NaNoWriMo season has snuck up on me this year, through every fault of my own. I decided not to do it, not because I don't enjoy it, but because I need to devote what little spare creative time I have this month to not completely deserting my poor webcomic, whose update schedule is already suffering due to school. This is my last semester - I'm graduating in December - and is therefore my last chance to end the college scene with as high a GPA as possible.
But I'm struggling. Not doing NaNo, that is. I keep wandering back to the forums and surfing around, feeling lost and left out, wondering if I really need to sleep at all this month, or if that was a silly goal from the beginning. I don't have a particular story that I want to work on, but I've got a larger-than-usual litter of plot bunnies invading my skull. I give the credit for this, in equal parts, to my webcomic (for keeping my muse amused) and my Spanish Lit class (for forcing me to focus on the concept of stories on a regular basis). I'm sure I could chase any one of those bunnies for quite a few thousand words before it would tire.
I definitely won't be making anything like 50,000 words this month. That would be madness on a scale I'm unwilling to devote myself to. But...I can't promise I won't write anything at all. NaNo is far too inspiring to ignore completely.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Monday, November 30, 2009
Final Stats for 2009
Some final stats...
Word count in MS Word: 51,140
Word count in NaNo validator: 51,175
Cups of tea: 29
Cups of coffee: 10
Characters killed: 1
Chapters: 27
Days not written: 5
Days written over 5K: 2
Farthest behind I've been: 8,205 (35,128/43,333)
Farthest ahead I've been: 1,550 (24,883/23,333)
(Keep in mind these aren't final novel stats, just final NaNo stats. The story is far from finished.)
Word count in MS Word: 51,140
Word count in NaNo validator: 51,175
Cups of tea: 29
Cups of coffee: 10
Characters killed: 1
Chapters: 27
Days not written: 5
Days written over 5K: 2
Farthest behind I've been: 8,205 (35,128/43,333)
Farthest ahead I've been: 1,550 (24,883/23,333)
(Keep in mind these aren't final novel stats, just final NaNo stats. The story is far from finished.)
And CUT!
Done! Yay! Finally! With an hour to go until the deadline. Whew. My NaNo stats graph looks pretty damn entertaining this year.
I'm a weener, as Grandpa would say!
I'm a weener, as Grandpa would say!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The #5Kday Challenge
I'm so far behind I've had to take up Chris Baty's Twitter challenge: #5Kday (5,000 words a day). I only managed 3,000 yesterday, but I hardly spent any time at all writing, so I actually didn't do badly at all. Guess I'm aiming for 7k today to make up for it...hoo boy. And tons and tons of homework and grading to do.
Current word count: 39,116. Today's goal: hit 45k! Then hit 50k tomorrow, and not worry about NaNo on Monday. Wish me luck...I'm going to need it. You can follow me on Twitter @kb1qwb.
No excerpt today. I'm rushing so hard the writing quality is going out the window, and I'd be ashamed to show off most of it.
Current word count: 39,116. Today's goal: hit 45k! Then hit 50k tomorrow, and not worry about NaNo on Monday. Wish me luck...I'm going to need it. You can follow me on Twitter @kb1qwb.
No excerpt today. I'm rushing so hard the writing quality is going out the window, and I'd be ashamed to show off most of it.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Death of Free Speech
Final word count for Monday: 33,107.
Excerpt of the day:
“Fighting doesn’t have to mean using violence,” Gainor said. “I’ve fought plenty of battles and never once have I hit or shot someone.” He walked back to the cabinet and sorted through the drawer until he realized that he had no idea what he was looking for and couldn’t think of a reason to be looking for anything. “Hell, I’ve never shot a gun at all.”
“This is a different battle you’re fighting now,” Bill said. “This is the battle that happens as a last resort, now that all the lobbying and protesting you’re used to has failed. We’re past the point of peaceful dissent. Staging a protest and speaking your mind will get you locked up these days.”
“Locked up?” Gainor asked. “I remember what Jamie said about the constitutional rights, but I can’t imagine the police are really going to blindly enforce everything the government feels like handing down.”
“What police?”
“Huh?” Now thoroughly confused, Gainor asked, “What do you mean, ‘What police?’ The people in blue uniforms that make arrests and hand out speeding tickets. I don’t know of any other police.”
Bill crossed his arms and stared Gainor down. “Good luck finding your police these days,” he said.
“Finding them?” Gainor demanded, growing impatient. “All I have to do is go to the police station, or call 911, or drive ninety miles an hour down the interstate. I’ll find them. Though usually I try to avoid them.”
Bill shook his head. “Go to the police station tonight,” he said.
“Why?”
“Just go. Find your police, and I’ll show you the death of free speech in America.”
Excerpt of the day:
“Fighting doesn’t have to mean using violence,” Gainor said. “I’ve fought plenty of battles and never once have I hit or shot someone.” He walked back to the cabinet and sorted through the drawer until he realized that he had no idea what he was looking for and couldn’t think of a reason to be looking for anything. “Hell, I’ve never shot a gun at all.”
“This is a different battle you’re fighting now,” Bill said. “This is the battle that happens as a last resort, now that all the lobbying and protesting you’re used to has failed. We’re past the point of peaceful dissent. Staging a protest and speaking your mind will get you locked up these days.”
“Locked up?” Gainor asked. “I remember what Jamie said about the constitutional rights, but I can’t imagine the police are really going to blindly enforce everything the government feels like handing down.”
