Survival of the Fittest

NaNoWriMo...it's over. If you participated you either felt that rush that came from a job well done or you faced defeat yet pride over how many words you did manage to do (because it definitely is a feat!).

Some people ask me if I'm going to do it again next year. My answer is always the same.

I don't know.

"But you felt that sense of accomplishment that you called priceless!! Why wouldn't you want that again?" you ask.

Let me tell you what I learned from NaNo and maybe you'll understand.

---I learned that I can do it. I have NEVER completed a novel before, but I have started lots of them. Well, not since high school, but still. Perhaps thats why the smell of victory was so euphoric for me.

---I learned that if you love what you are writing, and it's familiar to you, the words will easily flow. And they did. I started An Unlikely Hero at the tail end of the second week, and still hit the 50,000 word mark. And only because I'm a big fantasy freak fan.

---I learned that it's true what they say about your story evolving. The direction I started in and the direction I ended in are two vastly different things. I have to do serious editing in the beginning to make it flow, but that's okay. I still love my characters so much that I want to bring Galain back from the dead and kill him all over again. And what's awesome about writing is that I can. I absolutely can.

---I learned that I can stay up all night, hitting the pillow around 6 am, wake up at 8 am, and still function. Well, you wouldn't have liked me til around noon, but I was up. :D

But most of all?

I learned that November virtually disappears. NaNoWriMo is the daylight savings time to the literary world. Instead of moving forward an hour, it's a whole month. Poof! Gone.

And I'm not sure I like that.

Wordless Wednesday: Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!

For more Wordless/Wordful Wednesday posts:

parenting By dummies

Live and Love...Out Loud

A Beautiful Mess

NaNoWriMo: Another Excerpt

I'm 35,000 words in (yay, me!), sick and still writing. A foggy brain makes the going a little tougher, but the ideas are still flowing. I'm starting to see this as a multi-book series. Ay-yi-yi. Anyway, here's your final, unedited, rough, and raw NaNo excerpt. Enjoy!

Characters: Prince Aletalian, Ulia (the evil sorceress)

Setting: Crystal Castle

“When will the creature be ready?” Prince Aletalian asks Ulia. He knew that the birth of the creature would mean Rtharo was at his full strength, waiting for words only Ulia would dare to utter. This day held a lot of importance to the Prince. As Rtharo grew stronger, his father, Rylias, the king of all Tylunand, was growing weaker. His Guild Knights had been prepped to begin coronation procedures immediately upon the king’s passing. He was not first in line for the throne, but with his sibling absent, an heir would be necessary, and he could secure his rightful place before she ever found out about their father. By then, it would be too late.

He also enjoyed the power that Ulia had given him. He admired the amulet around his neck in the opulence of her scrying pot. It was a bloodstone. It was as big as his fist, and held more power in its belly than a dozen druids. She told him she had enchanted it so that he would be invincible in battle, and when he became king, he was to meld it into his crown. When combined with the ruby sword, the sapphire shield, the topaz staff,  and the turquoise ring, it would make him immortal she claimed. He had always envied the Elves their immortality. He would be the last high king, ruling the kingdom forever in his immortality.

“Three fortnights, it will hatch.” The dark shape inside the egg could be seen through the shell, though it was still indiscernible. “The Drtuang will be here soon.  Unless you are anxious for your death, I suggest you leave now. The orcs and goblins are marching towards Tierna ‘Or as we speak. Have you prepared your people?” Ulia cackled. Prince Aletalian’s eyes widened.

“No. You promised me the city would not be touched!”

“No, Aletalian, I promised that the castle would not be touched. Never did I promise the city. Never. Besides, I have no control over the orcs and goblins.”

“You lie. You are controlling it all, at least until Rtharo is at his full strength. It is not an orc’s nature to travel with troublesome goblins. You have to be controlling them. Call them off.”

“I cannot. Rtharo is in full control of the armies. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.” This caught Aletalian off guard. He was flabbergasted.

