Well, that lasted long.

NaNoWriMo 2016 is NoGoWriMo.

My motivation this month is like 3/10. It didn’t help that I had no story. I’m a pantster (fly by the seat of my pants) when it comes to Nano, but I’ve always had a basic story in my head. Some of the time, I have an outline. This year I went in with nothing. Literally not even an idea. I put pen to paper and scribbled for two hours about whatever came to my head. It ended up being an intro to some sort of post-apocalyptic something or other. Or a spy novel? Possibly a love story. Who knows what there is there? I will probably never know.

It isn’t like I can’t do it. I could still catch up if I wanted to. It would mean writing 2208 words per day, which is only 600 more than the regular amount. That’s an extra 15-30 minutes of writing, depending out how focused I am. But jump back to my motivation level of the month. 3/10. And the lack of story. And the general lack of care. Hello, winter and your general lack of care.

Here’s a snippet from my story. Unedited, full of typos, judgement-free.

My head slammed into the ground with a deafening, literally deafening, crunch. That irony taste of blood filled my mouth. I blinked my eyes open, but still there was only blackness. A ringing sound grew in my ears and slowly the sound of wind and rustling leaves grew in my ears. I sat up and felt around for my glasses. “Dennis, Dennis!” I shouted, knowing what would happen in return.

Another slam, softer, this time. But when I sat up, I still coughed up blood. I spat on the ground next to me, attempting to stand as I went. Excruciating pain shot from my left heel to my hip. I reached to my foot. What was normally soft skin and bone was now a firm sac of blood and bone shards. My body wouldn’t allow myself to touch it anymore. I withdrew and took a step. Right, ow, right, ow. I tiptoed five or six paces, then fell to the ground, grasping at my foot the best I could. What had happened? My memory was so blurry. The last I could fully remember was running through the door, looking behind me to make sure I wasn’t being followed. They were two steps ahead of me the whole time. I remember at one point asking to go to the bathroom and they handed me a bottle. Female genitalia and bottles don’t go together, not for urinating, at least.

I remembered stealing a syringe from the cart when a nurse came to make sure I was still alive. I was, but just barely, and that’s how they wanted me.

The syringe was still in my pocket, the torn front pocket of my hoodie. Unknown contents. It probably had a label at one point, but that “hospital” didn’t seem too keen on the rules of sanitation. I don’t remember being pricked with anything, and I’d rather it stay that way.

It had been three days since I escaped, but I still hadn’t found food or water or any sign of life besides this road. This long winding, empty road. The shattered heel wasn’t much help when it came to walking. So I crawled and walked when I could stand it. Who knows? Maybe the syringe was morphine. Maybe I could inject myself and make it miles and miles before it wore off. Or maybe it was more of the sleeping drought they gave me when I ran from the safety of my childhood home.

A chill breeze rustled the trees, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called for its mate.

I scooted to the edge of the road and felt my way to a tree. I leaned against it and closed my eyes. Dennis wasn’t around. I know it. The spirits knew it. He hasn’t been around for too many years.”

 Stick around for more bits. Maybe.


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