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25,000th word:
of
30,000th word:
its
35,000th word:
shown
40,000th word:
that
45,000th word:
that
Yikes. For a minute there I thought I would have to reach 50K by 9PM - nanowrimo is on Pacific time. Of course, luckily it's the other way - I have until 3 AM. Got to get to it...
Amazing. When I stopped writing tonight, I was exactly on the daily quota mark. 41,673 words. You couldn't plan that if you had to.
I'm finding that writing so little each night is proving to be more difficult than the marathon session I had this weekend was. I think it will be a good thing once the 50,000 mark is reached - then I can press on at my own pace and it won't seem like the deadline will never be reached.
Well, looky here. Things are starting to look a little better around here. I haven't tested this out on the Mac yet - I'm sure it'll look horribly wrong on some platform or another. But it doesn't look bad from where I'm sitting right now.
This weekend was fantastic as far as writing goes. I caught all the way up to where I'm supposed to be with the daily quota, and managed to write some sections that I thought were really interesting in the process. The writing might not be so hot, but the concepts are good, and it's the concepts that will count later during the painstaking revision process.
It's clear to me now that 50,000 words will be a great achievement for me, but it will not be the end of my novel. If my book ended there, it would be a pretty disappointing story I think. I may be carrying the plot along a little slowly right now, but I'll have to see how it turns out when I get to where I'm going. Pacing can be fixed later, as well.
Breanna finally posted an excerpt, which is very dramatic and exciting and makes me want to read more of what she's writing. Hopefully there will be more to follow.
Okay, enough procrastination. It's time for dinner, then to meet my daily writing quota (so meager compared to the thousands of words I churned out yesterday... yee haw!)
I am caught up. 38,343. Well over 100 pages written.
Must....sleep.....
A good solid two hours tonight, helped along by a 30-minute race with Breanna. I cranked out a whole bunch of words while racing to see which one of us could write more in a 30-minute span. It was a good motivator - hopefully we'll have a chance to do it again.
In off-topic news, we have a weird new cat, as any regular readers of my wife's blog probably already know.
I'm convinced that this cat (Casper) has bird genes in him. The only noises he makes are bird noises. When he's happy, he coos like a pigeon. When he's upset, he screeches like some kind of engraged, predatory bird. It's really bizarre.
The only noises he makes that aren't bird-like are his purrs, which are more like diesel engines. That kid's got some pipes.
Excerpt is in the extended. I'm going to bed.
Outside the room, Denny stopped Hector with a hand on his shoulder. Hector turned to face him.
“You really think the guard is necessary, Hector? Seems like a waste of a cop, if you ask me.”
“Well I didn’t ask you, Sanders,” Hector retorted. “The guard’s posted, just leave it alone.”
Denny raised his hands in protest. “Hey, man, easy. I’m just saying, I don’t think anyone’s going to be busting this guy’s door down, that’s all. What’s with you?”
Hector rubbed his forehead with one hand. “Look – sorry. It’s just that this guy really is all we have on this case, Denny. There’s nothing else. We need him. I can’t afford to lose another key piece of evidence.”
“Hector, that’s why we need Bennett –“
“What do you want him for, Denny?” Hector demanded. “What would you ask him that we haven’t already asked him four times? What information do you think you’re going to get from him? We have no evidence on him. We can’t hold him. He’s already told us everything he’s going to tell us. What more would you do, Denny?”
Denny shrugged, but said nothing.
“Stan’s our man, Denny. We get him talking, we may have a case. We lose him – we’re done.”
Denny nodded in acquiescence. “Alright, Hector. I take your point. But the fact is, we still don’t even know if this is Stan. For all we know, this is just some junk-addict the neighbors want to get rid of.”
“He’s no junk addict, Denny. Did you see the size of him? That guy could eat me for dinner.”
“Whatever,” Denny said, “Crack, then. Point is, he’s a nobody unless we get confirmation from someone who’s seen him.”
Hector looked at him. “You mean Bennett.”
Denny nodded once. “Who else is there? He’s the only witness, the only one who’s actually seen Shotgun Stan. And you’re right, Hector – with Fehler six feet under, we aren’t getting very far with anybody else.”
Hector considered Denny’s words. The last thing he wanted to do was to involve Peter Bennett in this affair again. For one thing, it meant giving into all of his fellow agents who had been demanding his return for so long. More than that, however, was the fact that Hector believed that Bennett didn’t deserve involvement in the matter. His life had already seen more excitement because of this case than he probably saw in a normal year. It didn’t seem fair to drag him back into it.
