…I won. I’m still waiting for the joy to flood over me. In the course of four days and with only (accumulatively) 15 hours sleep I bleed out 18,500 words. Needless to say, it will take some time for me to recover. I almost killed my housemates for keeping me up on the night I won (I’d immediately crashed into bed once I validated – that lasted two hours) but they were lovely the next day and crept around like church mice. I’ve regained ten hours sleep but I’ll need a lot more; time to go back home to the countryside! Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to make my housemates creep around and worry if I’m OK. They’re all such lovely people. It’s heartwarming to know they care *dewy-appreciative-eyes*
My statistics graph looks fucking amazing though. Look at it:
I found that the best way to keep myself going was to (a) host fantasy related sprints on [my twitter] account and (b) skip to various plot points. I didn’t linger for too long in different locations or concern myself with the passing of time in my novel. If it didn’t need to happen, if it was a minor display of character or if all necessary information had been delivered, the plot moved on.
There was one scene where a character adamantly wanted to scale the side of a building to seek revenge on her father. Neither myself or the main character had energy for such a stupid escapade; especially one that had no impact on the plot. Realising this, Isandro (main character) threw Jacqueline over his shoulder and marched them straight home. And plot continued.
This could possibly be the shortest novel I’ve ever written. I didn’t complete the story in one month (who ever does?) but it might end up being 70 – 80,000 words. This isn’t a bad thing, it’s just strange. My average novel tends to be 100,000 words (and my longest ever was 200,000 – it’s been in the process of getting cleaved with a butchers knife since 2007). In a way, I’m pleased it’s a mini-novel. I’ve always wanted to write one. It’s probably because I avoided political implications like the plague.
But November is over and NaNoWriMo no longer leers over me, for I hate the shame of not reaching the winner’s circle. I’ve no time to let the deadline-stress dissipate, however. I’ve got two weeks in which to write two scripts for my Screenwriting course. On the bright side: I won’t experience the NaNoWriMo Blues this year.
If you are experiencing the blues, as many other WriMos are, you should check out the [December and Beyond] forums.
Tell me the last sentence of your novel that pushed you over the 50K mark! 😀
“We need something to draw him away,” she said, pulling her mask onto the top of her head. “Perhaps if we…” With each word Jacqueline said the more Isandro knew that this was a foolish mission. He peered up at the comtes Descartes’ window, five miles off the ground. Did she really believe they had enough endurance? Isandro understood why Jacqueline would leap at the chance to injure her father in some manner, and his status should not protect him of his cruel decisions, but this was stupid.
“…so when you hear me make the sound-”
“Jacq, Jacq, Jacq. Stop.” Isandro held up his hand, almost covered her lips with his fingers. “This isn’t happening.”
Her eyes flashed with anger and she laughed. “You’re joking. Right now?”
“I’m taking you home, and I will strap you into a chair if I have to.”
“Go by yourself.” Jacqueline turned on him. In the distance a verbacious female laughed and spoke to her friends with enough volume for everyone in Tucapon to hear. “Go, you’re of no help. I thought you’d be fun.”
Her body began to unfurl, ready to run at the guardsman opposite them, and Isandro’s heart leapt into his throat. He grabbed Jacqueline around the middle, making her yelp. In a few gruff, powerful swings, Isandro threw her over his shoulder. “Put me down!” she spat, punching into his back and kneeing against his chest. Isandro trembled, his crusty wounds protesting at the assault.
“Hello?” called the guardsman, trying to peer into the shadows.
“Now look what you’ve done.”
Seeking all the courage he could, Isandro faked a smile and laughed. “Hello!” he cheered and staggered forward. He swept his hand out as a substitute for a bow and the guardsman eyed them from head-to-toe. Jacqueline struggled with much firmer movements, digging her nails into the back of his neck. He managed to turn a pained squeak into a drunken-sounding laugh.
“What are you doing?” asked the guardsman.
Isandro stumbled a little, trying to keep up his smile and lax behaviour. “Well, we were at a masquerade, but I think we wandered too far. Thought I’d take her for a laugh – a walk!” He gave a hideous, dirty laugh and the guardsman rolled his eyes.
“Be on your way,” he said.
“Yes, she’s a little drunk.” Isandro pointed to Jacqueline’s bum stuck in the air and she kneed him in the stomach. He gasped, smile vanishing and vomit surged in his throat. By sheer force of will Isandro kept hold of Jacqueline and remained on his feet. “We’ll be going,” he said and left.