“You wouldn’t if you could? I thought we were in agreement: my servitude to you in exchange for my coronation. It’s pointless to be king if there is no one to appreciate it.”

“Then you should go be a king. Make an army of your village. Let them fight. In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway, they’ll all be dead.”

The prince took off towards home, riding faster than he had ever ridden before to try to save his village from being pillaged and plundered by the goblins, and the women raped by the orcs. He realized that he was being betrayed by Ulia in this very moment, but he was sure that Rtharo would reward him for his loyalty. This thought, and this thought alone kept him going. He would teach his people to fight, so that they could aid in Rtharo’s uprising. He had the greatest army in the history of Savania at his disposal in his Guild Knights. They would open the army to allow any who are interested in joining in, arm them, and train them. It would sizable enough to give any army pause, even the legions of darkness that serve Rtharo. Yes, it would be perfect. The only person standing in his way was the king.

NaNoWriMo: Plugging Along + An Excerpt

I am hoping by morning I will officially be at halfway status. I've been busy, busy, busy this week working on it in order to get caught up. And, man, are the ideas flowing! Always a good thing. Today I bring you another unedited, raw, first draft excerpt from my NaNo novel. Enjoy!

The Unlikely Hero

Character Key: Gwyneth-a human female Hunter; Petrus (Pee-trus)-a human male bard; River-the halfbreed protagonist; Kub-the orc; Jely (G-lee)-a female werebeing who shares 2 forms: wolf and human; Ainasa-the shaman's elven wife; Brandlance-the shaman; a gang of blue skinned, scaled trolls

Setting: Wynnrar Woods 

“Halt.” Gwyneth said barely above a whisper.

We watched in silence as the gang of trolls, twelve in number, continued to move towards us, still oblivious to us standing there. Perhaps we would be lucky and get past them without being noticed, but no, we weren’t that lucky. The smallest one, if you can call a troll small, saw us first and warned the others. In only moments, the battle began. Swords clanged against swords, pike against shield, a horse falls, throwing off his rider. Jely, who never changed her form, attacks with her whole body, tearing and ripping flesh with her teeth, just managing to avoid being mauled by bludgeons and daggers. The noises of the battle, the cries, the sickening sound of flesh being torn open, the warm smell of oozing blood, all gathered in my nostrils. None of the trolls touched me, preferring to battle with the others. Perhaps they meant me to be a morsel of dinner? Perchance they really could not see me? Oh, the possibilities! 

I nudged my horse forward, slid in close to a troll, and he really did not see me! Oh, the battle of wills!! Do I fight him knowing he can’t see me, or do I let my companions handle it? Fate takes matters in her own hands though, as a troll lunges for my horse. While I may be invisible to them, apparently my horse is not. My sword meets troll hide for the first time. He didn’t even see me coming. My cut was close, lifting up and tearing off several scales from the blue tinged skin, drawing first blood. This incited him, and he lunged again, this time using his sense of smell to locate me. I slid off my horse, still keeping her close, and circle behind him, slicing into his hide as I went. He swung out with his bludgeon, and I just managed to miss his strike on my shoulder by jumping out of his way. I struck out with my sword again and again.  The toughness and scales of his hide made wounding him difficult, but the advantage of him not being able to see me gave me the courage I need to fight. By the time the battle was over, I was beaten and bloodied, his bludgeon having connected on at least two occasions, and swiping me on several others, and our adversaries lie dead all around us. The damage to our party was light, having only lost a horse and some blood, no one seemingly in peril. The battle took what energy we had left from the swamp, so Gwyneth and Petrus rode a little ahead to secure a campsite for us to rest in. Nightfall was coming on swiftly. We had not wanted to be in the Wynnrar Woods any longer than we had to be.