Still, though, there was no getting around the truth in Denny’s statement. They might have really found Shotgun Stan, but there was no one to corroborate that assumption but Peter Bennett. If they got him talking and he denied involvement, they had no leverage, no reason to hold him. Similarity to a suspect sketch wasn’t reason enough to retain someone for any length of time unless there was a positive ID backing it up. After all, they could be wrong. A suspect falling into the hands of the FBI based on little more than a vague drawing and one of many all-points bulletins that the local police already handled was a rare occurrence. Under any other circumstances, Hector would have had a hard time believing this was their man.
He had worked too hard and too long on this case for any opportunity to slip through his fingers again, though. Losing the briefcase had been bad enough – losing their only potential suspect would be quite another. Hector knew that they needed to get information out of this man, whatever it might take.
Even if it meant giving in to the summoning of Peter Bennett.
“Okay,” Hector said, “You’re right. Stan’s all we got. If Bennett can identify him, then we’ll have a much better chance of getting the information we need.”
Denny nodded, graciously hiding any emotion of victory that he might have felt. “I’ll call the office and get somebody on it.”
“No,” Hector said, “Wait for now. We’ll do it later.”
“Hector – “ Denny started.
“No, Denny, I want to call him myself. Don’t worry, I’ll get hold of Bennett as soon as we’re done here. Right now we need to talk to the neighbors, see if we can’t figure out Stan’s real name.”
Denny nodded his consent. There was time.
Due to horrible aching back pain, I wasn't able to write yesterday. I could barely sit. Today wasn't much better but I spent most of it strapped to an electric blanket (functioning as a heating pad), which enabled mobility as long as I didn't leave its protective warmth for too long. This is very uncomfortable and I hope it stops soon.
I updated the design of this site slightly, something I've been meaning to do for some time. It's still got a ways to go but I like the start I've made.
Very close to 25,000 words now, though still nearly a week behind. I feel that I'm on the verge of a couple of good solid days that will take me back up to where i need to be. We'll see if I manage it.
An excerpt of the latest stuff is in the extended entry.
Driving home to Vermont from the City was like slowly sinking beneath the surface of a lake. At the start of the journey, all was noise and chaos. The bustle and movement of the City was in motion all around, its lights and activity unavoidable to the eye. At first, each city block seemed more alive than the one previous. The City seemed to go on forever.
Then, slowly, though only after a substantial amount of distance had been covered, the commotion and movement begin to calm. The surface of the lake opened up underneath.
With each passing mile, more and more fell away and the immeasurable calm and beauty of the water beneath rose closer and closer until finally there was a point when Peter knew that all of it was behind him, above him, beyond the surface of the serene border through which he had just passed. Beneath and ahead was only the tranquil beauty of life untouched by the machinery and confusion of the City, of life above water.
Ack, a pitiful amount of progress made tonight. It just isn't happening today.
I suppose after such a successful weekend, it was to be expected. Hopefully I'll be able to pick it up again tomorrow.
My 20,000th word is:
Guitars.
(Yeah, baby. Rock and roll.)
My 5,000th word is:
His.
(How boring).
My 10,000th word is:
Hispanic.
(That is bizarre. It has very little to do with my story).
My 15,000th word is:
His.
(Still boring, but now slightly weird because it's the same as my 5,000th).
My 20,000th word will follow soon.
The count slowly advances. I had a good evening last night. I got into a good stride and wrote quite a bit. I was reluctant to stop but the nanowrimo gathering in Jericho was taking place and I wanted to go and meet some of my fellow sufferers. I dragged my wife along in case there were serial killers or very bad things, but luckily there was nothing of the kind. I think this was the first time I've ever met someone from the Internet in real life. It worked out very well, all things considered. And I discovered that I'm not the only one who is desperately behind. I think those random people on the nanowrimo boards who claim to already be finished must be lying, or writing crap. There just isn't any other explanation.
There's a short excerpt in the extended entry because I've been told that some people like reading them. This is another "bring on the drama" section. It will probably embarrass me in about three months.
Xer says nothing in response, only looks Alex over as if surveying his appearance. Alex finds it impossible to read any expression in the man’s chiseled, motionless features. His eyes are so dark that Alex can barely distinguish his pupils from the rest of his eyes. They stand out in stark contrast to the ashen hue of his face.
