Until my last post, I forgot all about NaNoWriMo.
I don't know why - year after year - I can't get into NNWM. I think it's because of some crazy idea that novels should be written with care. But, let's face it, I'm not going to write a novel if I have to think about it. I like blogging, where all kinds of crap can just fly off my unfiltered fingers and, when the fragments and thinkos appear, I just play the Brain Dump card. "It's just a blog, people. It's not supposed to be good. It's not written for you."
Therefore, NaNoWriMo should be perfect for me. The only requirement is that you write 50k words in one month, with the honor system hoping that it has some sort of novelish structure. The theory is that 50,000 words of garbage is better than nothing. You can edit garbage. You can't do anything with sitting on the sofa and wondering if you'll write a novel someday.
So, I'm thinking, "let's temporarily turn the blog to some absolutely unedited poo-poo novel mash." I don't want to sacrifice one of my two "good" ideas (so good they're locked up in glass cases and never let out) for NaNoWriMo, though, so I'm just going to write whatever. Yes, whatever. I was just reading some (overdue at 25 cents a day but if I return it I'll never come back to it) Theodora Goss, and by page three I was thinking about how it's all Kew Gardens-y, where the description is so lush you don't notice the tiny, meaningful actions at first. (Which I love.) Maybe I should try some of that.
- Write 50,000 words of something that has a smidge of fictitious narrative
- DO NOT stop and edit it (which means this will be painful for anyone uninvolved to read - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED)
- No, really, NO PROOFREADING
- Let the French postcards inspire the content
- Try to be descriptive
- Something fairy taleish would be nice
- Write at least one hour per day
- Seriously, NO STOPPING, NO PROOFING, NO EDITING, NO THINKING ABOUT MAKING IT PALATABLE TO OTHERS
- (The caps are me shouting at me, not me shouting at you. You? You're lovely. But you should probably either come back in December or avoid all "French postcard" posts this month.)
Watch me do this, like, once, then bugger off until next year when I come up with a different way to not participate in NaNoWriMo. (Should I mention that I can't even remember my password?)
Here goes.
It was the afternoon before the night before the eve of Sun-turn, and the grit of the ice crystals made Mrs. Haworth's eyes sore. Sore like the space between Alice and Colin. Sore like breakfasts on Eden Way, when the book sat propped against the window like one of those cards they used to show you back at school. "If a stranger approaches you, look for a window with a helping hand poster." Breakfasts where the grapefruit was too sweet, and the problem of not having a problem made her feel like she was waiting for sentencing.
Mrs. Haworth closed her eyes so she could see better. "I must be very asleep right now," she thought, as her mind filled with ideas of the path ahead. The whirrs of frost were too cold to be noticed. Temperature had turned only to a colour: white. In her mind (or perhaps her eyes were open now), she was marching in place in a box of frosted glass. Perhaps this is what the book meant. "Gnaw the winter's tooth in summer . when you're done, you'll have done'er."
With a grim suck at the back of her mouth, she decided she'd never been so aware of her teeth in her life. They were the wood in the cloth now, banging with all the ancient purpose of a toddler's Christmas morning. Her fevered legs kept one rhythm, and her molars countered. The desire to thrust a mirror into her mouth, grind it, and spit the shiny pieces into the snow beat into her mind with the chattering tempo. What was this? Another schmancy ritual or her dying thoughts? Oh, the cold.
But the "winter's tooth," she knew, was not one of her own icy pearls but this sharp mountain underneath her sweat-sodden feet. "When you're done, you'll have done'er." Lovely. Terrific. The Upper Elmers really turned a phrase. Was she meant to be stomping to the top? Was she even moving? She kept her eyes shut and tried to time her hot breaths to the miserable yanks of her running nose.
Alice had written (and Colin had probably watched), "Hope to get here tomorrow (the col not the peak - it's a bit hard) but have been very idle so far." The postcard showed a tall pick stuck in snow fluff next to a sheety rock. Mrs. Haworth thought of Alice sticking the climber's scythe into Colin's gym-muscled shoulder and, well, just ripping the man. How awful. And absurd. As if Alice would bother. Alice had not even made the col. Just more lost fancy for Alice - the book. The col. The climb. Colin. If Alice had shown any sort of talent for combining imagination with a desire to do, Mrs. Haworth wouldn't be here. Mrs. Haworth would be back in Kent, licking hot chocolate dregs from the rim of her fairy mug. (It would still be too warm for chocolate this time of the year, but Mrs. Haworth could not resist fantasizing about a toasty beverage.) Mrs. Haworth would not be giving bull looks to the unfinished business of the book in the window, as she found herself doing just three weeks ago.
"Very hot these last three days but on a beautiful campsite that we have visited before." And that was Colin for you, always with the reminder that something had already been done, even at the expense of his own fresh experiences. "The tooth? My uncle went, you know. Not that he was a believer."
Not that any of them were believers. Mrs. Haworth wanted to believe, but was that the same thing? The scent (and lie) of greenberries cut through her pacing gasps, and she thought of moonpastes and curled onions and little beans tied into a young man's braids. No, she didn't want to believe. She wanted to know.
"Many French now left and it is not now very crowded. On a ledge above Modane in the Arc valley. Nearly dinner time when we have omelettes and white wine."
The thing about Alice is that she did sometimes try to be useful. Truly maddening, because just when you thought she'd be of some help, that she was pulling with the team, she'd wrap up in mossy blanket for the next year reading the Scottish Romantics and drumming her fingers while talking about water filters or whether the cheese would come on special again soon. Not that Alice owed Mrs. Haworth a thing, no, but it was the hope of Alice that could be so frustrating.
So, the French had left, which meant all of the usual August business was over. ("The august August business," she thought, and giggled. Her laugh was swallowed by the white before it could finish.) And omelettes late in the day meant that Colin up nights again. (He would never be so Continental to eat eggs past ten-thirty.) On a ledge? Clue or meaningless sentence fragment? (Mrs. Haworth, who'd once won a small second place ribbon for diagramming sentences, found herself graphing out the prepositions.)
It didn't matter. She was heading for the right place - if the right place even existed. Mrs. Haworth shook off her suede mittens, pressing two dry palms to her hurt eyes before opening them.
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Okay, that's an hour. I don't like Alice or Colin, especially their names here, but I'm obeying the postcard. I also don't know if I care a whit about the book, whatever it is. And, I didn't get into any lush descriptions whatsoever, which makes me sad. (It's a big day when I can wedge in a simile, really.) Better luck tomorrow. Oh, it is tomorrow. Well... there you have it.
I better catch the other half of my sleep now; Mike is subbing on this side of town, which means he'll be dropped off way too early and I'll be in later than usual. This feels alien and makes me anxious, this not getting to work at least an hour early (plus the sitting in traffic, worrying over being late), but it's becoming increasingly important to me to find a way to get everything done within contract hours, so maybe it's all for the good.
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