3-Day Novel, or: I can write superfriggin long posts if I want! Zut alors for you.

In olden times -- 2001, to be exact -- when I could focus my enthusiasm with more vehemence than it seems I can manage lately, I participated in the Anvil Press 3 Day Novel Competition, infamous in some circles (Canadian writerly ones).

After the dreary summer of aught-one, I was cryin' for a challenge. I had just moved back to my hometown, and felt I was living a classic excerpt from the rube's memoir: I'd had my "stint" in the big city, and now, barely 21, I was back in the land of tumbleweeds and traffic lights that blink red after midnight, pretending to myself that the move was by choice (like young morons everywhere, I'd merely followed my man, who wanted to return home with his newly-acquired trade, to live and work there).

(And die there! And die! my brain would shout, unheeded -- silly brain! -- while outwardly I smiled and located the middle-distance with my gaze and said I would certainly be pleased to 'get back to basics' as well, oh indeed, this city life ain't no life at all, no indeedy.

In that tiny town, "under" served as an all-purpose preface. I was underemployed, understimulated, under the weather with a gloom all the tart sea air and mountain vistas could not penetrate. I was underwhelmed in general by the fact that here I was in my clever adult disguise, ticking off the days in a town I'd forsworn mentally at the age of 11 or so, and physically as soon as some university or another said "welcome aboard" and I bolted.

I worked 25 hours a week in a crappy cafe whose only virtue was it's proximity to my uninsulated, creepy-cellared, blankets-substituting-for-doors, rundown-ass rental house.

Everyday, I came home reeking of sandwiches, to this house that was so ugly (rented sight-unseen) that when I first saw it I started to cry like a bitch in front of everybody: landlord, non-plussed boyfriend, and his embarrassed parents who expected more of a frontier spirit from the help-meet of their son who would soon be moving on up in the world.


Anyhow, pinned to a telephone pole, I one day found an advertisement for a contest that on first consideration seemed ridiculous. A novel-writing contest? A three day novel-writing contest? Pfft, what sort of bullshit was that? Everyone knows novels need years of scrutiny, of erasure, of fretting over, of grooming, before being tossed in a drawer in existential hopelessness; marinating for a spell before the cold-hearted revision that might wrestle it into something that could pass as palatable, and barely fresh.

But the idea stuck with me. Later on, I surrendered my $25 entry fee (3 hours' wage! oh, decadence) and entered. What the hell! The contest took place over the Labour Day weekend, and it seemed an appealing alternative to camping, or BBQing, or tootling around on a car trip eating bunwiches and pointing out the sites before possibly dying in a firey pile-up on the Coquihalla Highway (all popular long weekend past times in B.C.).

The concept was also appealing because it seemed to take the mystique away from the writing process, the indulgence inherent in much of it. Such a time limit would be like Palmolive to the grease of a writer's folderol: the debating for hours over that word or this, obsessive re-reading, flights of fancy while the pen lays idle, or seeking inspiration at the bottom of a wineglass. A literary marathon of this 72-hour sort instead broke it all down into a bare-bones process. How much could you generate in 72 hours, in the departments of Exposition, Cohesion, Beauty, and sheer damn Volume? I was excited about it. I mentally laid down a bare outline and spent my free time brainstorming ideas but waited virtuously for the Friday evening kick-off before I devoted my full concentration and a pen to these notions.

In retrospect this diligence seems naive. I doubt very many of the contestants strictly abide by the 3 day rule. I'm sure the contest becomes a venue for would-be writers to take up an unpolished manuscript and try to pass it off as the inspiration of 3 days instead of the thwarted brainchild of 3 years. I also wonder how many contestants take the time frame literally and work through as many of the allotted hours as they can physically handle, instead of stopping for sleep or meals or stepping out for a pint with friends or accommodating whatever Person from Porlock who comes their way. I'm surprised at myself for taking it so seriously, especially as the contest was honour-system all the way, but I allotted myself only a few hours of sleep per day, and even piled up on the chores (cleaning, laundry, appointments, visits, cooking) in the days leading up to the long weekend so I'd be free to hack away at the keys with no outside obligations.

My resolve was such that not even a car accident could discourage my excitement. Early Friday morning on the kick-off date, I sideswiped a parked car while I was backing up, and such were my vehicular maneuverings that both cars became hopelessly wedged as the groan of crumpling steel filled my ears. (Note: I never did get my full-fledged license, so parked cars everywhere will be safe from my driverly shenanigans forevermore.)
I was furious and shaken. The car I'd smashed was the ugliest stupidest car ever invented, but in THIS case, the owner had lovingly tarted it up with chrome and fancy paint, which now was sheared off in distressing piles all over the place. Because I'd violated a clause in my learner's permit ("no driving without supervision") our insurance was void and so I'd singlehandedly have to pay for all of the damages. My boyfriend had a shit fit and after one furious fight, in which he reminded me he was not "the Bank of Canada", didn't speak to me much for days, a situation that would normally make me nervous, but this time coincided nicely with the peace I'd need for my story.

What I produced was a story about two rural children, brothers, the squalor of their existence lightened somewhat by the novelty of Nintendo, Crayolas, and Captain Highliner Fish Sticks. Over the Christmas vacation from school, their mother dies in bed (assisted by pills) and they don't report anything, mostly for a lack of anyone to report to and a general suspicion of the world at large. Meanwhile, their estranged father is running an errand in the city. He plans to rob a jewelry store, impress his wife with gems, and reunite the family once he's proven he's not a deadbeat.
It was called "The Tides," after the trailer park they lived in. I figured 3 days wasn't a lot of time for subtle metaphorin', so I laid it on thick!

By the time we neared home it was night out and I kept losing track of where we were. I pretended we were driving along a mysterious highway we’d never seen before, to an undocumented destination. Then I’d glimpse the Natives’ graveyard, or the Petro-Can gas station that was never open, or some other landmark, ghostly before the head lights, but familiar all the same. We approached the Tides Mobile Home Park sign, and mom put the blinker on.
We had often discussed why it was called the Tides. “The ocean ain’t around here,” Francis had grumbled. "The owner is named Mr. Tides!" was my guess.
“No...it means you only get stuck living here if the tide goes out on you,” ma had said, “and you’re stuck until the tides change and take you away.” This interpretation had been too mystical for my brother and me, and our amicable huddle had turned into a slap fight.

It was a totally fucking shite novel by and large but it was 70-something pages long and had a start, middle and end: dayum! This from a girl who can fuss with a sentence until indecision cripples me and I go make a sandwich instead. "The Tides" was mostly ineffective as a story (ie I did not win!) (and if I was proud of it at all I'd link to it for youse) but it took away some of the mystique behind the writing process.

Writing is 90% showing up. That is, making the time to do it consistently, and stick to it like you're getting paid. Then maybe one day you will. Maybe one day you'll have something to show for yourself!

There's nothing that makes me say FUCK YEAH! like a page of text, or a page of the printed word and a blister on your pen-supportin' finger. A conquered field of emptiness.

Writing is hunting and as humans we are born to it. As they say.