When Petrus and Gwyneth returned, their spirits seemed lighter, as if a weight had been lifted. Gwyneth smiled for the first time since we escaped the swamp. It was infectious. Soon, all of us were smiling, once more the jovial party we were when we started out together from Ithagar. Whatever burdens the swamp had placed on us were seemingly forgotten and we continued on our journey with lighter hearts, and strangely enough, renewed energy. Night fell, and still we continued on. We kept moving until we saw a strange plethora of lights coming from the trees. We had reached a small opening in the woods, with a very large willow tree standing solo in the very center of the opening.

It was easily the largest willow tree I had ever seen. Its girth spanned almost the entire open space. The whole area had an aura of magic. There were sparkles of fairies flitting here and there, the ground was a lush green carpet, and the night sky above was filled with stars. This is the place where your childhood dreams go, waiting for something wonderful to happen, and it never disappoints. There was a large hole in the base of the tree, and it was from this hole that the strange lights were coming from. They illuminated through the branches, causing rays of light to expand and stretch into the woods nearby. I briefly wondered if Tasha was nearby.

NaNoWriMo: Switching Gears

So, I survived week 2, and I am now going strong, only...I switched to another story. With this new story I have been writing for 3.5 days and I already as many words and pages as it took me 2 weeks to labor over with Weathered. Now, before you get on my case, I do intend to finish Weathered, but not on a deadline. Weathered is a good idea that popped in my brain, but, honestly, it is out of my league. I know nothing about my protagonist's world, and if I am going to keep a sense of realism, I will need to research and learn. You just can't do this in 30 days, with a need for 50,000. Plus? I don't think Blair likes me very much. She stopped talking to me.

So, what are you writing now?

I am writing what I know. What I live and breath, what I can't pass by in a bookstore without purchasing at least one of, and always have to have on hand: Fantasy.

Would you like a sample? Remember, there is no editing being done, so this is rough and raw, but enjoy.

The Unlikely Hero

Far away on the top of the world, the drums have started, calling more and more creatures to the Crystal Castle. Rtharo’s power is increasing, and as his power grows, his call to the Ruby grows with it. Ulia’s power is increasing too, drawing off Rtharo. Her incantations are becoming more bold as the creature grows within the egg. Soon, it would be hatching. Her calls to her dead ancestors were being answered. The Catacomb of Illusions located deep within the bowels of the castle was awakening; the specters of the evil dead once more marching. She called their leaders one by one:

                                                                                                                                      

By the Monolith of Tio-rus!

By the Tides of Oroc-Og!

By The Blood of Wi'unegelu!

I command you to arise, Seifus the Malecontent!

By the Six Horns of Emot-erer!

By the Stones of Quror-oxym!

By the Claws of Meor-oith!

I command you to arise, Erik of Vesiminy!

By the Ancient Sorceress of Maunoial!

By the Torch of Wo’began!

By the Heart of Nary-lere!

I command you to arise, Baltasar the Bloody!

By the Infinite Myriads of Haridox!

By the Eight Bands of Feao-Lunet!

By the Wings of Ar’galopri!

I command you to arise, Reheloth of the Dragons!

By the Winds of Sau’tangaul, I invoke thee!

By the Lost Souls of Ei-gloranth, I invoke thee!

By the Power of Rtharo, I INVOKE THEE!

As each ancient king arose from the dead, the world began to shake. The louder she chanted the greater the earth shook until a crack ran up the side of the Crystal Castle, and she knew it was complete. The Legion of Lost Souls had returned, and no man dare get in their path.

2 Truths & a Lie Thursday: The Write Stuff

Welcome! Tell 2 truths and a lie and make us guess which is the lie.

You've played this game before, so why not join The Scoop on Poop and CA Girl every Thursday by:

1. Grabbing the handy little button on the sidebar

2. Posting your 2 truths and a lie

3. Link up

4. Reveal your lie the next week!

5. Visit others who link up and leave a comment guessing their lie.

It's that easy!! You know you want to play!! Link up today!!

