Jumping in with both feet: A Journey to 100,000 words
What do I know about jazz? Less than I know about colour theory and the history of colour and their uses in art and culture. But, then, I know every little about colour. Why have I chosen to include both in my novel? I have been asking myself this question as I prepare notes and work on a rough outline.
It all started with a title. I was sitting one day in a cafe, sipping a mocha, when a thought flashed through my mind: what would I title a film if I were to direct a French New Wave film? It took only a second before it came to me: A Man Who Painted a Room. I laughed to myself. This caught the attention of my wife. “What’s so funny?”
So, I told her. As I began explaining the thought experiment and how I came to the title, I started outlining how the story would be about a jazz musician and his life. The colour of his apartment or house would reflect an aspect of his life at that moment. The story would include musings on the power of colours to influence our thoughts. There would be discussion about how colours have been used in art and culture. Mixed in would be stuff about jazz and creativity. This would also tie into the colours idea.
“That seems strange but interesting,” my wife said, turning back to her watercolour sketch.
And then my mind began to race. It was a strange but interesting idea. Not for a movie, but a book. I kept thinking about it. It possessed me. A few days later I announced to my wife I was going to write A Man Who Painted a Room. She was quick to point out the problems with this idea.
“You know nothing about jazz besides listening to it and you don’t have much of a background in colour theory or history.”
“I can learn,” I said.
That was several months ago. I’m not buried under books on jazz and colour theory. Notes keep piling up and I’m not sure how I’m ever going to make sense of all this information. There is a story in the mess. I can feel it, but I can’t see it. I only have the shadows of my main character. I typically start with a character and then find the story to place them within. Not this time. Everything is happening outside my normal process. It’s scary but exciting. Maybe the chaos means I’m onto something amazing. At least that’s what I keep telling myself, to keep the panic at bay.
I have created a writing schedule. I’ve marked up my planner. I’m committed to getting a first draft completed by the middle of January. I have to produce 5,000 words every week for 20 weeks, giving me a target of 100,000 words. That number scares me but it shouldn’t. My day job as an instructional designer, writing scripts, has forced me to produce close to six million words over thirteen years. There are thousands of hours of narration of my writing. Hundreds of thousands of people have heard my words. Before my years as an instructional designer I was a journalist. I wrote hundreds of thousands of words that were read by thousands each week. And yet, the idea of putting together 100,000 words of fiction seems daunting, almost insane.
Insane or not, I am not giving up on this dream. No more flirting with the idea of being a novelist. The time to prove myself capable is NOW.