Day 29 - Winner!

 It turns out my final word count was 55735.  And thus ends my month of insanity.  It was a crazy, caffeine infused, literary blitz.  And its not done.

I've learned a lot of things over the past month.  Chief among the lessons is WRITING IS A HABIT.  Once you are in the groove, you have to stay there and keep slugging away. 

Next up: I have a number of professional projects I've put on the back burner.  Of course, the Christmas season means a lot of writing if you are a pastor, so there's that, too.  Come to think of it, I guess I'm kind of used to the kind of insanity it takes to crank out a NaNo project.  So, I just have to think of extending the insanity by a few more months of my life if I want to keep up this new habit. 

So, its not pretty.  I'm not sure I will find the time to polish it off (I hope so, I kind of got attached to the characters).  But, its one idea that is not keeping me up at night, any more.  Here is a final excerpt from the end of the novel, and the end of Daniel's quest for answers.  Thank you, everyone, for your support!

The metal hinges gave an audible squeak in protest as they were opened. Bertha went in first, with her flashlight darting around, trying to find the dimensions of the room. She gasped, realizing how close the two walls on either side of her were, and then she nearly pitched forward before realizing that there were a few steps down. She walked in a few steps. What was ahead of her was a narrow corridor with just enough room for one person to get by. On either side of the corridor, there were small shelves of votive candles.

Daniel found some matches at the first station, and he decided to light some of the candles as they went. “Why not?,” the thought, “they can be for our family, the FBI agents and the others who had to die for whatever it is that we are about to find.”

At the fourth shelf, they were about twenty feet back. A shadowy figure at the end of the corridor made Bertha gasp, and fall back a step. Daniel dropped the match he was holding, and swung his flashlight to the end of the corridor. It was a horse’s head in front of them. It seemed to be coming out of the stone wall ahead of them. On top of the horse statue was a rider, with his arm extended to the side. At the end of the arm, a sword. As the flashlight shone on the statue, it glimmered. There were milky white gemstones randomly inserted all over the rider and his horse.

That statue of a rider was at the end of the corridor. When they got to it, they found the corridor bent to the left, in the direction the sword was pointing. It only went a short way until another rider was in front of them, this time a side profile was coming out from the wall, and this sword was pointed forward. The light of their torches glistened on red gemstones this time.

“Ah,” Daniel grunted.

“What is it?”

“I think I know… this is from the Bible.”

“Which part?”

“Revelation. The end. Well… and a section of Zachariah too…”

“Daniel…”, Bertha knew she had to cut the professor off before he launched into a Bible Study.

“Sorry. Habit,” he said. “It’s the four horsemen. Revelation six. First, the white rider that conquers. Second, is the red rider, for war.”

Bertha got to the red horse, and shone her light down the next corridor that bent to her right.

“I’m guessing that next came the black rider?”

Her light shone ahead on a figure coming out of the wall to her left, and pointing his sword to the right, down the next corridor. He had black gemstones that looked like opals dotting his statue.

The next bend was to the left, again. And here, the statue that was carved into the wall was a full side profile of a rider with no gemstones dotting it. It looked as if it were whitewashed. The rider’s head bend down. The sword was sheathed.

“Its the pale rider. Death.” Daniel said, solemnly.

The bend of the pale rider’s head indicated the direction they were to go. They made their way to the end of the last corridor.

Day 26 Limping Across The Finish

Cover for "Blood Iron Cross" by Michi Hitchcock.

    Well, I just wrote the last three chapters in a fit of caffeine and madness.  Final word count = 53889. 
It ain't over until you upload your story, but I'm still amazed I got to 50,000 words after just deciding to do this on November 1. 
    I'm hoping that sometime over the next two days, I'll be able to let my so-called "inner editor" out for some play time.  Maybe fill in some of the plot holes.  No matter what shape it is in, I'll upload Thursday so I can celebrate over the weekend.
     What an experience!  The biggest thing I learned is that I can do it. And, guess, what? Its actually a lot of fun!
     I'm not sure who would want to read a murder/mystery, gothic horror, historic fiction kind of story, but if you are, I'll see if I can put it in some sort of downloadable format. 
      Look for a final excerpt toward the end of the week in celebration of completing NaNoWriMo!
 