“We’ll get it back – don’t worry,” Alex says. He forces a smile.
“I do not worry. I only respond.”
This response strikes Alex as particularly odd, but he suppresses his urge to express his confusion. Xer looks him over for a long while.
Finally, Xer speaks. “I’m sure you remember our friend, Fehler. Do you remember him, Alex?”
Alex nods.
“It is only with great effort that I am able to do so,” Xer continues, “because the worth of that man’s life died with the passing of his body and spirit. He made mistakes, Alex. He made mistakes that I believe you are intelligent and capable enough to avoid. You are skilled in certain ways. Your estimation of character is noteworthy.”
A glimmer of severity flashes through Xer’s face.
“However,” he continues slowly, “Do not step beyond your means, Alex. Do not allow your certainties to grow to a size larger than your intelligence or capabilities are equipped to handle.
“Fehler is not worth remembering, Alex. Pray that you do not fall victim to the same fate.”
Xer rises then, surprising Alex with the fluidity of his movements, despite his enormous size. He moves to the door like a shadow drifting across an empty street; quiet, dark.
Alex stands up, blurting, “Don’t worry, Xer, I’ll get it from that bastard.”
He is immediately self-conscious; he has spoken too loud, too quickly, too much.
Xer only pauses with the door halfway open and turns his head partway in Alex’s direction. Then he continues, stepping through the door and closing the door behind him. It clicks closed as if pushed by a draft, or maybe a ghost.
Alex stands alone in his apartment, his heart racing in his chest.
So some progress is made, but I am still only where I should have been last Friday. I just can't get myself into the habit of doing this every day. I've written 34 pages already, which already surpasses the number of pages I managed to scrape together in my first attempt at a novel (the first version of the same one I'm working on now). I'm writing more words more often than I have in a long time. So in that respect it's a success.
I would really like to hit 50K by the end of the month, though. I'm afraid that if I don't have at least that much, then it'll just slip away like last time - good ideas gone to waste.
There's a nanowrimo get together for Vermonters this weekend. I think I'm going to check it out.
I'm hacking my way through some character backstory right now so there isn't much that's interesting to post as an excerpt. Hopefully next time.
I meant to put the hammer down this weekend, but of course that didn't really happen. I barely got any writing done at all.
I made some really good progress tonight, though. I feel like I am developing my secondary characters pretty well, and the story is starting to pick up a momentum of its own. I think I'm looking at a story that is much more of an action piece than the more moody, subdued piece I was imagining. I'm not concerned by this -- it's a good thing when the story starts telling itself. You just have to go with it.
There's an excerpt in the extended portion of this entry that I'm rather proud of at the moment. Tomorrow I'm sure I'll hate it, though. (The passage is rated R for strong language, FYI)
Alex cursed to himself as he watched Brokowski step out of his SUV and walk up toward the building. He could tell by the way he was moving that things had not gone as planned. Brokowski was as subtle as a freight train at midnight.
Alex was already at the intercom when Brokowski buzzed.
“You get it?” Alex said, already knowing the answer he was going to get.
“No, boss,” Brokowski’s voice answered. “I ran into a little trouble.”
Of course you did, Alex thought to himself. When haven’t you?
“Get in here,” he said, and jammed his thumb into the “Door” button on the intercom panel.
Alex’s apartment was small, but it was extremely practical in terms of its location and very inconspicuous. He paced back and forth in its tiny foyer as he waited for Brokowski to lumber his way up the stairs.
Finally, two loud knocks on the door. Alex yanked the door open and glared up at the big redhead.
“Trouble?” he demanded. “This had better be some serious fucking trouble, Broke.”
Brokowski raised his hands defensively. “Don’t worry boss,” he said, “We’ll get it.”
Alex scowled, then turned and stalked into the kitchen to pour himself some whiskey. “Sit down, Broke,” he called, “and start talking.”
Brokowski walked over to the small, brown couch in the living room and eased his large frame down onto it. “Well,” he began, “I don’t know for sure if it’s there or not. The guy seemed kinda suspicious, you know? Well, not suspicious. More like…you know, defensive.”
Alex swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and walked out of the kitchen. “Did you pull a gun on him, Broke?”
