National Novel Writing Month

That’s right. I’m participating in NaNoWriMo this year. Isn’t that exiting? I’m going to track my progress on my blog so I can stay accountable. Wish me luck!

If you’ve never done NaNo and you enjoy writing, you should try it. The first time I participated, I decided on November 1 to do it. It helped me to become a better writer because I wasn’t terrified to let the words out to play anymore. I didn’t second guess everything that I put on the paper.

pantsher_badgeI don’t really have any sort of a plan when I write. I am what is known as a pantser. I fly by the seat of my pants, usually starting out with nothing more than an idea and a belief that everything will work out alright. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

This year I have a little bit more than just an idea. I’ve got an idea and a character! She came to me this morning at 5:00. I was very pleased to meet her and look forward to our adventures together.

One day I hope to be more of a planner, but I don’t know if I will ever succeed at that. I know that a huge part of writing is outlining, but my brain resists it when it comes to writing fiction. Or maybe my brain just does it while I sleep, waking me up at odd hours to tell me to write stuff down.

Here’s to the month of November, the month of less sleep, more coffee, and wild abandon. This year I WILL succeed at writing 50,000 words and my character’s story will get told. As Chris Baty said, the world needs my novel.

Plus, I love the winner’s shirt. MUST. HAVE. IT. (Here’s a link to it. It’s awesome!)

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Lights

I am taking a creative writing class this term and it has been absolutely lovely. I’ve been doing so much technical writing that I forgot how much I love revving up the creative portion of my brain. I really wanted to share this story with people other than my professor and my work-shopping group. It had to be less than 500 words. Do you know how hard that is for me??

Oh, also, if you have any suggestions for titles, please let me know. I am the suck at titles. Here goes:

(runs and hides under bed, fearful that people will read it and fearful that people won’t)

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Lights

(c) 2014

The balcony clings to the side of the building, a metal guard rail buttresses the concrete floor, holding tight. She stands on the balcony, looking out over the city, ignoring the bite of the teal metal on her forearms. The moonless sky draws everything into tighter contrast. Her eyes flit from landmark to landmark, not resting long, not wanting to remember.

To the left, she sees the amusement park where they had their first date, Ferris wheel twinkling orange-yellow-red as it rolls around. She hated everything about the wheel and its turning, but he convinced her to climb into the swinging seat. Her hands grasped the safety bar tightly as they started to curve up. By the end of the ride, he held her hand, her terror turned to the thrill of the first touch.

Her eyes move to the arc of the cathedral where they got married, its bronze cap a glowing beacon in the dark. The memory of the day comes unsolicited: the bright white of her gown, the flickering of candles dancing in his eyes, the alabaster unity candle that sealed the promise of forever. The brightness overwhelms her, compelling her eyes to move on.

The brightness dissolves when her eyes touch the blue and white of the hospital where they lost their first and only child. Only the murkiness of the room remains—the room where she ached, empty where she once was full: alone. Her eyes fly over the void in the center of the city where the child was laid to rest, the hollow place that she never visits.

Choking, she moves on. Her eyes jerk to the skyscraper in the middle of the city. Its neon outline has held her husband captive since that night that the light left them. The late night meetings, the weekend projects, and the network problems claim him more than she ever could. The building looms over the rest of the city. Looms over her life.

The lights blur as she holds back the tears. With a stifled sob, she turns her back to the city, blinking away the memories. All she wants to see is lightlessness. It is no use. The lights glimmer back at her on the glass from the arcadia doors.

 

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Creative Commons License
Lights by E is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Reaching

I am not to be
the poet that sits
and drinks scotch
reaching for the glass
bottom of life.

I cannot find truth
in ice cubes, love
in a wilted paper
napkin, beauty in
the ring left on the table.

My toast is not
for others to hear.

I perch on the stool,
vapors hovering,
the mists of poems
unwritten. I want to
catch them, savor them
as they slide, burning
cold, down my throat,
settling in my soul.

Creative Commons License
This work by is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.