Oh, and did you notice the new graphic?  Many, many thanks to Michi Hitchcock, who designed a cool novel cover for me. 

Day 20 And Choppin' Wood

It has not been the most exciting week of writing since my last post. 

But, here, having the goal of 50,000 words and the deadline coming up at the end of the month is what pushes me to write - even if it is just a little bit, each day.  Paraphrasing a Maddanism (John Madden, football commentator - he had a handful of quirky sayings that those of us who have spent any time playing the Madden football video game have memorized): "Some words, are better than none words."  Madden used "yards", but you get the idea.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I've found it to be completely addictive.  Being able to get some of the scenes in my head out and give them some life of their own is such a thing.  I completely get the NaNo philosophy that the biggest thing is to get the story out.  You can edit later.

In the olden days, you had to spend your spare time chopping wood for the winter.  It was a tedious task, to be sure.  But the family survived on doing some chopping each day.  Chop, chop, chop!

I'd say that right now, I'm pretty much through the chopping part.  In fact, I think that right now, I am in the grip of a full on obsession.  I just passed the 40k word mark and the end of the novel is in sight.  Its like a fever dream.  Every time I close my eyes, I'm seeing the movie of my novel end, and now I really want to close the deal.

Maybe I'll finish early and have time to fix the fact that one of my characters has died three different ways and at three different times in the story? I hope so. 

Thanks for praying for me and encouraging me through this! Happy Thanksgiving!

Day 13 - Describing Is Fun

I've been thinking about what I am learning this month by writing my first novel for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  One of the things about writing fiction is describing the environment and getting the reader to see what is in your head.  I've read from other writers that this is a balancing act.  Too much, and you are boring the reader.  Too little and you are confusing the reader.

Below is a paragraph where I could have gotten really bogged down in the describing.  The characters are walking through Glen Echo Park in Maryland, which is a party for the eyes with all the Art Deco buildings painted in vivid colors.  Instead of getting overwrought, I decided to just have fun with it.  See what you think... (remember - writing quickly, no editor = NaNoWriMo):

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

For, Professor Kremmin and Agent Moran, it was like passing through a doorway into a completely different world. They walked up the path deeper into park, Nellie felt that she would not be at all surprised to suddenly be walking on Yellow Brick Road and coming upon Munchkin Land in the Wizard of Oz. She could not help but stare at first large building they came to, which was in the middle of the park. It looked like someone had dumped a giant scoop of rainbow sherbet onto the pavement. The lime green, raspberry red and lemony yellow colors all cascaded in stripes down the dome, which stopped at a series of small diamond shaped windows going around the ring, and then the colors picked up again with a different roof that was pitched at more of an angle. All around the circle house, the pitched roof protected a series of doors and windows that continued the sherbet colored pattern. The house stood like peacock proudly displaying its bright feathers. For Agent Moran, it offered a much needed diversion from the intensity of the last few weeks. 

Excerpt from Confession, Part One

13 Oktober, Year of our Lord 1886

Dr. Henry James Kremmin, formally Heinrich Jacob von Kremmin to

The Very Rev. Dr. Joseph Augustus Bommenhauser

Greetings:

It has been a sincere pleasure working with you these past seventeen years and with the Most Rev. Martin J. Henni building our orphanage and our university dedicated to the blessed Saint Boniface. I hope and pray earnestly that with my family fortune depleted, save for what I need to provide for my wife and children, some ghosts of the past may find final rest - a small price to pay!  As my family travels west to begin a new life, I wish you to pray for us.  Too many specters haunt my dreams.  There are too many dark memories of what had taken place where our university now sits.  I like to think that we came to this place of hell, but are now leaving it in your hands, re-consecrated and newly hallowed ground.  It is no longer Hell, but rather a Pleasant Prairie near Lake Michigan.

