The Novel Dare
(A proponent's perspective on insanity)

© Ron Collins

My grandfather used to tell me about the day his dad taught him to swim. His father, being of the practical nature of an Indiana corn-and-hog farmer, herded him into the bottom of a rowing skiff, oared him out to the middle of a lake, and threw him in. (I've always pictured Grandpa screaming and hitting the water butt-first.)

I think it is human nature that we learn best by doing.

This, of course, applies to writing as well as swimming.

In this light, there's a process you might want to try that takes after the method my grandfather's dad used to teach him to swim.

I'm talking, of course, about the Novel Dare.

To put everyone on the same page, the Novel Dare is a process whereupon a writer undertakes to develop a novel-length piece of work in no more than a month's time. You may have seen folks doing these in various Internet groups (though, some may seem more like ravening packs by the end of the month) with each member updating a web site as motivation for everyone to forge on. As best as I can tell, the Dare's origins lay out west in Eugene, Oregon with Kris Rusch and Dean Smith's former writers' group and their "Dare to be Bad" campaign. The exhortation then was that a new writer should focus on getting a short story or a novel chapter done every week, and that the work should be mailed at the end of whatever span was appropriate (end of the week for short stories--whenever the chapters ran out for novels).

I'm not exactly sure how it evolved into its current form (completing a novel in a month), but I do know that Lisa Silverthorne and I picked it up and ran with it. As I type this, I have used the process three times, and am in the middle of doing a fourth.

Yes, there are a lot of arguments against the idea. If you're in any way sane, there's a good chance you're thinking some of them now. In general, though, they all boil down to the idea that fast writing is equal to bad writing.

I certainly understand that viewpoint. If you're convinced it's true, then the Dare probably isn't for you. But having used the process three times, I think it is a valuable learning tool when it's undertaken in the right frame of mind. And, who can tell? If you give it a try, you might even find yourself changing your opinions about faster writing.

Now, before you go telling me that I really ought to be keeping those weekly appointments with Dr. Sigmund, let me explain what I mean.

Let's start with the concept.

Let me be blunt. I do not think it is in any way wise to write a book-length piece in a month, package it up, and ship it to New York--unless, of course, you have a contract that tells you a publisher expects that. This is the path to destruction, or at least to a collection of rejection slips that would make Snoopy humble. A Dare is a first draft, okay? Nothing more, and nothing less.

I should mention some people choose Dares that require only the completion of a set word count--usually 60,000--in the month. I'm tempted to say that this is not a Dare as God intended one to be, but then I ponder what it means that I've envisioned a God that thinks only as I do. Anyway, for my money, a Dare's purpose is to forcibly yank the story from under its rocky den and expose it for you to see and examine. In that light, I think it should tell an entire story.

Other types of artists use similar methods.

Think sculptor. Think painter. Or think, as Lisa Silverthorne does, of a potter. Lisa equates the process to a clay mason throwing a blob of material onto her wheel and getting it to spinning. You may not be able to make out detail as the wheel spins, but you can sure tell if it wobbles.

This is important. This is where the learning comes in.

I spoke to Kris Rusch once about this, and she said something that has resonated with me ever since. She told me she tries to complete total rewrites of her novels in two or three weeks "because that's how long I can hold a story in my head."

The first novel-length manuscript I wrote took me a year in first draft, and five years to complete. Believe me--I know what it means to suffer for my craft. Like every story I've ever told, whether outlined or not, the ending slid a bit and required changes in earlier work to make the story hold together. The problem was that after a year's wait I couldn't remember the events of chapter 1. Every rewrite took me weeks just to prepare for because the tale was dead to my mind.

That problem went away when I went to the Dare approach.

And don't worry that you have to have the story planned out in advance to make this work.

Yes, it helps.

But I've told stories with this process both starting with a defined outline, and beginning with only a wing and a prayer. While words certainly flow more easily when I outline, they all end up with the entire story at my fingertips after that month's time. And when the story is fresh, it's easy to see and fix problems. Even better, the rewriting is actually quite a bit of fun then--sort of like playing evil Dr. Frankenstein and messing with all the parts until they play together.

Here's how I do it.

First, there's the month of the Dare.

