Saturday, November 2, 2013

NaNoWriMo Progress!

Whew. November 2, and I've got 4 chapters done and more than 5600 words.

There is always chatter about how to get through NaNo. How do I do it? 

Everyone knows someone that has a new tip, trick, or gadget. There are NaNo calendars and trackers. I've seen word processing programs that will show you a cute kitty cat for every 100 words!

One site told me to make a deal with myself: Don't talk AT ALL until you've written your quota! 

But there really is only one secret to winning NaNoWriMo. Write the words. Keep writing and wringing out the words until you just don't have any more.

To complete NaNo one has to write 1,666 words each day.

For some this means only write 1,666 words a day! No! Not good!

I've decided to use this weekend as a jump start, and I want to write as many words as I possibly can. I want to get as far into the story as I can while I still have the NewNaNo excitement coursing through me. 

So, write the words. Tell your story. And don't stop until you have to!

Good Luck fellow NaNo'ers.


Also another excerpt. This is raw writing, unedited and unbetaed! But I like it, and I hope you will enjoy it as well.
This excerpt is titled: First Life
"My borrowed life," Tracy repeats, realizing as the words are moving over her tongue that she is essentially repeating each thing the man, Dikko, has said. She tries to focus her eyes and her thoughts, tries to get a grip on her circumstance. It seems to her somehow that this conversation is important, even though in hter stupor she doesn't understand how she figures that.
The light focuses and images come into play. Tracy is still on the gurney that she can't see, but now they are near a pool in the summer. She immediately recognizes the scent of chlorine and pine trees behind the putrid urine and blood smell of the ambulance.
The noises of people splashing and playing in the pool come into focus. They call out to each other.
A hairy man with several gold chains and an ambitious hair-do is sauntering around the pool, trying his best to look casual as he dips a bare toe into the water every few steps. None of the glossy females seem to take notice. He was probably expecting more of a reaction.
There is a woman sitting at the shallow end, her feet dangling in the pool, her yellow swimsuit blending in with the sunny day. She holds a book and barely takes notice as a few drops of water from the gigolo bounces onto her leg. The suit is an old fashioned seer-sucker with large white buttons. Tracy notes that it would cost a fortune in a vintage clothing store.
The sun sneaks behind a cloud, and as the scene gets darker it is somehow easier to see.
That's when Tracy notices it. A small hand in the water. It's a few feet away from the edge, just past the shallow end, where the base of the pool slopes off to offer deeper water.
The hand is joined with another, and a small head that can't break the surface of the water. The child's hands are splashing frantically, windmilling back, but not efficiently enough to bring her little body up, not enough for her to lift her lips to precious air.
No one notices.
A colorful ball is still thrown. A tow-headed boy, as brown as dirt, cannonballs into the water. Music plays.
And a little girl is dying.
A little girl died in her pink and white polka dot bikini, with a ruffle on the butt, and a top that tied in the back that she insisted she could tie all by herself.
She has a toy giraffe, a pull toy that she can sit on and ride, or pull along as treasures balance on its saddle. It will never feel her slight weight again.
Her mother used to struggle to wash and dry her long blonde hair, gentle waves that fall to her tiny waist. It is an argument the woman will lament for the rest of her life. the memory will send her into a hystercal spiral of self-blame and pity. If she could only do her little pumpkin's hair one more time.
The little girl died. Her hands are barely moving. Tracy wants to get up, move, leap from the gurney and jump in the water to save her. She doesn't realize it, but tears are streaming down her face in hot rivers. She can't help.
She can't save herself.
The little girl is dead, and Tracy is paralyzed and prevented from doing anything.
She hears great, wrenching sobs, and looks, thinking it is the mother who has finally turned around to look for her girl, and has instead discovered the grim truth. But it's not. It's Tracy, and it feels like every sob is ripping her apart. The sticky thud of her shoulder is nothing compared to the tear in her gut.
Then the man, the gigolo, the Bee Gee wannabe who spent an hour in front of the mirror making sure his hair was feathered just right, and each zit was popped, abandons his quest to get laid. 
He is the only one who sees the girl in the water, and he awkwardly leaps, falls, jumps, or belly flops into the water. Dana "Papa" Georgio becomes an unthinking hero.
As soon as his entire body is wet, he's leapt out of the water again. The entire operation was one fluid motion. In the water. Scoop. On deck.
He tips the tiny neck back, and breathes into her mouth. She's so small, he doesn't know: cover her mouth? Don't cover her mouth? 
It doesn't matter. His actions were so swift that two puffs are enough to send a stream of water out of her nose and mouth, and then she's crying and screaming hysterically.
The frolickers finally notice the little girl's drama, and gather to ooh and gawk, and offer insincere help.
Her mother was talking to a friend, and through her own tears, explains that she was watching, she thought she was watching the whole time. Her wide sunhat adorned with its colorful scarf flies off unnoticed as the woman stumbles over to the spot where her little girl's life has been saved.
Unknowingly this act has also saved her own life, for if the little girl had been allowed to die, the mother would herself sink into a world of grief, so convinced that her little pumpkin is now an angel. She would commit suicide after a few years of struggling and clawing at therapy and sanity.
Then Tracy feels like she and Dikko and their machine of light are retreating, pulling away, like a tunnel again. The pool fades, if it ever existed at all.
"I remember that. That man saved me. I remember his breath tasted like an orange tic-tac and he smelled like coconut," she says incredulously, "I started taking swimming lessons at the indoor pool downtown, and wasn't allowed in the water by myself for years."
"That was your first life, it was a shame to have it taken so young," Dikko says stoically.
"But I didn't die. The man saved me. My mother sent him a Christmas card for at least twenty years."
"You don't think you died, because you didn't meet one of me then. It's  never explained to someone until they reach their last life, their borrowed life," Dikko says matter of factly. Tracy imagines that he's had this conversation before. Perhaps many times.
"How many lives does someone get?"





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