There is only one thing that remains - that you hear my earnest confession revealing all the facts of what has led us to this time and place. The sins that were committed were of the most heinous sort, and I played no small part in the whole tragic opera. I only ask that when the curtain closes, you take this testimony of mine to the hallowed spot they will lay your body. There it must remain until our Lord comes to judge, and may He be merciful to me, wretched creature that I am.

Father, forgive me, for I have gravely sinned. Here is my confession:

It was the year 1851. At the tender age of thirteen, I had already begun my pre-medical studies in my native Prussia. Our names were different then, and we were part of a prominent family that supplied much of the Prussian army, at the time. The members of my family were among the Kaiser’s most trusted advisers and my father was, in fact, his personal and trusted doctor.

My father seemed to me a good man, but I did not know at the time of his penchant for experimental science. He had a secret laboratory where he would conduct the most unholy procedures upon all manner of beasts, hoping to extract from them something that would add to our humanity. My father would whisper in the ear of the Kaiser, promising a sort of tonic that could enhance the soldiers of his army - perhaps giving them increased strength or aggression on the battle field. I found out later that my father had indeed distilled such a tonic, and he experimented first with members of our own family. The results were catastrophic. The madness that descended upon our entire house was swift and vengeful. When all looked hopeless and irreversible, my father stole away with me in the middle of the night. Reports later came to us that the keep was to be found with the blood of our family covering the walls as the people therein let loose all their basest desires in one night’s orgy of blood and insanity. The few that were left by the time the dawn’s light had broken the next morning, were dispatched by the army soldiers that had come to investigate. My father and I had already fled at that point.  As we left in haste, the only indication that anything was amiss were the screams I heard behind us as left.
 With his forces depleted and shaken, the Kaiser thought it best to cut short his first invasion of Denmark that was underway and peace came following the first Silesian War of Prussia. I mention this only because it gives me cold comfort that something good could come from the depths of such bottomless evil.

We came first to America by the mighty river, the Mississippi, and sailed northward from Louisiana to St. Louis and then to Davenport and Rockford. Going from place to place, my father would find work plying his medical profession, with me as his assistant. We traveled further north and east, and came to the state of Wisconsin and friends of our family who had started a small medical college near Lake Michigan. My father, Carl Augustus, had this all planned out in advance, apparently. Our family friends had possession of a portion of our family's wealth as well as some of my father's equipment, wwhich he had the foresight to send ahead of him. We retrieved these and helped to found the medical college they were building near a way station near Milwaukee. My father became the school’s first headmaster and I completed my training.

Several years later, the United States was at war with itself. Along with some of the other young men at the college, I became enamored with the cause of the northern states. I left my father and our family fortune to pursue what I felt was the cause of freedom and justice. If I may be permitted a small boast,  I was found to have a taste for working under the terrible pressures of war.   I  first made my way back down to the Mississippi River and found myself aboard an Ironclad ship, the U.S.S. Essex. We had the advantage of the most modern armaments thanks to our benefactor and Captain, a man of means. It was after I had proven myself time and again, saving the lives of several sailors, that he truly thought of me as his son, and I thought him my father. I also made the fast acquaintance of two Lieutenants by the names of Osborn and Sullivan.

As our tour of duty ended in 1865, my comrade, Sullivan, fell ill with tuberculosis. We were wondering where to take him for treatment, and I thought of our medical college in Wisconsin. It would be a long journey, but the alternative would be to head to the west toward Arizona or California. Certainly the climate would be better suited to one ailing from the kind of condition that my friend, Sullivan had. Yet, I felt certain that my father and his fellow doctors at the college could help him.  This was confirmed in a correspondence I had where I had told him of our plight and was promptly invited back to my former home.  I felt like the prodigal son embraced by the father, again.
At the time, I did not know the full story, nor the full reason why my father and I came to the United States without the rest of our family. I believed him when he said we had fallen out with the Kaiser and had to make a new way in this new land. I further believed him when he told me that his experimentation was all for human advancement. 