If there's one thing I've learned about Dares, it's that progress comes in one of two ways. Either a mad dash of terror knowing you're way behind and you've just got to crank words, or through having such a clear understanding of the story you're trying to tell that the words flow fairly unheeded. While either approach works, I recommend striving for the latter. [grin]

Turn off your inner critic--that diabolical little beast that whispers how bad you are with every keystroke--by promising to let it loose at the end. Tell the demon that you don't have time to listen to him today because you've got words to write, but that you'll let him ridicule you next month when you read back over it all. Let him think it will be more fun then, anyway, because then he can make fun of you for being really stupid as well as a terrible writer.

Then spend the next month writing like mad.

Once you're done, take a little break. Catch up on all the things you let dangle. I try to sleep in a few days during this time period, and make sure my short story manuscripts get proper attention. After a few days or a week, find a quiet day you can dedicate to your story. Make it a complete, full day if possible because you've got a lot of work ahead of you. Set yourself up with a clear wall space, and a collection of Post-it pads--preferably of several colors--and begin reading your book.

Do your best not to groan at the typos. I guarantee you my typos are better than yours.

Assign your characters various Post-it colors, and as you read, jot down a quick line about what's happening to that character and why. At the end of the chapter, stick the Post-its onto the wall in whatever arrangement lets you follow the flow. Lather, rinse, and repeat with the next chapter. After a full day of reading, you'll have a detailed storyboard.

It's okay to be impressed with yourself at this point, especially if you never figured you had it in you to make up so much stuff so quickly! At this point, though, it's probably best to go to sleep, or take a really long walk. Hit it again the next day.

But when you do return to the wall, hit it hard.

For each step in the story, ask yourself why it happened. Is it plausible? Is it within the characters to act that way? Is it consistent? Was the lesson your character learned important, or even the right one for the message you were trying to impart? If you've got a favorite checklist, use it. If you've got a collection of your favorite rules of thumb, bring them out now. Read the best parts of your favorite how-to books (mine are Barry Longyear's and Algis Budrys's). See if you can pick out their structure. Add more to the story if you need to. Cut things out. Look for gaps. Look for Post-its where something happened that hasn't been set up. If you're using different colored pads for different characters, look for pacing problems--places where colors group together or are too spread out, where the story has gone on for chapters without you touching upon them. Use different colored pens if you think it helps clarify things.

In other words, you let that little voice in the back of your head out of its cage, but--and this is important--only to focus on the story. If that demon laughs at your microwriting, throw the sucker back into his cage and don't feed him for a week. I count words during the Dare because that's what I have to count. But I count storytelling and logical flow of events in the middle because that is what's going to make the tale hold together in the end.

When that's done, it's time to really write the thing.

Now, if this were an essay on particle physics, this is where the sign would say "And then a miracle occurs." Because now you find you can suddenly write like the wind. At this point, you've been with the story for over a month, you've just done a detailed review of every character and why they do what they do. You are officially immersed.

And the words, what new ones you need, will flow.

Don't stop them.

Keep the inner critic turned off. You've learned how to do that, because you finished a book in a month. So you can keep it off for another few weeks. I generally promise my inner demon my firstborn to keep it quiet at this stage. (I always renege on the deal later, and the demon never catches on--proof that an inner critic is about as quick-witted as the other kind). Strive to keep the rewrite in a three-week box. Remember? You can keep a story in your head for that long.

When this is done, and only then, you let the full inner critic out to feed upon your microwriting.

Now the beastie can hack and slash to its heart's desire, and we can let it without feeling bad because we know in our heart that the story is stable. This is the time when that inner voice is suddenly valuable to me, where I'm looking to infuse music into my prose to whatever ability I have.

And that, as they say, is that.

It's done, Jim.

Yeah, it can get complicated down in the trenches. What, for example, if I need to spend time doing research? Good question. In my case, I'll mark things I need to research, then go do it after the draft is done. This may mean I need to extend time before I start the second draft--no big deal. But Mike Resnick once suggested I should avoid doing a thousand dollars' worth of research for a $300 story. One advantage of the Dare approach is that after the first month I know exactly what research I need to do and why I need it.

And when I'm done, the story's done, too.

Maybe the story is good, and maybe it isn't. But one thing's for certain--I've learned a lot from its writing. Which is more than I can say about the five-year struggle with my first book.

So, don't be afraid to give it a shot. What do you have to lose, eh? After all, if it was good enough for my grandfather, it's good enough for me.