“What police?”
“Huh?” Now thoroughly confused, Gainor asked, “What do you mean, ‘What police?’ The people in blue uniforms that make arrests and hand out speeding tickets. I don’t know of any other police.”
Bill crossed his arms and stared Gainor down. “Good luck finding your police these days,” he said.
“Finding them?” Gainor demanded, growing impatient. “All I have to do is go to the police station, or call 911, or drive ninety miles an hour down the interstate. I’ll find them. Though usually I try to avoid them.”
Bill shook his head. “Go to the police station tonight,” he said.
“Why?”
“Just go. Find your police, and I’ll show you the death of free speech in America.”
Monday, November 23, 2009
Family Secrets
I got so far behind last weekend thanks to my Internet Programming midterm, which involved hours and hours of beating Drupal upside the head, and then doing the same to one of GoDaddy's servers. After much puzzlement and frustration, the site is finally live at The Everyday Epicure.
So after my big surge ahead on Saturday, I wrote nothing from Sunday to Saturday. Eek! I got as much as 10k behind, then spent a few hours on Sunday (yesterday) catching up. I got down 6k, so as of today I'm only 5k behind, with six more days to go. Unfortunately, this Thanksgiving "break" is going to be filled with homework, so I won't be able to relax and hang around and novel constantly. I'm still determined, though.
Current word count: 32,399.
All recent research has consisted of asking Craig questions about servers, so no pages to show.
Random excerpt:
Gainor focused his attention on his food for the rest of the meal, talking just enough to keep Joyce talking. Ivy couldn’t tell if he was listening to her or not, but she knew he was unhappy about something. She also knew that she didn’t stand a chance of finding out what was bothering him with her mother in the room.
After dinner, Ivy loaded the dishes in the dishwasher and went back upstairs, while Gainor and Joyce retired to the living room. She closed the door and flopped down on the bed again.
This is wonderful, she thought. Like we haven’t been through enough crap already, now dad’s hiding something. She tried to think of what it could be, but couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
He lost his job. No, he wouldn’t keep that a secret. Besides, he would probably be glad to get rid of that commute. He’s having an affair. No, he wasn’t the type for that. He was so devoted to her mother it was disgusting sometimes. He’s… But she was out of ideas. What the hell is he trying to hide?
So after my big surge ahead on Saturday, I wrote nothing from Sunday to Saturday. Eek! I got as much as 10k behind, then spent a few hours on Sunday (yesterday) catching up. I got down 6k, so as of today I'm only 5k behind, with six more days to go. Unfortunately, this Thanksgiving "break" is going to be filled with homework, so I won't be able to relax and hang around and novel constantly. I'm still determined, though.
Current word count: 32,399.
All recent research has consisted of asking Craig questions about servers, so no pages to show.
Random excerpt:
Gainor focused his attention on his food for the rest of the meal, talking just enough to keep Joyce talking. Ivy couldn’t tell if he was listening to her or not, but she knew he was unhappy about something. She also knew that she didn’t stand a chance of finding out what was bothering him with her mother in the room.
After dinner, Ivy loaded the dishes in the dishwasher and went back upstairs, while Gainor and Joyce retired to the living room. She closed the door and flopped down on the bed again.
This is wonderful, she thought. Like we haven’t been through enough crap already, now dad’s hiding something. She tried to think of what it could be, but couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
He lost his job. No, he wouldn’t keep that a secret. Besides, he would probably be glad to get rid of that commute. He’s having an affair. No, he wasn’t the type for that. He was so devoted to her mother it was disgusting sometimes. He’s… But she was out of ideas. What the hell is he trying to hide?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Those Games
Friday's final word count: 21,043. I'm caught up again - almost.
Excerpt of the day:
The tiny, fragile body of his little boy, mostly covered by sheets, didn’t even look real. It occurred to him that maybe someone had replaced him with a wax figure and was just playing a cruel joke, that the real Kevin was hiding in the next room and would suddenly jump in and shout, “Boo!”
But life doesn’t play those sorts of games. It takes the coldest, darkest moment of your life and drags you through it face-first, drawing out the suspense and the pain and the anger until you think you can’t take it anymore, and then it keeps pulling you until you can’t even think anymore.
Many hours had probably passed before Joyce slowly pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed the funeral home. Gainor watched from his place on the ceiling, over his own head, while she told them to come pick up the body. He could scarcely believe it when they showed up only seconds later. Gainor’s body exited the room with his wife and his daughter. His heart stayed behind, locked in that room of horror, and his head made itself conspicuously absent.
Excerpt of the day:
The tiny, fragile body of his little boy, mostly covered by sheets, didn’t even look real. It occurred to him that maybe someone had replaced him with a wax figure and was just playing a cruel joke, that the real Kevin was hiding in the next room and would suddenly jump in and shout, “Boo!”
But life doesn’t play those sorts of games. It takes the coldest, darkest moment of your life and drags you through it face-first, drawing out the suspense and the pain and the anger until you think you can’t take it anymore, and then it keeps pulling you until you can’t even think anymore.
Many hours had probably passed before Joyce slowly pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed the funeral home. Gainor watched from his place on the ceiling, over his own head, while she told them to come pick up the body. He could scarcely believe it when they showed up only seconds later. Gainor’s body exited the room with his wife and his daughter. His heart stayed behind, locked in that room of horror, and his head made itself conspicuously absent.
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