We took the journey in June and then arrived in Oktober that same year of 1865. What I relate here I write with the utmost fear and trembling, and pray that God have mercy upon me and upon those poor, dear souls that had foolishly entrusted themselves to my father’s teaching. I dearly hope and pray that it was my father’s formulas that altered his brain. I further pray that the demon that I and my fellows confronted was not truly him, but some being that had taken possession and used his body to commit atrocities most foul along the lake of Gaston’s Pass.

The night we arrived, the night sky was clear and alight with so many bright stars. It was difficult to imagine anything amiss. The moon was bright and directly above us as our wagon slowly made its way through the winding trail in the woods along Gaston’s Pass. It was a narrow road that led to the lake and the one building that housed both the classrooms and dormitories of Milwaukee’s medical college. This was my home for several years, so to me all was as it should be. My companions, though were unsettled by the quiet ride where one could hear every clop of the horses and every creak of the wagon. I too thought it queer that there would not be more creatures roaming about on such a clear, moonlit night, but I put that thought aside. The air was bitter cold and almost winter like. If there had been any clouds in the sky, they might have stored the first snow of the year.

The college was built next to a small lake. As we approached the water, a fine mist ascending from it and rolled out a thin, ethereal carpet to greet us. We walked along the misty road until it bent upward along a hill and onto a stone bridge that took us over a small fishing creek that fed into the lake. It was here that I started to join the two men of action I called “friends” in their unease. The torches that normally lit the road were out. Were it not for the light of the full moon, we would have gotten out and walked to the bridge to ensure the horses did not accidentally stumble into the ravine.

I ordered our driver to stop, while Osborn and I got out to try and light the torches on the bridge. We were able to take a lit torch off of our carriage and Osborn, a muscular figure of a man, took off his bowler and overcoat to climb up the ten feet of square granite on the one corner to place the flame on top of the signal. He nearly singed his handlebar mustache as he clumsily kept his grip around the cold, stone pillar while foisting the torch up and over on top of the bowl of oil that pooled at the top of the pillar. As it lit, I said a small prayer that there was enough oil from the previous night.

I was not idle during the time that my companion was demonstrating his climbing prowess. I am pleased to say that I located a long tree branch that could be converted into a torch and thereby replace the lamplighter’s normal lucifer, a tall lighting torch that was taken around by the groundskeepers at dusk.

When we had lit the last torch on the bridge, I began to feel slightly more assured, taking confidence in their warmth and glow. My thoughts turned now to getting my poor, tuberculosis ridden friend, Sullivan, next to the warmth of the main sitting area of the college. As I climbed back into the coach, and just before giving the driver the signal to move forward, we heard a savage and vengeful scream set upon the chill, mid-autumn air.  That is precisely when the madness began.

Author's Note: This text was written in a flurry of madness as I speed through my first National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) novel.  It has not had the benefit of a good proofreading, much less an editor.  You are more than welcome to comment and suggest improvements, which may or may not be implemented depending on how close to the November 29 deadline I get! Thank you for reading!

A Two Story Novel

The craziness level just got taken up a notch.

I decided that in order for the story to be fully told, I had to essentially write a second story to be put with the first.

"Let me explain... no, let me sum up."

A lot of my novel hinges on events that happened over a century and a half ago.  I toyed with the idea of telling that story with the characters of the novel who live in 2012, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to tell the story from the perspective of those who lived in the past. 

So, one part of the novel is what is happening in the present day - a suspense/thriller (at least, I hope its thrilling) that has the main character running for his life.  The second half is more of a Gothic horror story that explains why the main character is running for his life and the thing that his would be killer is after. 

I put the second story in a different font and I'm writing it in the style of a letter.  The letter is the person's confession written to his priest, who is to keep the family secret with him. 

I am not sure if I am going to splice this letter as an introduction to each part of the rest of the novel, or include it in its entirety at the end.  But, here I am writing a second story alongside the first.   I have mentioned the craziness of this whole affair, right?

This has gotten my anxiety levels up a few notches, so I am going to post the first part of the letter a little later.  I would be very grateful to any feedback you have, as I am really unsure of myself writing as if I lived in the 19th century.  Some of my favorite stories are set in that era, so I must have absorbed some of that style into my writing and thinking (I hope).  My other hope is that I can keep the action going as the story is told - moving so fast that no one will stop and say "You know, I don't think people back then wrote quite like that." 

