Nanowrimo-a kinda, sorta bust this year

I’m a huge fan of Nanowrimo (for those of you who don’t know what it is, it’s National Novel Writing Month, it takes place every November and you’re expected to write a minimum of 50,000 words to win).  There aren’t any prizes, except for the satisfaction of a job well done and a badge you can print out and tape to your bedroom wall.

Well, like I said, I love Nanowrimo.  It’s kind of a first draft heaven.  THE VISITOR started out its life during 2009 Nanowrimo, and many revisions later it’s now slated for publication. 

So what happened this year?

Well, I tried.  I started working on my Nano project on November 1st.  Four thousand words in, I stopped.  I’ve been finishing up another work in progress, and I found it too difficult to juggle both at the same time.

Still, to convince myself that I accomplished something, I’ve posted the first couple of paras of my unedited, stream-of-consciousness, Nano 2010 document below.  And to those of you who finished-congratulations!  And for those of you (like myself) who bailed somewhere between the beginning and the end, there’s always December!

  “Mirrors suck.  I mean, do we really need confirmation of what we look like every day?  The dark hair that grew out frizzy, not straight, the way one cheek skewed higher than the other, the small eyes under a too-well-developed browbone?  Was it really necessary to see the shit that neither God nor plastic surgery could cure?  The proof that Proactiv didn’t work on everyone?  They had it better in the old days, when only the aristocracy had shiny reflective surfaces and the peasants had to make do with catching glimpses of themselves in a pewter soup tureen or a puddle.  Those surfaces at least allowed for distortion. 


            Shit.   I unfolded myself from the bench and stood up, hunching my shoulders so that I didn’t tower over little Mr. Mickford.  “I’m coming.”
            Mickford’s office was decorated in a style of some prior century where dark wood was the norm.  Dark paneled walls, dark desk and chairs with heavy carved legs and maroon velvet cushions.  I took my usual seat in the far corner and waited for Mickford to settle himself at the desk.  He shifted back and forth in his seat as if it were paining him, than locked his thick fingers over his little pot of a belly and said, “Mrs. Cole.””

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