I am the big winner. I had six hours to spare, too! Go me!
I think it's odd that NaNoWriMo has brought me through all of the stages of author-ship in just one simple month. I've felt elated by my progress, depressed at my lack of, and anxious to finally be within inches of calling myself an actual novelist.
At this point, I'm at 35,000 words. I'm so close that I can taste it. Truthfully, I wish I could copy and paste this into my word document so that every "it it" that I type out can count towards the total. But that would be cheating.
I don't know that anyone understands how important this is to me, or understands how amazing it feels to have written an entire novella (because that's really what my story is) without even feeling too much pain. The deadline is a beautiful thing, and so is, I must admit, the ability to turn off spell-check. This process would have been much more arduous with the internal editor, the great mistress, harping at every "jsut", "Cant" (a name of a character), "Sarculet" (supposed to be Scarlet), and so on. On this Thanksgiving Eve, I am thankful for being able to have a good enough idea, a small support network, and plenty of time to sit in my room and write. I couldn't have asked for more.
Well okay...I could have done with some more chocolate...
At this point, I'm at 35,000 words. I'm so close that I can taste it. Truthfully, I wish I could copy and paste this into my word document so that every "it it" that I type out can count towards the total. But that would be cheating.
I don't know that anyone understands how important this is to me, or understands how amazing it feels to have written an entire novella (because that's really what my story is) without even feeling too much pain. The deadline is a beautiful thing, and so is, I must admit, the ability to turn off spell-check. This process would have been much more arduous with the internal editor, the great mistress, harping at every "jsut", "Cant" (a name of a character), "Sarculet" (supposed to be Scarlet), and so on. On this Thanksgiving Eve, I am thankful for being able to have a good enough idea, a small support network, and plenty of time to sit in my room and write. I couldn't have asked for more.
Well okay...I could have done with some more chocolate...
I am very behind in my word count. I don't know if I have the will power to sit and sprint to 20,000 in one night (I'm currently at 17,318...I know I can get there). Nor do I know if I have enough ideas. I suppose that I could skip some parts...but I've gone off on a tangent and don't even remember where I am.
I'm frightened that I won't be able to make it to 50k. Someone give me a hug.
I'm frightened that I won't be able to make it to 50k. Someone give me a hug.
Excerpt from the novel...please disregard all spelling errors, lapses in proper grammar, and lack of hyphens. I turned off spell-check. My fingers know not what sins they commit...
“What a nice place.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and stirred the noodles that had become soft over the course of two minutes. Irvine sat down at the bar and fiddled with his keys.
“What are you making?”
“Some chicken thing.”
“Smells good.”
“Thanks. It's almost done.” He stood up from the bar stool, came to stand next to me, and drummed his long fingers on the counter top.
“Is Ceara here?” I nodded. “Hm. You look really good, Gavin.” While stirring the noodles, I looked up at him and smiled. “I know that we're genetically and socially programmed not to accepts those kind of compliments, but you seem both happy and healthy.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can tell because your beautiful blond hair si super shiny. And your eyes have something in them—like a sparkle. You never looked like this during high school.”
“I wasn't happy during those four years.” The wooden spoon turned in my hand. “I'm happier in college. It seems like there aren't as many people. You aren't forced to sit alone at lunch or raise your hand during class. It's all centered around what I want to do.” The timer went off. Irvine slide to his left as I brought the pot full of noodles over to the metal strainer in the sink.
“Well I'm glad.” Then Ceara walked out. “Ah, you much be the lovely lady of the house.” As she removed her fingers from her hair, Ceara raised a perfectly plucked, black eyebrow at my friend. “Gavin's told me so much about you.” I shook the remaining water off of the steaming noodles.
“He's told me almost nothing about you.”
“I shall have to enlighten you, then.” Irvine had suddenly adopted a slightly different accent; not enough to be noticed, for sure, but recognizable to me. He sat down across from Ceara and she rounded the rim of the wine glass that I had set there for her. I pulled out three plates, three sets of silverware, and some napkins and spread all of them out on the little brown table, where my girlfriend and friend had already begun a conversation without me. I had a moment of self pity. “So my current base of operations is in Chicago. I've been working for a wonderful lady there for a couple of months now.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“I'm in the public relations business, you could say.” He smiled at me as if we had a secret. “What do you do?”