Alright, back to work.  Other responsibilities are beckoning and I really need to get the word count past the 20k mark if I'm going to keep my head above water.

Thanks for reading!

Things Learned by Day 8

It is day 8!  I pause to make out a list of the top five things I have learned about myself thus far from National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo):

5) I really stink at names.  If I have time, I am going to go back and rename everyone in my novel.

4) Once I start writing, the endorphins kick in or something and I really look forward to sitting down and doing it again.  I've been able to write around 2,000 words a day, which not a bad.  I have not slept much, mind you, but it feels good.  Maybe this happens when one reaches a new level of insanity?

3) The answer to whether I write by just sitting down and doing it or if I plot out the events in an outline first is "YES".

2) An energy drink with caffeine in the middle of the afternoon will wake me up at about 2AM - which is a good time to think through a chapter and write the notes down before falling asleep again.

...and the #1 thing I learned thus far is...

1) Having a deadline and a community of support so I could write my first novel is simply brilliant.

Feel free to follow the insanity on Google+ and Twitter.  My handle on the NaNo website is BlueJago.

Also, I'm using Pinterest to store some of my research images (and some writing motivation).

Excerpt from Chapter Seven: "Time to Go"

The lunch crowd was adding to the volume and noise at the Athena where the two Georgetown professors were reviewing their research finds.

“How does a large and powerful family just disappear?”

“Well, from this researcher’s point of view, there just simply is no mention of any of them after a certain point. Except, here is the family crest stitched onto a doctor’s satchel. There is not any von Kremmin family before the good doctor, as far as I can tell. There is a region of Prussia called the Kremmin. That may be where your family comes from, originally. I say that because “von” means “from”, if course, so Dr. Von Kremmin was probably someone from Kremmin. My theory is that he is really the last of the Gottlegiesser. He and his son ran away from whatever fate befell the rest of their family. Maybe there was some vendetta out on the entire family, and it is now catching up to you?”

“Ever since my mind started going down this road, and ever since I ruled out any crime or drug connections that Andrew’s family may have had, that theory has bothered me. It has bothered me from the day I decided to look up Carl August’s son in the military journals at the National Archives. Why would someone act on a century’s old grudge? Why would it be worth that much to go through all this trouble, and to risk getting caught? What could that person possibly get out of all this? What would this killer want from us?”

“Well, I would think it would have to be more than a mere grudge. No, I think Carl Augustus had some sort of family treasure, or something valuable he stole.” Daniel winced as he saw Albert grin from ear to ear.

“What are you thinking Albert?”

“Maybe it is a lost treasure from the Teutonic Knights? Who knows?”

 AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is part of the first draft of the novel I intend to submit as part of the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  Feedback and ideas are most welcome.  Oh, and I hit the 10k mark yesterday for the word count.  Boo ya!

Excerpt from Chapter Six: "Trust"

*Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!*

Reaching for the phone in his pocket, Daniel noticed a picture of Dr. Albert Stromberg before he put the device to his ear.

“Hello, Albert.”

A pleasant, grandfatherly voice piped in.

“Daniel! Good to hear your voice.”

“Sorry. I’ve been deep in my research.”

“Oh, Daniel. Have you been eating or sleeping at all?”

“Yes, mother.” Albert could not see the smirk on Daniel’s face.

“I mean… I know with all that you have been through…”.

“Albert! It’s O.K.. Really. Thank you.”

Daniel wanted to cut him off before Albert said anything that may trigger more uncontrolled emotion spewing out of his system. More and more, Daniel felt as if he was just on the edge of a complete and total break with reality. Actually, with the new reality that was now his life, there were moments he felt that such a break would be a release.

“I got through all the ship’s logs at the Archives. Did you get my email this morning? About meeting up and comparing notes?”

“Yes, I did.” It almost sounded like he said that with a little chuckle.

“Good. Look, before you come over I’ve got to tell you something.”

“Oh really?” He really did sound a little too cheerful, given the circumstances. Daniel found that a touch annoying.