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Last Week's Fact or Fiction

1. This is my first time participating in NaNoWriMo.

True. I didn't even know it existed. In fact if Jessica Anne hadn't mentioned it during a Red Writing Hood prompt, I probably STILL wouldn't have known about it.

2. I have won an Editor's Choice award twice.

True. Once upon a time, I used to write poetry on a fairly regular basis because well, writing a poem is short and quick (and fun). I always put my poems up on poetry.com, and 2 of them were given an editor's choice award, and several of them were "published" in annual books (I don't have proof of the latter since I did not pay the $60 to buy the book). At least no one I know IRL has received an editor's choice award, so there's that. Ha.

(google image)

3. I have been published in a magazine.

False. I have not been published in a magazine, but I would like to be. Newspaper counts too!

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2 Truths & a Lies
1. I wanted to be a novelist when I grew up.
2. I wanted to be a journalist when I grew up.
3. I wanted to be a sing/songwriter/actress when I grew up.


Can you tell the truths from the lie?
You know you want to play along, so tell your lie, link up here and CA Girl's place! 

NaNoWriMo Day 6: Weathered, Scene 1

So here it is, Day 6 of NaNoWriMo. I have yet to write for today, but, as predicted by the geniuses behind NaNo, I am sleeping, eating, and drinking my characters, so when I do get time to sit and type (write) the words flow on the page, characters living and breathing and taking turns that I don't expect until it's already on the page. I've managed 10 pages, and completed the first chapter of the story. I am having a boatload of fun, and so glad I took on this project.

If you are one of NaNo buddies, and having a hard time getting stuff down, let me tell you a little secret that is working for me (and a couple of my fans have suggested). Just start writing. put yourself in your character's shoes and think about the next move. It will come, and it will flow. I know you've heard it before. And, honestly, it really is as easy as it sounds.

You've  gotten a taste for my story by reading the prelude, and again yesterday when you got a sample of the story at Scene 2. Today I am adding part 4, which is really Scene 1 to the story.  Enjoy!

Blair Weathers is an impatient woman. She drums her fingers on the desk in impatience as she waits for the loan officer to return. It’s a catchy cadence her manicured ruby red fingernails tap out. She almost manages to distract herself with it. The tune catches time with the sounds of the clacking heels resonating through the bank, the clicks of vaults closing, and the soft whisper of money being counted behind the teller booths. Music has always been her savior, despite the broken heart she gained dating the drummer of the metal band “Chains of Destruction” when she was in college. She liked to think of herself as much a song writer as an artist, but knew in her heart where her loyalty lied. She wouldn’t be sitting here investing so much of her money, and time, into opening the city’s largest art gallery if she didn’t.

The bad side of the musical cadence coming from her fingertips is that it usually lulls her mind into memories, and usually the memories she wanted to forget. She tried to pretend it never happened, but denial only went so far. Today, her mind takes her back to a few weeks ago when she had a very special lunch at her childhood home with her aging father.

“Daddy, I have something spectacular in mind. I assure you it won’t disappoint you.”

“You disappointed me the day you turned down law school for art. You couldn’t possibly disappoint me any further.” Her father answered. His voice, once smooth and silky, had taken a harsh, gravelly, breathy turn as he aged. When he spoke now, he sounded like Darth Vader speaking through his mask. His hands, once large and commanding, were now twisted with arthritis. His hair, once full of thick and luxurious blonde curls, had successfully receded, leaving a shiny bald palate in its place. He walked with the same determination he always had, refusing the aid of the cane his doctor had prescribed for him. His demeanor was still as mean as it was when he was younger, and he could still hold his own whenever he decided to venture in the courtroom, which was rare these days.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Daddy. I was never destined to be a lawyer, surely you can see that.”

“You are right. You would never be a good lawyer, but a fine judge you’d have made. I reared you with all the makings of being a just judge and you threw it all away. For what? Scribbles on a piece of laundry!” He had started to rise out of his seat in his vehemence, but a coughing fit sent him back into it.

