I Wrote a Book in 12 Days
Dalliances Weekly Digest, Edition 3
You keep writing because it’s the only way to finish the book.
― James Scott Bell, Revision & Self-Editing: Techniques for transforming your first draft into a finished novel
Table of Contents
Introduction | Busy, Busy
On Writing | In Praise of Unintentional Symbolism?
Writing Prompt | Locked Up
Short Story | The Watchers
Week in Review | I Wrote a Book in 12 Days
Poem | The Rain Again, Again
Busy, Busy
Hello again, readers and writers! It’s been a busy week. I published my book How to Succeed at Nothing, I’m already thinking about how I’m going to keep up with my weekly newsletter while also writing an entire novel in November, all while being plagued with thoughts of the impending Wisconsin cold. Winter a comin’ y’all.
I’ve also noticed that I got some new subscribers and followers recently, and I’d like to thank every one of you for the support. I deeply appreciate you taking an interest in my writing. It truly keeps me going.
Onward to the newsletter…
On Writing | In Praise of Unintentional Symbolism?
It would be better for you to do your own thinking on this sort of thing. ― John Updike
I was going to write this piece on how to use symbolism in your writing, but in the course of my research, something fortuitous happened. I pulled up a few articles online about the craft of symbolism and skimmed them, then my eyes drifted to the poem I had written for this week’s newsletter. Compelled to read it again, I suddenly noticed that the rain (yes, I have written another ‘rain poem’ this week, I hope you like it) could be seen as a metaphor/symbol for tears, especially toward the final stanza. Now, this was not intentional. I then happened to do a Google search for what authors have to say on symbolism. I clicked on this article from The Marginalian, “From Jack Kerouac to Ayn Rand: Iconic Writers on Symbolism, 1963.”
…The conclusion of that article being, based on these authors’ input:
A pattern of shared sentiments begins to emerge—at its best, symbolism, like salt, is invisible and seamless; it’s organic rather than engineered; and it is, above all, the product of your own mind rather than a prescriptive recipe.
Some authors advocate that you should not attempt to ‘use’ symbolism at all, while others say to merely recognize it as it arises, and then develop your organically caught yeast into a loaf.
Personally, I found Ralph Ellison’s observation to be the most reasonable:
Symbolism arises out of action and functions best in fiction when it does so. Once a writer is conscious of the implicit symbolisms which arise in the course of a narrative, he may take advantage of them and manipulate them consciously as a further resource for his art. Symbols which are imposed upon fiction from the outside tend to leave the reader dissatisfied by making him aware that something extraneous is being added.
That said, I wonder how many readers would be able to tell whether a skillful writer had discovered their symbols before writing their story, or vice versa. I honestly doubt they would notice. I also doubt other writers would notice—if it were done skillfully. Which I think is the key here.
Your skill in writing ultimately determines the effectiveness, and seamlessness, of any symbol, regardless of how the symbol arose.
I’ll leave it at that for now, while also providing you with some links that explore the mechanics of the symbol, since the “iconic writers” have been a bit stingy with their input on that count.
“Strengthening Story with Symbolism, Motifs, and Image Systems” by September C. Fawkes
“Symbol, John Truby, The Anatomy of Story, p. 220-221” cited by pirangy on Medium
“What Is Symbolism? Definition and Examples” at the Reedsy blog
Writing Prompt | Locked Up
This week’s prompt I’ve lifted from Reedsy’s weekly writing prompts, which you can find here.
The prompt is: Set your story in a type of prison cell.
Faerollo was a nasty man, a brutish man, a vindictive man. The type of man to peep up young girls’ skirts at parties. He was the man I was betrothed to, and Father, rest his soul, did not live long enough to see what a monstrosity he had cursed me with. I was not so fortunate.
On our wedding night, Faerollo said the Cinadera girl already sagged. The Cinadera girl was sixteen. It was a blessing I had not met the same fate, considering my age, he said. I was twenty-five. He told me that although they had done away with my father, I was still a useful tool. He said I smelled of thyme and lavender, but that he preferred the rose perfume of the midnight ladies on the Embaralta. He said he planned to see the Cinadera girl again, anyway. He liked the shape of her lips.
They found his body the next morning, floating in the canal San Marco. He had fallen off the balcony, it seems, a consequence of his habitual sleepwalking. I had nothing to do with it.
They threw me into the San Marco dungeons regardless.
I’m counting the number of bricks in the limestone walls for the third day in a row when I hear a click and the heavy oak door creaks open.
