This is the first year I am trying NaNo. I am super excited to try to write 50,000 words in only thirty days.
I have had a novel plot that I feel relatively confident in for a while but I have been procrastinating the actual novel part. I just keep writing little two paragraph snippets.
So, in spirit of NaNowriMo, I have decided to scrap all of those little bits of scattered thoughts (still keeping my characters because I have come to love them and am slightly attached to their stories) and start anew.
I am eager to start that race to 50,000 words. It is taking all of my will power not to start a draft yet!
I can’t wait to start and good luck to everyone else going for it!
Unlike most kids my age, I had experience with providing for others. I had a little sister named Ariadne and a mother and father who could never make enough to provide for us.
My family was the only one in faction 38C with more than one child. Multiple children were strictly forbidden by the government. Nobody knew about Ariadne.
Ariadne was six years old and the sweetest, most beautiful thing the world had ever seen. We both inherited dad’s chocolate brown hair, but she got the big brown eyes to match. I got mom’s gray ones. Ariadne brought a smile out of everyone. I wish I could have shared her with everyone.
To help my parents I would hunt. I had a bow and a dagger, and I taught myself how to use them. Rabbits were easy for me. They trusted humans too much.
Responsibility didn’t scare me. For the other fifteen year-olds, though, nothing scared them more. When you turned fifteen, you were considered an adult. You had to contribute to your household by holding a full job. You were punished as an adult if you made an infraction.
No, none of this scared me. I was too busy trying to keep my family fed without getting caught by the Imperials, the government officials.
I am starting work on a post-apocalyptic science fiction novel. Here is the first paragraph. Just a little introduction of my usual writing style.
I don’t remember the dark days. That was before my time. My great-grandparents were the ones who witnessed those. They used to tell us stories about the day the government imploded and law enforcement shredded itself to pieces. Stories of how chaos in every form ruled the streets for months before the most horrible, violent, power-hungry men and women rose up and took over. I don’t have any memories of this transition into hell… but I do know of the hell I lived to experience.
Reading is such a strange concept if you really think about it. Every time you open a book you are inviting yourself into the authors mind. Within that text are some of the author’s deepest thoughts and emotions. Think about how much courage and confidence it takes for that author to share that much of her soul. Being an author means putting yourself out into the world, with no shield, for everyone to see. It means opening yourself to the cruel, judgmental souls of society. It means controlling your own words just to publish them and have no control over what others do with them. It means putting yourself on the edge of a cliff and allowing anyone and everyone to push you over the edge.
So why do I want to be a writer so badly? Maybe it’s the pure exhilaration or being about to fall over the edge of that cliff. Maybe going through the world with enough confidence to go without a shield is the best kind of shield. Maybe I think that by forcing myself to do something courageous I will become courageous. Maybe I’m a different kind of person. Maybe I’m just crazy. That’s okay though. You know why? Because all the best people are.