“Is that what you consider the Rembrandts and Van Goghs hanging in your office and all over the house, just colorful dirty laundry?”

“Your mother put those there. If I’d had my way, there would be deer and boar heads hanging there instead. After she passed, I didn’t have the heart to take them down, but now I wish I had. You got your fancy ideas from a couple of dead men that were good with crayons.”

“If Mother were alive, she wouldn’t tolerate your attitude towards the arts.”

“If your mother were alive, you wouldn’t be here.”

His matter of fact way of stating it did nothing to lessen the force of the arrow that sliced into Blair’s heart. She knew that he had not intended it to hurt her, at least that’s what she chose to believe. It was that same matter of fact attitude that had won him so many cases, and created the riches that allowed her to pursue a life that many others just dreamed about. Nonetheless, it still hurt. It caused her to pause in her conversation. She took a small bite out of the hummus sandwich she had ordered, and ran a shaky hand through her blonde hair.

She spent many hours at the salon to keep her hair blonde, her pretty face line free, along with a grueling routine at the gym to keep a svelte figure. She had a personal shopper that kept her closet filled with the latest fashion trends, so she always looked sharp when she stepped out, whether she was walking her dog down the block or going to a business meeting. Her purses were designer bags from Hermes and Louis Vuitton; her shoes varieties of Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik. She took great pride in her appearance because it made her feel successful. Never mind that it was with her father’s money. She was almost forty five, and she had never worked a day, never had to experience hardship, never had a moment without food, not even in college when she went against her father’s wishes. As long as she passed, he provided. Despite all this, the one thing Blair lacked growing up was something money could not buy. Her nannies tried to share it. Her teachers tried to teach it. The only one who could give it to her, didn’t. In the aspect of love, her father had failed her miserably.

“I don’t have all day, my dear. What is it you want to tell me, and how much is it going to cost me this time?” His chuckle was the one thing time hadn’t taken away from him. The sound of it now soothed Blair, and she grew excited once more.

“I’m going to open an art gallery, Daddy! The biggest one New York has ever seen! I’ve found the perfect spot. It’s an old, abandoned warehouse, but with a little bit of a makeover, it will be the best this city has ever seen!”

“An art gallery? An ART Gallery? ART?” His face turned red as he choked down the words. “ART! ART! ART!” His hand came crashing down on the table, causing the wine bottle to fall and shatter on the white porcelain floor of the sunroom. “I refuse to invest one more penny in art. I refuse!”

“But, Daddy…”

“No, ‘but daddy’ me. I humored your request for art college. I humored your request for a SoHo apartment so you could be surrounded by artistes and musicians on a daily basis. I will NOT invest in an art gallery. No. NO! NO!” His face was so red, Blair worried that he would explode. Tears filled her eyes as his caretaker came running into the room.

“I told you to take it easy, Blair. You always come and start trouble with him. His heart cannot take it. Take your fancy ideas elsewhere. Grow up and learn how to take care of yourself and let your old man live his last years in peace.” Hanna’s voice was quiet yet stern. She had been Theodore’s nurse for the past twenty years, and despite their age difference, Blair was convinced they had something going on.

“I’ve given her everything she ever asked for…” her father coughed. Hanna escorted him out of the room and out of Blair’s sight, narrowing her eyes as she passed Blair.

Starbucks and NaNoWriMo Day 1 (Fail)

I know everyone is DYING for some Starbucks, Especially the blogger who REALLY knows how to shoot the poop the best. At least now, I can't say I have never been stalked, hahaha. The winner winner chicken dinner of the $25 Starbucks gift card (kaching!) is..........................







