I'd been considering the scene all day, working out who, what, why, when and how and all the other things your meant to, like how many times I can get away with saying 'Fuck', would it be better to use a different way to show how dangerous the main character is, or perhaps, should I really use the word 'Pubes' right there? Hmmm... Still it all played out from head to fingers to keys to screen and now it's in the lovely thing I call Kylie. All there. All 50,060 words so far.
I have a way yet to walk to finish over all and the edit is something that's going to be a big fat punch in the face. You'll see me moaning on here or more likely on Twitter about how I hate it/I like it/I hate it, but as I look back I can see where I've gone wrong and what I'll need to do to fix it. I can see the layout of the land far better and I know it's not such a bleak and ugly tundra as I first thought it was. There are trees and glades, glistening pools of water where insects skip across the surface, clouds above and though some of the land is shadowed by cloud and rain and thunder rolls after lightening flashes, some places are kissed by perfect sunlight and comfortable, warm breezes.
It's not perfect. Not writing project is on the first draft, of course it isn't. But I feel there is something here I can hone and temper, something I can craft into a thing of some beauty, and though it may never be covered in the fine engraving and gold leaf, it will still be beautiful to someone, somewhere.
I'm feeling confident, and that is probably the first time I can honestly say that about this book.
Here are the words...
The hut had a single light lit and I could see that there was movement inside, someone was pacing by the window. I used all of my skill to get closer without being seen. No songs played in my head, I was treated to the soundtrack of the slopes; wild winds and the sound of snow impacting on my protective clothing. Ice and snow covered the slopes and the mountain ranges around us, ice also ran through my veins as I prepared to do what had to be done, what was called of me by some strange emerging code from inside. I was hell bent on saving Britney Usher and I was willing to sacrifice some of myself to complete my mission.
I wasn’t sure if this was a step forward or just some strange reaction to being treated like a joke by my peers? Did I feel they had rejected me and so I would reject the rules that had governed my professional life up until this point? I didn’t know and what was even scarier was that I didn’t really care; I was running on instinct now, hunting for the kill without a plan and without restraint. I was predatory, stalking the hut, ready to take blood in exchange for… for what? For life? Yes. But for love and adoration? No.
There you go, words from the winning day.
I'll continue to post up paragraphs for the remainder of the Nanowrimo season, but I'll probably take tomorrow off. I feel knackered and I think I've earned it. :-)
Thanks for reading.