“I'm a budding lawyer in a firm a couple of blocks from here.”
“Exciting. Your prospects seem delicious, much like your boyfriend's food.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It wasn't hard to make but I'm not that good of a cook.”
“It's better than I could do,” Irvine laughed. Ceara seemed unamused; I could tell by the way she stared from under her eyebrows. “So what have you been up to, Gavin?”
“Um, well, school mostly. I'm working on finishing up my bachelor's degree and then I might get a job. I'll wait a while for the master's.” I slid my left hand into Ceara's right. She didn't hold my hand back. “I'd like to work on a family, too. And my book.”
“You're writing a book?”
“Not yet,” I sighed. “But I'd love to.”
“He spends all of his time reading so he might as well,” Ceara said and sipped from her glass. “I want to hear more about your job, Irvine.”
“It's really not that interesting. I make room calls in a hotel to make sure the guests have everything they need and take care of any concerns that they might have. It's very boring, but I get paid well. Enough, actually, to live by myself.”
“You aren't dating?”
“I do occasionally. I haven't found the perfect woman, though,” he winked at her and I laughed out loud. “I'm not a complete iconoclast, however. I have the boyish dreams of getting married, just like Gavin.”
“Orthodox ideals are how our world is run,” Ceara practically snarled. Her temper was flaring by the second. “You would be better off if you modeled yourself after Gavin instead of after that whore of a father you had.” I stared down at the wood grain of the dining table, not knowing how the conversation had suddenly taken such a drastic turn. Irvine sat in silence for a moment, then set his wine down.
“Whatever Gavin told you isn't entirely true. My father did leave, but not because he was a prostitute. My mother had a lover. Any self-respecting man wouldn't stay with a woman like her.” He glared. “If you're so offended by what I am or what I represent, then you should question Gavin about his studies and some of his beliefs. Or do you not care what your perfect little house-pet does at school?” I could feel my stomach sinking lower and lower. I was angry at Irvine for bringing me into this argument, angry that he should bring up my business to my girlfriend who was blissfully ignorant of the dormant personality that only surfaced in class, and angry that she was pushing him into saying all of it.
“Get out,” Ceara said.
“Fine.” Irvine grabbed my arm and yanked me up and out of my seat. “I'll send him home after he's good and unorthodox.” And we walked out the door together.
“What a nice place.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and stirred the noodles that had become soft over the course of two minutes. Irvine sat down at the bar and fiddled with his keys.
“What are you making?”
“Some chicken thing.”
“Smells good.”
“Thanks. It's almost done.” He stood up from the bar stool, came to stand next to me, and drummed his long fingers on the counter top.
“Is Ceara here?” I nodded. “Hm. You look really good, Gavin.” While stirring the noodles, I looked up at him and smiled. “I know that we're genetically and socially programmed not to accepts those kind of compliments, but you seem both happy and healthy.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can tell because your beautiful blond hair si super shiny. And your eyes have something in them—like a sparkle. You never looked like this during high school.”
“I wasn't happy during those four years.” The wooden spoon turned in my hand. “I'm happier in college. It seems like there aren't as many people. You aren't forced to sit alone at lunch or raise your hand during class. It's all centered around what I want to do.” The timer went off. Irvine slide to his left as I brought the pot full of noodles over to the metal strainer in the sink.
“Well I'm glad.” Then Ceara walked out. “Ah, you much be the lovely lady of the house.” As she removed her fingers from her hair, Ceara raised a perfectly plucked, black eyebrow at my friend. “Gavin's told me so much about you.” I shook the remaining water off of the steaming noodles.
“He's told me almost nothing about you.”
