I can’t believe it: I’ve started writing a novel. And has it ever given me insight into the writing process. Every writer has their methods, but I quickly discovered mine was to have a definite outline with the plot sorted out right from the beginning. Novel writing, er, writing a novel, rather, seems like an incredibly daunting task when you’re just a few hundred words in, but by breaking it down into scenes, it becomes managable. Here’s a taste:
“Dudes! Let’s party naked, dudes!”
My eyes narrowed to slits, and I couldn’t help but snicker to myself at Jason’s words. I watched him dance through the thick fog of smoke curling over my face. God, the bitter wretchedness of nicotine was a necessary sacrament in this shrine of staidness. That’s what made me so tired: the conventionality of it all. Like Jason, every-freakin-one was so simple, so transparent, so damn predictable. Ugh.
I was tired, all right — and sick. Sick and tired of sophomoric antics, of everyone and everything in this goddamn town, of all that had happened — and of myself. So sick and tired of the never-ending drama taking place in my head.
“Dudes, get me the bong!” Jason bellowed.
Disgusted, I turned away and went out onto the patio for some fresh air. I could make out the outlines of small groups and couples huddling on lawn chairs, on garden benches, in the grass. Music blared from speakers mounted high on the corners of the house’s back wall. “Hey, Schneider! Get over here!” someone yelled at me. Not a chance, I thought. Heavily, my feet like deadweights, I dropped down the patio steps and strode out into the garden. There were lots of secluded spots among the small forest of trees that dotted Aidan’s property. As kids, we played games out here for hours: flashlight tag, kick-the-can, and, later on, kissing games. But the games we were playing now weren’t so fun.