“Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” — E.L. Doctorow
With that in mind, I started this year’s NaNoWriMo. I had a quick look at a map, decided on a destination and set off.
To begin with I was trundling along a wide dual-carriageway. I kept to the inside lane as there were a lot of NaNoWriMo drivers speeding past me, some of them churning out word counts that led me to believe their cars were powered by rockets rather than an internal combustion engine. But I was not worried, I had a good idea of where I was going.
After the intial fuel of optimism had begun to run out, I turned off the main road and found a service station where I filled up with determination. I set off into the night again and joined a nice country road, easily wide enough for two juggernauts to pass. I drove on, perhaps even faster than before, and a real belief began to swell up inside me.
Then, as I approached a critical juncture, it began to rain and the range of my headlights reduced to barely more than a few metres. They began to pick out plot-holes in the road and I felt isolated by the darkness. I took a few turns and ended up bouncing along a single lane track with no idea where I was.
I crawled onwards, barely moving, sensing that if I went too far in the wrong direction I’d ruin the journey so far.
I pulled the map out of the glove compartment and tried to work out where I’d gone wrong. I traced my finger along the dual carriageway and found the fuel station where I’d filled up. But from there it was difficult to make out. Huge blobs of concept seemed to be obscuring the details, making it almost impossible to work out how to proceed.
I pulled out a set of pens and neatly, perhaps over dramatically, highlighted the route I’d taken so far. Taking out any slight wobbles there might have been on the original journey and adding a couple of detours which hopefully will improve it.
Unfortunately, I’m still there. Stuck in this field of despondency. In front of me the road, such as it is, disappears into a quagmire. To either side are thick hedgerows which seem to offer no way through. The only way to continue seems to be to retrace my steps, but that’s not in keeping with the ideology of NaNoWriMo.
I pull out another, smaller map and begin to plan another journey. This one is more of a ramble that I can walk all the way round in a morning. Yes. I can see the route of this one much more clearly.
Now I’ve finished my wander, hopefully I’ll put the keys back into the ignition and the car will burst into life. Perhaps a bridge has been built over the swamp, or a tractor has made a hole in the hedge, or…