“I shall have to enlighten you, then.” Irvine had suddenly adopted a slightly different accent; not enough to be noticed, for sure, but recognizable to me. He sat down across from Ceara and she rounded the rim of the wine glass that I had set there for her. I pulled out three plates, three sets of silverware, and some napkins and spread all of them out on the little brown table, where my girlfriend and friend had already begun a conversation without me. I had a moment of self pity. “So my current base of operations is in Chicago. I've been working for a wonderful lady there for a couple of months now.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“I'm in the public relations business, you could say.” He smiled at me as if we had a secret. “What do you do?”
“I'm a budding lawyer in a firm a couple of blocks from here.”
“Exciting. Your prospects seem delicious, much like your boyfriend's food.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It wasn't hard to make but I'm not that good of a cook.”
“It's better than I could do,” Irvine laughed. Ceara seemed unamused; I could tell by the way she stared from under her eyebrows. “So what have you been up to, Gavin?”
“Um, well, school mostly. I'm working on finishing up my bachelor's degree and then I might get a job. I'll wait a while for the master's.” I slid my left hand into Ceara's right. She didn't hold my hand back. “I'd like to work on a family, too. And my book.”
“You're writing a book?”
“Not yet,” I sighed. “But I'd love to.”
“He spends all of his time reading so he might as well,” Ceara said and sipped from her glass. “I want to hear more about your job, Irvine.”
“It's really not that interesting. I make room calls in a hotel to make sure the guests have everything they need and take care of any concerns that they might have. It's very boring, but I get paid well. Enough, actually, to live by myself.”
“You aren't dating?”
“I do occasionally. I haven't found the perfect woman, though,” he winked at her and I laughed out loud. “I'm not a complete iconoclast, however. I have the boyish dreams of getting married, just like Gavin.”
“Orthodox ideals are how our world is run,” Ceara practically snarled. Her temper was flaring by the second. “You would be better off if you modeled yourself after Gavin instead of after that whore of a father you had.” I stared down at the wood grain of the dining table, not knowing how the conversation had suddenly taken such a drastic turn. Irvine sat in silence for a moment, then set his wine down.
“Whatever Gavin told you isn't entirely true. My father did leave, but not because he was a prostitute. My mother had a lover. Any self-respecting man wouldn't stay with a woman like her.” He glared. “If you're so offended by what I am or what I represent, then you should question Gavin about his studies and some of his beliefs. Or do you not care what your perfect little house-pet does at school?” I could feel my stomach sinking lower and lower. I was angry at Irvine for bringing me into this argument, angry that he should bring up my business to my girlfriend who was blissfully ignorant of the dormant personality that only surfaced in class, and angry that she was pushing him into saying all of it.
“Get out,” Ceara said.
“Fine.” Irvine grabbed my arm and yanked me up and out of my seat. “I'll send him home after he's good and unorthodox.” And we walked out the door together.
Yes, as my mom says, the goal is to FINISH 50,000 words...and with my friend's help at a coffee shop, I have enough of...a plot...to keep going for a while. (It involves a Volkswagen Bus and a crazy commune...with...intoxicating substances. It'll be good.) Although I originally wanted this to be a serious story, the character is indeed making a large transition, and as Kelsey says: "Taking a road trip to FIND himself."
Some time this weekend, I have to sit down and write for a very long time. But I have confidence in myself. I can do this.
Some time this weekend, I have to sit down and write for a very long time. But I have confidence in myself. I can do this.
This will be a short post because the trademarked National Novel Writing Month Guilt Monkeys hover over me whenever I'm on the computer and my fingers are not churning out another 1,000 words.
The novel is progressing well, I suppose, with the exception being the lack of plot...and the presence of...Harlequin paperback...characteristics.
My characters lack depth and are boring and I have to work up the nerve to still CARE about their dismal lives, which is harder than it should be. Whatever.
I can't wait for this month to be over.
The novel is progressing well, I suppose, with the exception being the lack of plot...and the presence of...Harlequin paperback...characteristics.
My characters lack depth and are boring and I have to work up the nerve to still CARE about their dismal lives, which is harder than it should be. Whatever.
I can't wait for this month to be over.