A man steps inside. He’s old, with a long beard and violet robes that trail across the ground, the sort worn by the Magistery over a century ago. He motions to the guard outside to leave the two of us alone.
He shuts the door with a wave of his hand.
“Clio, my Lady of Firenza,” he says. “Might I sit with you?”
I’m sitting cross-legged on the cold floor. It matters not to me whether he sits or stands. I nod.
“Do you want to know who I am?” he continues. He scans my face with a gray, piercing stare.
“Are you going to get me out of here?” I return.
The old man chuckles. “That’s yet to be seen,” he says. “In fact, you may almost certainly starve down here.” He raises an eyebrow.
I don’t find that very funny.
“My name is Benigno of Cinadera,” he says. “I want to know how Faerollo died.”
My breath catches. Is he related to the Cinadera girl? Is he in league with Faerollo’s men?
“I don’t believe you killed him,” Benigno says. “But I have seen the body. I examined it the same day they pulled him from the water. He had a mark on his left arm about the size of—this.”
He lifts one of his long sleeves to reveal a gaping red scar in the shape of a sickle. I wince at how much flesh must have been cut to leave such a mark.
“I did not kill him,” I admit. “But I was going to. He deserved whatever he got.”
“Did he have a mark like this before he died?” Benigno asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“That’s all I need to know,” he says.
Benigno closes his eyes briefly and sighs.
“I take it you know of Faerollo’s…connection to one of the girls in my family?” he asks.
“I do, yes.” What is he getting at? How are the Cinaderas tied into this? Doubtless more than one family is rejoicing at Faerollo’s demise.
“A great great grandniece of mine,” Benigno explains.
Gods, the man must be ancient.
“The Cinaderas have always held a tenuous position among the ruling houses of the peninsula,” he says. “They tend to produce an excess of daughters, and those not betrothed by the age of fifteen they ‘hire out,’ so to speak, to be of service to one of their alliances in whichever way the allied house sees fit—often as courtesans, but also in other capacities. My sister was the first to be sold into this practice. Diletta of Cinadera is only the latest.”
I furrow my brow. I had heard rumors, but what does this have to do with me?
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
Again Benigno sighs. “I have not spoken to any of my family directly for well over half a century. This mark…” he says, gesturing to his arm. “This is a mark of my family. Those who have this mark do not live. Truth be told, the Cinaderas select which daughters are most suitable for marriage, or not, at a very young age. Diletta was trained as an assassina.”
I put the pieces together.
“So why? Why me? Why am I here?” I say.
“Because you are a Cinadera,” he replies.
I’m even more puzzled now. “That’s impossible.”
“Impossible that your mother had a liaison with one of the Cinadera household?” He’s serious.
I rack my mind for a possible explanation. I know my mother’s father was in talks with the Cinaderas long before I was born, but that deal had fallen through. Maybe it was possible…
“There are letters,” Benigno says. “A tryst, forbidden love. It remained well-hidden for years.”
Something wasn’t adding up.
“You say that this mark, that no one who has it lives. But you have it, and you live. Are you implying that your own family tried to kill you?” I say.
“They did try,” Benigno says. “Those who live are exceptional cases. I needed to be certain Faerollo was not one of those. But if he did not have the mark before death, then all is well.”
“And why would I be locked up for Faerollo’s murder? As if I was secretly trained by the Cinaderas or something…” It doesn’t make sense.
I stand up with effort, cross my arms, and pace around the cell.
“You said you wanted to know how Faerollo died,” I say. “Yet you seem to have guessed that Diletta killed him.”
“I lied,” Benigno says. “I wasn’t sure. I needed to get you talking to be certain.”
“You what?”
I take a deep breath. I’m angry, yes, but this man doesn’t appear to be against me. And who could blame him for being cautious, with all that goes on in our families?
I think I understand now.
“You can get me out of here,” I say.
Benigno smiles. “Precisely. If you can trust me that much, take my hands and I’ll show you.”
For the first time in weeks, I laugh. “Who says I trust you? I just want to leave.”
Benigno stands in front of me and I place my palms on top of his. There’s a flash of light before the walls of the cell fade away.
Short Story | The Watchers
I knew they were watching. From my bedroom window I saw them pull into the driveway across the street. It was a two-story home in fever yellow with pea green trim, a sickening combination in the afternoon light. The house had been pure white before they moved in.
I positioned my binoculars through a single slit in the blinds to make sure they didn’t see me. The man exited the minivan first, the woman followed. They removed several heavy-looking plastic bags from the trunk. What horrors were inside those bags I could only guess. The man fumbled with his key at the door. Nerves, clearly. Maybe he felt guilty for what he had done. Regardless, I’d clear the air soon. I could no longer let them get away with their crimes.
