How did I not know about this?
What better motivation for a sparsely-writing writer?
Yep – November is National Novel Writing Month. The challenge? To write a little every day, and, by November 30th, submit a 175-page 50,000-word novel. Or perish trying!!!
Well, or maybe just come close and write some really great stuff, and spark ideas that lead to a novel. Or just to write something you wouldn’t otherwise have found the gumption to write.
Well I accept this challenge. And every day (or close to it), I’ll post what I’ve come up with (good, bad, or ugly, and certainly unpolished, but whatever). I’m getting a late start, but I’ll see what I can muster.
So, without further introduction…. here is the first bit of my as-yet untitled novel:
NaNoWriMo Project Day 1
I don’t remember much, mind you, but I know most assuredly that at some point I stumbled into a stairwell just six feet or so down from the madness on the street above. I know this because I woke up in that stairwell, my wig and shoes removed, face pressed against a little wooden shop door. Unfurling my neck from its odd, crooked position, I brush paint chips from my cheek and begin the process of realizing I am, indeed, still alive and need to move from this spot very soon.
I think, by the light, that it’s late morning. Ten, maybe eleven even. Hopefully no more. And I’m surprised – and thankful – that the second-hand home furnishings store whose entrance I’m blocking hasn’t opened. You can’t tell yet, I know, but I have some pride. I’m not shameless. This – what is happening here and happened the night before – is an anomaly.
All told, I expected to feel worse. I’ve ripped a quarter-sized hole in the knee of my fishnets. The exposed skin is sticky with a little blood, but mostly just dirty. Straightening it out elicits a wince, but really once I’m upright I feel alert, keenly aware of my surroundings and how starkly they’ve changed from the night before. Also I’m keenly aware of the cold; my skin aches from the near-permanent goosebumps pocking my arms.
I leave my wig lying in the stairwell looking like a big dead bird fluttering in the breeze and climb the stairs back to the street. Here the world is wide-awake and buzzing with weekend life. The stages have been deconstructed and removed, the food and beer tents plucked up and carried off. The lanes, once teeming with masked marauders, have been reclaimed by vehicles. I really want my wig back. The walk wasn’t far, but far enough.
“Jules. Wow. What the hell?” So says my roommate, Kip (yes, his real name), who is perched, as is somewhat routine for him, on the stairs leading up to our double.
“I’m fine,” I say, and am nearly able to brush past him, but catches me by the ankle and observes the tear in my stockings.
“That’s not what I asked. What the fuck happened here? I thought you went up to Masquerade?”
(More to come….)