Brokowski scratched his head. “Well, only after – “
“Jesus, Mike,” Alex exclaimed, “Of course he was defensive!” He looked over to the doorway. “And close the door, for fuck’s sake!” He slammed the door shut.
“Sorry, boss,” Brokowski said, sheepish.
Alex walked past Brokowski and sat down in a chair opposite him. He put his drink down on the coffee table in front of him on top of a magazine with a glossy picture of Paris Hilton on its cover. “Let me get this straight,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his fists, “You pulled a gun on this guy and he didn’t give up the package?”
“No,” Brokowski answered. “Well, I didn’t pull it on him. I was going to blow off the lock on the gate. You know, just shake him up a bit and then have a look around. But he said there was an alarm on it.”
Alex looked at him blankly. “An alarm.”
“Yeah.”
“On the gate.”
“Yeah.”
“To the Christmas tree lot.”
“Yeah, boss.”
Alex hung his head. “Mike,” he said quietly, “do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?”
Brokowski rubbed his nose, thinking hard. “I guess it does seem kinda weird. But he was really convincing.”
Alex leaned back, taking another sip of whiskey. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “at least we know he’s got it.”
“I’m not so sure, boss,” Brokowski said. “I asked him if he’d seen it and he said he hadn’t. And I had the gun at that point so he probably would have said something, you know?”
Alex shook his head. “No, he’s got it, Mike. He wouldn’t make up a cockamamie story about an alarm on a goddamned Christmas tree lot if he didn’t have something to hide. And the fact that he pulled off a convincing show of it, despite the fact that you were waving your gun around, makes it even worse.”
“Why, boss?”
“Because,” Alex said, “not many people can hold their shit when someone’s threatening them with a gun, much less come up with a halfway plausible story and deliver it convincingly. He’s got strong nerves.”
“Is that bad?”
“Yeah, Mike,” Alex answered. “That’s a problem.”
Right, so that excerpt was kind of dumb but I'm still happy with what is coming out so far. It's not perfect, but it's definitely re-writable, which is what this project is all about - creating a big mess of re-writable words.
I wrote some more words last night on my AlphaSmart, but I haven't gotten a chance to upload or count them yet.
I realized last night that if I don't consciously make time for exercise and writing, I will slide back into the state I was in after my first marathon and won't get anything written. That is not a good idea.
In the writing, I'm sensing that I might be encountering a situation where all the eggs get put in the basket before I've even gotten anywhere in the story. I need to draw things out some more.
Things are looking better. I'm feeling better, I'm writing better. Things are moving along. I'm up to 5,011 words.
I'm slightly uncomfortable with doing this, but here's a small taste of what's going on right now:
*************************************************************
The man surveys the inside of the room from the doorway. His presence block’s Alex’s view of its contents, but Alex already knows what is inside the room. He put the poor soul there himself.
“Fehler,” the man says, voicing the name of the person inside the room.
The response is fevered and nervous. “Xer,” Alex hears Fehler say, “I – listen, let me explain.”
“There is no explanation necessary,” the man – Xer – says. “The act has been committed; the consequences must be faced.”
“No, no!” Fehler exclaims. “There was no act. It wasn’t my fault! Circumstances, Xer! Circumstances beyond my control!”
Alex can see Xer draw a large volume of air into his lungs. He drops his cigarette to the floor and carefully places the heel of his boot on top of it. He smothers the flame but does not twist the butt into the concrete. “Listen to me well, Fehler, “ Xer says, “because this is the last thing you will ever hear. There is nothing in this world that is beyond our control. Do you understand? Nothing.” Xer’s voice is coarse and low. “We create our own circumstances by which we live and die, Fehler.”
Xer pauses and looks back, directly at Alex.
“You should have created better circumstances for yourself.”
With that, Xer, steps inside the room and closes the door behind him. The sound of the closing door bounces off the walls and the ceiling all around Alex. Then there is silence. Alex leans against one wall of the hallway and sinks to the floor, crossing his legs over one another.
So I'm at 2385, which is more than 0. I'm being hindered by sickness, though, and bad moods. I need to get over myself. Just f*cking write, *sshole.
This is funny and true and describes me perfectly right now:
"go to work anyway". It is possibly the one major downfall of being self-employed.
The procrastinating has ended, at least for now. I'm a day late but I met my daily quota today so I'm only one day behind. I'm sure I'll miss days in the future, but they can be made up later.
It's too early to comment on the quality of what I'm writing, or even the content. But at least I've started.