“Yes! I really don’t know how to say this, so its best to just come out with it. I’m a little paranoid right now because I think I saw someone looking right at me on the train platform, yesterday.

“Oh…”. Good that sobered him up, a bit.

“Yeah. I’m not a hundred percent sure, mind you. I’ve been so strung out! But, I didn’t want to not tell you and have you come over here when your life may be in danger. Your a good friend, Albert, and I really want to see you, but if anything happened, you see, I’d…”

“Daniel.”

“I… yes?”

“Daniel. Your too late.”

The room went cold and all the blood seemed to drain out of Daniel’s face. He was a statue. His mouth hung open.

“Daniel?”

“Ah… Albert. What did you say?”

In the next instant, he felt that hand grabbing his scalp, and heard the creature in his nightmare say…

“I said, your too late. I’m downstairs. Nice try, ‘ol bean, but you won’t scare me off that easy. I thought this through, Daniel. I can’t say I understand what is happening to you, but I want to help. No matter what.”

Air escaped from Daniel’s lungs and made a kind of “ugh ha” sound as he tried to recover.

“Thank… thank you, so much. My friend.”

“So…”

“So?”

“How long?” Albert’s chuckle was back. “How long will you leave me waiting, then?”

“Oh! Right! Yes, I’ll be right there. I’m starving, and I ate the last of the food in my apartment. Let’s go to the mall, across the street. I’ll be right down.”

“Sounds good. No rush.”

“Thanks. Bye!”

“Bye! (bye).” For as long as Daniel had known him, Albert always ended a phone conversation with that strange echo - a second, more silent “bye.” It was one of the quirks that Daniel cherished. His next thought, as he hung up the phone, was that one cherishes the strangest of things when one could die at any minute. Maybe it was the same for someone with a fatal diagnosis? His father was told he had seven months to live. Was this what it was like to have death travel around with you?

These thoughts lingered for a moment as Daniel selected the notes he was going to show Albert.

“Just so you know, Mr. Death,” he said, out loud, “if you will be traveling around with me, don’t sleep too close. I flail around quite a bit in my sleep.”

In his imagination, there was a dark cloaked and hooded figure nodding and waving a bony hand as if to say “no problem, man.”

“Yeah. I’m loosing it,” he said, shutting down his computer and gathering the last of his notes.

“Loosing it… loosing it, and loosing it, agai… Ah!”

With that exclamation, Daniel whipped his phone out of his pocket. As he stared at it, he remembered what he told Agent Moran. He had a feeling that she wanted more advance notice than a phone call right before he went out the door. Still, what was he going to do? Keep Albert waiting and stay in the apartment until his bodyguard arrived.

“Right then,” he said. “Text message, it is.”

He thumb typed his message quickly, grabbed his leather coat, and went out the door. Halfway through the door, he stopped himself and went back to grab his notes. At the door again, he read his message: “A friend just arrivd. Going across the street for brunch.” He fixed the typo and added, “Sorry its not more notice.” He clicked “send” before going out the door, again.

Halfway across the country, eyebrows were raised outside of Agent Moran’s temporary headquarters. In a Motel off of route 21 in Boxwood, Illinois, two agents in black suits who were standing outside one of the bright red Motel doors were startled to hear several words shouted fiercely in a language they did not understand. If they could understand, these hard bitten agents who had seen much of the world would have blanched at the kind of curse being uttered by their supervisor, who was taught how to swear in Gaelic by her grandfather, a sailor for the Merchant Marines, back in the day. He was a very mischievous sort, you understand, and he delighted to teach such sinful things to his good, Catholic granddaughter. She was always a good student.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This excerpt is from the (very)rough draft of my entry in the National Novel Writing Month... thing.  Comments and feedback is most welcome.

Excerpt from Chapter Two: "Tears"

Suddenly aware of his vulnerability, Daniel made a quick check for any potential predators and made mental notes of where the remaining security guards were. This was his life, now, he thought. With a heavy sigh, he took off his cotton gloves, picked up his pencils and put his camera in his backpack. He carried his manila folder full of newspaper clippings, his photo copies of journal pages, and his yellow legal pad with scribbled notes over to the central desk for inspection. Once the guard was assured that no piece of our national history was making its way out of the library with Daniel, he was allowed to leave.

