NaNoWriMo Success!

Whew. Just in the nick of time, as the clock counted down til the beginning of December, I finished my novel. Well, I got to 50,000 words and made it end there. 

I can't believe that I actually wrote that many words in 30 days. I am ridiculously proud of myself. It's been a few days since the end of NaNoWriMo, but I still haven't gone back to read my whole story from the beginning. I think I need a little breathing room to let it all sink in - I'll go back when my eyes are fresh and I'll wear my editing hat at that point.

In the meantime, here's a little excerpt from the story - I would love to hear what you think.

As he comes upon the factory, it feels out of place among the kitchy tourist shops, the dim sum restaurants and the high-end jewelers that seem to sell everything from jade to diamonds to rubies.  The nondescript front is made even more nondescript by one-way glass windows, like the ones in Jeremy's office.  When Mr. Sung first bought the building in 1979, he had all of the window panes replaced with the one-way glass.  It's not as if he had any secrets; the business of fortune cookie making had only changed a few times, like when a machine had replaced the workers who had once folded the cookies by hand as they came out of the oven.  And even that machine had been standardized and purchased by all of the companies that manufactured the cookies.  He had no secrets.

The only thing that gives a hint as to what goes on inside the factory is the small, handwritten sign next to the door buzzer that, if translated from Chinese to English says, "For Mr. Sung, fortune cookie master, ring bell."  Fortune cookie master.  He should write that on his business cards, Jeremy once joked with Min Li, a short, stocky, emasculate baker.  His joke fell flat, and her accusing eyes made him feel like a child again, caught drawing a mustache on the yearbook picture of a teacher.

Mid-NaNoWriMo

I'm 17 days in to National Novel Writing Month, more than halfway to the finish line of 50,000 words.

I can't believe how quickly this month has flown by. I wanted to post a short bit to let everyone know how the writing has been going.

The story is moving along really well, actually. I was a bit nervous that I wouldn't be able to sustain the (very) vague storyline that I started with, but with each passing evening, I find more ways to describe the situation, develop and get to know the characters and slowly build on the basic plot. Let's get things clear - by no means is this a Pulitzer-winner. But honestly, just sitting down at the dining room table every night and willing myself to 1,600 words is making me a better writer.

Thanks to all of those who have been understanding of my lack of phone calls and other general keep-in-touch methods. My story thanks you, too.

NaNoWriMo

It officially starts tonight at midnight - National Novel Writing Month. I've signed up to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. Fiction is not really my forte and although I have a glimmer of a concept of the novel's storyline, I have no idea how I am going to flesh it out for that many words.

To get to 50k words in 30 days, I have to write about 1,600 words every night (I'll most likely write at night during the week and tackle the weekends however they may come). I've never had to do a sustained, daily writing project like this. I am a bit nervous that I'm going to have writer's block or not have enough to sustain the novel til the very end.

But I think having a set goal, with a place to log my words in at the end of each night, will be a motivating factor. It's now or never, right?

I'm letting you all know this as my blog postings will probably be sporadic, if not non-existent, during the month of November. I really want to focus my energy and attention to this book (crazy).

So here goes nothin'...

The Second Installment of Fiction

Note: This is the second part of my first-ever fiction story.  You can read the first installment here.

Andrew would undoubtedly live until he was 100.  He would be "that guy" who, although he wasn't a strict diet-follower, ate well (and often), ran on a daily basis and made everyone around him jealous and somewhat annoyed at his dedication to being healthy.  It'd be cliche to say, but Andrew looked and felt like any late 20-something would aspire to.  And Andrew was pushing 53.

And yet ... he had indeed spent the night with his cheek pressed against the warm tile-floor, a product of the radiant floor heating, which Andrew had wanted to turn off, but Molly insisted on keeping on for a few more weeks.

Throughout the night, Andrew had prayed his body would remain motionless.  He had lay on the floor to ground himself, to say to his brain, "This is what I need.  I need for the movement to stop."  But the dingy still rolled and the constant, irritating and mind-numbing ringing in his ears (worse in the left than the right) couldn't be shaken.  In fact, it hurt to even move his head a few degrees one way or the other.  His life, the one that others wished they could have, had become hell.

The Beginning of the Story

Note: Typically, I'm a non-fiction writer - I write about my life and about things I know.  I have never dabbled in fiction, but a few months ago, I had a sudden urge (aren't all urges sudden?) to write a fiction story.  I scribbled it down feverishly in my journal before the urge evaded me.  The story is by no means finished, but I thought I would start to post some of it here, piece by piece. This is the beginning.


This bath rug is dirty, he realized.

In his 4:30 a.m. must-get-out-the-door-before-the-dog-wakes-Molly haze, he never would have noticed how the dirt clings to the rubber corners of the sage green mat.  Nor, how if you really looked at it, the sage color had dissipated into a desert brownish - a dying cactus color, if you will.

But he now finds himself face-to-face with the mat.  He can't remember the last time he lay on the bathroom floor.  He wasn't a boozer in college.  He hung out with the library crowd, and if he drank, it was never to extremes.  The fetal position was one he only reserved for the flu or a really cold night when Molly insisted on sticking her icicle-like feet under his legs.  And yet ... here he was.  We need a new bath rug, he thought.

He cracks his right eye, instinctively cringing, as his ears start to ring and his mind makes his body think that he's on a four-star cruise ship minus all of the stars.  A dingy, perhaps.  Through all of the stimuli, he sees Molly's red fleece pajama pants, the ones with the snowflake design that should have been put away long ago, as it was April and the tulips were starting to say hello to the world.

Out of the bottom of her pants peek Molly's feet.  Why am I staring at her feet, he thought.  Did we have wild sex last night and that's why we ended up in different positions on the bed?  He smiled, hoping, and the act made him wince.  There was the rocking boat again.  Must have been one hell of a night, he mused.  And then it dawned on him that he was on the bathroom floor.  And it all made sense.