only a super-rough draft, that’s not a huge issue (and it’s even less of an issue because I’ll probably never touch it again, let alone let anyone see the danged thing) but it annoys me that this relationship which was in many ways the reason I wrote the thing in the first place is so terribly handled.
Of course, I’m in a weird place for writing relationships, having never had one. And even if I had had any, as I’m a woman, I can’t possibly have taken part in any male same-sex relationships. (Not in this lifetime, anyway. But as I have no past life memories, it wouldn’t help even if I had been in such relationships in a previous life.) So obviously the romance between Ashley and Paddy was always going to be awkward and unrealistic. If I ever feel like I’m going to be able to give writing a serious go as a career move (unlikely), I’ll have to invest in reading a lot of fiction with strong emphasis on the romances, and make sure I read books with all three variants. (Technically, I’m sure there are romantic variants other than M/F, F/F, and M/M, but they’re probably a bit more, uh, rare. To say the least.) Not necessarily romance novels as such, just ones where it’s a larger part of the story than most of what I read. Okay, technically, at this stage in my life, most of what I read is non-fiction, so that’s kind of a…um….ack.
Why am I trying to write fiction, anyway?
I totally suck at it.
Furthermore, I have very little time, and all my reading hours end up getting devoted to non-fiction, whether for my classes, for my eventual thesis, or just because there’s so much amazing research out there I want to know about. But reading non-fiction takes longer than reading fiction (usually), and I have so much else on my slate…
Y’know, this isn’t what I was going to be talking about today at all. I intended to talk about my lack of style and failure to grasp the basics of story construction.
And now, after a 24 hiatus in the pre-writing of this post, I feel more like talking about my idiotic need to come up with story ideas at the slightest provocation. Which, I suppose, answers the question of “why am I trying to write fiction, anyway?” Because I come up with ideas — some of which would probably be really good if written by someone not-me — and I want to see them come to life in some manner, and I keep hoping that if I try hard enough, eventually I’ll attain some small degree of skill in the craft. (So far, that has not happened. And I’ve been writing, in one form or another, for more than twenty years.)
So I guess I write out of a compulsion to do so. Much like almost everything else in my life, when it comes right down to it; I seem utterly unable to deny acting on these urges. (Lucky none of my compulsions are to do things that are illegal!) I just wish, considering the time I end up devoting to it, that I was actually good at it. As it stands, it’s nearly a complete waste of time. (The one way it isn’t a waste is that I’d probably need therapy if I couldn’t write. Or need it enough to actually force me to get some, that is; I undoubtedly need therapy already.)
Okay. I’ve randomly whined for too long now.
So I’ll stop.