The guards who work at the National Archives vary like they do anywhere else. There are some that are stiff, and others that are easy to talk to. Daniel was grateful for Dave, who was quick with a smile and a bit of compassion. Dave was the last friendly face he saw as he left that evening.

“Find what you were looking for, today?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know after I check my notes.”

It was a bit of a lie, since Daniel did not expect to back again. But, it was all in good fun, anyway. This was not an exchange of truths, it was banter. Banter did not have to be truthful.

These dismissive thoughts about the present conversation did not suppress the image Daniel had of a moment of utter truthfulness. It was a moment he could see in his mind where he grabbed Dave by the lapels of his jacket, yelling “Some friggin’ assassin is looking to kill me, Dave! The FBI is supposed to be shadowing me wherever I go, but how do I know they are not going to be two minutes too late, like they were for my brother? Yours has been the only kind face I have seen in days, Dave! Days! Please walk me to the train? Maybe even come with me to my apartment? Can you get off work now and do that for me, Dave? Please?”

That scene was flashing in his mind the second before Daniel walked past Dave with a smile and said, “Have a good night!”

“You too!”

A few steps more and he was past the door’s threshold and out into street, at night.

Lift Off!

Well, 3,385 words later, I am at least off the launching pad.

I submitted my first word count, yesterday. A nice little graph shows you your progress, how fast you are going and the daily word count you should target. 

At my current pace, I am not sure how much I will get to go back and edit.  The point now is go, go, go!  Get the story out! 

It helps that the main character in the story is in a situation where he is running for his life.  The frantic pace helps to keep my fingers moving and helps me to resist my inner editor, who wants to stop and rework every paragraph. 

this is crazy

NaNoWriMo is a name I had in the back of my mind since this time, last year.  Its a crazy project for people who go into crazy mode for a month writing a 50,000 word novel (a work of lengthy fiction) in a month.  The folks who came up with the craziness rightly theorize that people who want to write put it off because of schedule, because they need to research more, or their writing is not perfect.  So, we never get started.  This is a way to get the whole process a massive voltage of electricity to get it running.  Its crazy.

What am I doing? Full time job.  Kids.  I am not ready.  I only came up with a title this morning!  I've got a million  and one excuses not to do this.

Yet, here I am. When I wake up in the middle of the night and I want to go back to sleep, my mind tells stories - like a movie that I watch.  Usually, I get to about the first few scenes, and I fall asleep.  Sometimes, the story really stays with me, and I start thinking about it during other parts of the day, and I can't let it go until I've thought the whole story through.  But, what I learned is that it only stays with me a short time.  These stories have a shelf life.  They start to degrade if they are not transferred out of my brain.  Unfortunately, no one has invented something that mimics the Harry Potter spell where you can put your memories is a phial.  So, maybe doing Nantional Novel Writing Month, joining the community and sharing my story with a few friends will help that. 

I don't know.  This is crazy. 

What I write is such drivel.  I know no one will like it.  Its like when you say something that makes complete sense to you in your head, but then it is spoken out loud and no one gets it.  Normally, if I start something like a poem, I have to rewrite it a million times and even then I don't like it when it is finished.  And, couldn't we have a "write a short story in a month" kind of thing, first?  This is crazy!

Then again, I turn 40 next week. Maybe I feel like letting a little crazy into my life.

I also made a promise to myself that I would eventually write a historic fiction based on the family history I inherited from my grandfather.  Maybe I will be in better shape to tackle that project if I can get something like this out of my system.

So, what I have in my head is a murder mystery that starts in the National Archives and ends in small, Catholic school somewhere in the Midwest.  The main character is being pursued by a killer who has already murdered most of his family.  He is trying to find clues about the mysterious assassin's vendetta while running for his life. 

O.K.... let the craziness begin (God help me).

Oh, and when this is done?  I may sleep for the whole week, after.  Just sayin'!