I Wrote My Novel in a Weekend

(under duress . . . )

When I signed up with an elite secret group to write a novel in a weekend, I was feeling pretty cocky. I mean, how hard could it be? My dentist, my veterinarian, my cleaning lady, and even my 16-year-old cousin had all done NaNoWriMo (my cousin survived it twice). So how hard could a weekend novel be for someone who had already been published so much?

But I didn’t expect to be woken up at 3 a.m. that Friday morning by a SWAT team of three bearded guys banging on my front door. They wore identical black leggings, black-and-white Vanns, V-neck black t-shirts. This scary trio in black shades was also so jacked that their the biceps looked lethal and they growled in unison: “Get ready to write, bitch!”

Dudes weren’t kidding. I didn’t have a chance to shower or eat or dress. No time to pack, either. They just dragged me like a terrorist on Homeland to their red Mini Cooper and shoved me into the trunk, drove me to an undisclosed location where I was imprisoned — I mean sequestered — for a full weekend. Barefoot. In my underwear.

It was a creepy windowless room in a dank basement with nothing more than a white folding card table, a crummy metal chair like your grandma has at her bingo games, a cot without and sheets or a pillow, and a slop bucket off in one corner. They gave me a laptop, and every half-hour, the heavy metal door slammed open, and one of the bros would burst in shouting “Word count, asshole!”

The only luxury was the coffee machine on my table which kept me supplied with a constant stream of low fat, extra-dry Cappuccinos.

I had to make a higher and higher word count each time one of the hipster Hitlers appeared or they’d take away my kale-and-brown-sugar donuts. That’s all they gave me to eat, though they never confiscated the coffee machine — thank God! But between the coffee, the screaming, the smell from the bucket, the blazing fluorescent lights that had no off switch, and being bombarded by vintage New Order nonstop on the loudspeaker, I don’t think I ever even napped for five minutes.

I just wrote. And wrote. And wrote. I never wrote so fast and furious in my friggin’ life. I wrote a 75,000-word novel in 72 hours, blistering my fingers, ending up with contact dermatitis in my crotch and underarms because I never got to shower—not that I ever noticed being itchy and smelly while I was there. All I cared about was my word count. It was my focus, my center, my idol, my reason for being, my shining star, my God.

I didn’t have time to think of anything or anyone, I just wrote. Was the book any good? Who knows? Who cares? I don’t even know where it is now and I’ve forgotten the title. The writers’ group whose name I’m not supposed to reveal (or they’ll hack into my website and hold it for ransom) kept the file and the laptop. They said the book is pure crap. I don’t even remember the plot or genre, so maybe they’re right.

But I did it. That’s all that matters. I wrote words faster than Lance Armstrong could bike on drugs and faster than that demon chick could vomit in The Exorcist.

Next year, I’m going for 100,00.

Lev Raphael edits, coaches, and mentors writers at writewithoutborders with forty years of experience publishing, editing, and teaching at universities, writing conferences, and online. He’s authored twenty-seven books in many genres and has seen his work appear in fifteen languages and taught at colleges and universities as well as widely anthologized.

Image by Ben Kerckx from Pixabay