Congratulations to allthingsnew! You hit the poop shootin' jackpot with over 24 (including 2 conjugations!) uses of the word "poop" in 9 comments. She was just full of poop, eh? She doubled down and summed it up well:

"the final moments of our opportunity to talk about poop are coming to an end. That's kind of sad because it has been fun to let all of the poop out of my mind these last few days. I'm pretty sure that anyone with children 3 and under have lots of poop to deal with in their lives. We just don't have many opportunities to deal with it. ;)"

Steph, email me with your address so I can send you that card!!!! Enjoy the roulette of Starbucks and the porcelain throne and think of me often!

Thanks to everyone for taking a gamble and playing along this week. It was great fun and lots of giggles. It was fun to feel young again.

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For those who have been following along with my Weathered story, here is the Prelude to the story. I have been tempted to go back and edit, but I will save that for later. I have 9. 273 words to write today if I am going to ever get in a 5,000 word mode.

Prelude

“Why am I looking at a blank canvas? The assignment isn’t that complicated.”  Blair’s college art professor clucks her tongue in disappointment. “I cannot give you the A you ask for until you put something on that paper, anything, even a stick figure is better than the white paper.”

                                                                          

“Just give me one more day. That’s all I need, and I will give you a masterpiece. I promise. I…” Blair blinked coyly, hoping to get her way. “I just can’t work here. There’s nothing to inspire me. I need to take my canvas home.”

“You know that is not possible. I cannot bend the rules for you just because you are the chairman’s daughter.” Miss Tatum looked down her long nose at Blair with disdain. She looked especially spinsterish today with her dark hair pulled back in a tight chignon. The crows feet around her eyes made her look extra fierce when she looked down her nose, and the glasses that hung on a chain around her neck did nothing to disrupt the image.

“Just this once, please? I promise you I will have it finished tomorrow. I just can’t do it here. It’s too…sterile, bland, dry. I need my music, my color, my warmth. I will wait til classes let out for the day and then pick up the canvas. No one will know about it. I promise you.”

“I will not. You need to work in any circumstances, and you especially need to learn that money does not buy everything and everyone. If you cannot do the work like everyone else, then just like anyone else, you will fail. And that’s the bottom line.”

“But I can’t fail. Blair Weathers never fails. I am an artist. You cannot fail me.”

“ I can and I will if you do not complete this assignment. You have until tomorrow morning to complete it, and I will be watching you. The canvas cannot leave the classroom. Period.”

The hour was over. There was no more Blair could do at this moment to convince Miss Tatum otherwise. She had to figure out something and fast. She absolutely could not fail this class or her father would take away the trust fund. He had insisted that she continue on in the family business and attend his alma mater,  Stanbridge University, but she had cried and won her way to attend the college of her choice and pursue her love of art. If she failed even one class, her father would pull his money out, and she would either have to pay on her own, or give in to his demands. She intended to do neither. With no other classes for the rest of the day, she headed towards her dorm with a plan formulating in her mind.

The dormitory stood tall and stoic against the sky. It was a modernized building designed to look like it was old. There were three floors with 15 rooms per floor. Blair shared her room with one other woman, though she had hoped to get a room to herself. Having a roommate had its benefits at times, like now. Her roommate, a slight brunette with an artsy initial at the front of her name, also took art classes. They rarely ever talked though since they ran in different social circles-Blair having money, and R. Angelina Potts having none.  R. Angel, as she preferred to be called, was talented enough to receive a full scholarship, otherwise, both she and Blair knew she wouldn’t be there. The dorm room itself was bright and colorful, the walls filled with paintings of various sizes and mediums.

R. Angel was sitting at the one desk in the room when Blair entered. She had her headphones on, with her sketchpad before her. Blair was able to get a brief glimpse of her work before she realized that she was standing there. Blair knew her roommate was talented, but the little bit of drawing she had seen literally took her breath away. Her plan came into formation and she decided to test the waters. It was going to take some smooth talking to get her roommate out of the room without her sketch pad, but Blair knew she could do it. Money is a powerful motivator.

And now, the real fun begins....

This post is a part of the


carnival.  Can you become a Made Man?