When they shut the door behind them, I jumped up to make my entrance. I had a switchblade on me, some pieces of rope, and a whistle just in case. Sometimes you’re too frightened to call for help, and blowing into a whistle is much easier.
Five minutes later, I was knocking on their door.
Would they play coy, I wondered. Would they deny it? Would they hold me at gunpoint?
My palms dripped with sweat and I wiped them hastily on my pants. I licked my lips.
The door opened slowly.
It was the man, the first time I’d seen him up close. Middle-aged and slightly balding with a pert mustache, he wrinkled his forehead and said, “May I help you?”
Suddenly tongue-tied, I felt the sweat pour down my neck. I held up a shaking finger and we stood there, in silence, for about two minutes before he said, “I’m sorry,” and shut the door.
I don’t know what came over me then, but I would not stand for this. If they weren’t going to let me in, then I’d have to get in by force.
My eyes scanned their front yard and I found a decent sized rock, which I promptly hurled through the front window.
I heard the woman yelp, then the man rushed to the window and we locked eyes.
Gradually, my vision went blurry. I felt my body swaying as if I was about to lose consciousness, but a moment later I found myself lying on a carpet, staring at a sickly yellow ceiling.
I sat up to see the man and woman seated on a couch, watching me.
“I knew!” I shouted, pointing my finger. “I knew all along!”
The man merely shook his head and said, “Look at my wife, what you’ve done to her. How are you going to fix this?”
I noticed then the woman held her head in her hands. She looked at me and I saw the flesh had peeled back from halfway across her face.
The skin was green underneath, and a tear fell from the smooth black eyeball, in stark contrast to the human eye on the other side of her face.
“We only wanted a home,” the woman sobbed. “Why can’t you just let us live our life in peace?”
Week in Review | I Wrote a Book in 12 Days
I wrote and published a book in less than two weeks with the help of AI.
As per my Acknowledgement at the end of the book:
First and foremost, I'd like to extend my deepest gratitude to all the supportive friends and family who provided their encouragement throughout this writing journey. Each of you played a pivotal role in bringing this work to fruition.
A special mention must be made to ChatGPT by OpenAI. In moments of writer's block, in need of inspiration, or when navigating complex topics, ChatGPT was an unparalleled digital companion. Its vast knowledge, timely assistance, and uncanny ability to understand and expand upon my thoughts were instrumental in the completion of this book.
To all the readers, thank you for embarking on this journey with me. Each page is imbued with the collective knowledge and collaborative effort of many, both human and digital. I hope this book resonates with you as much as the process of writing it has with me.
Lastly, to anyone who's ever dared to dream and put pen to paper, this is a testament to the magic that ensues when traditional methods merge with technological marvels. Here's to the future of writing and the boundless possibilities it holds.
I brainstormed the idea, outlined, and began writing on September 29th. I completed the final chapter and published my ebook with Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) on October 10th. How did it turn out? More than satisfactory, indeed, better than expected in my opinion. But if you’d like to see for yourself, you can purchase a copy of How to Succeed at Nothing: Tips and Tricks for Highly Motivated People and Overachievers to Shut Up, Sit Down, and Enjoy the Process here.
What was my process like?
Because you can prompt ChatGPT with pretty much anything, I’ve found it’s excellent for inspiration. Sometimes it gives you a result you don’t like but that inspires you to write something else you wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. It feels like working with a personal assistant. My process is to start with an idea and a basic outline then go back and forth with ChatGPT, using and editing its output or just throwing it away as needed.
That’s all for this week!
Now to get back to that outline for National Novel Writing Month…
Poem | The Rain Again, Again
The rain again is washing away everything in view. We watch it through the windowpane as tempest torrents blow. I cannot say when it will cease, but we will wait for you. They offer me a cup of tea; I say, “Please pour for two.” They think the rain is letting up; how little do they know… The rain again is washing away everything in view. Already some have left because the sun was peeking through. Two others chat, and play at cards, and start a little show. I cannot say when it will cease, but they will wait for you. Another leaves as the spent sky heaves and shows a spot of blue. I’m left with one who stokes the hearth into a brighter glow. The rain again is washing away everything in view… Alas I’m left alone to sigh and haunted thoughts pursue. The embers say their last goodbyes; the fire’s burning low. I cannot say when it will cease, but it will wait for you. It’s cold and dark and shadows now are creeping into view, And every shade I think is you; I hear your step although The rain again is washing away everything in view. I cannot say when it will cease, but I will wait for you.