I actually put this novel away for a bit. It lost its muse somehow, but I pulled it out tonight for a look/see and made a few edits here and there. I miss her. Anyway, Beth over in Books and Writers is going to be doing a workshop on metaphor and imagery. I wondered if I had anything. I think this may fit, especially the last paragraph. Must scrounge up some others.
A Twist of Rotten Silk copyright L. Syratt 2007-2008
(my old witch wip) (unfinished and in first draft)
The path to the stream wound like a serpent through the forest. Every bend glowed with torches of twisted rush, smoking with pig's grease. A mist was rising, moving across the forest floor like fairy dancers, changing shapes with every gust of wind. I shivered like a child afraid of the dark and squeezed William's hand as we walked.
I wanted to tell him I wasn't gripped by fear of the dark. Darkness kept no secrets from me. I was gripped by memory and the sudden chill of that remembering. There was still so much I hadn't told him.
I found myself thinking of Mary again, pulling from my memory all the wretched things she said to me in that cell, the constant bray and cackle of her bitterness. “No man will ever want you lass. Look at you, so full of ruts and ridges. They'd as soon spit on you than touch you.”
Some things from those years I'd forgotten, but memory is a mystic thing – always showing itself when you'd rather it didn't. It doesn't allow indolence. It is raw and bloody with a shrill voice. And there, on that serpentine path, I was haunted with it, listening attentively as it slithered behind us.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
John O'Donohue Rest in Peace
John O'Donohue 1954-2008
I was listening CBC radio on Sunday, during a three-hour drive across to northern edge of Lake Ontario. CBC is always good company. It was a Tapestry interview with John O'Donohue, ex-priest, philosopher, theologian, poet and lovely speaker. You can hear the interview on podcast. I'm not catholic, but couldn't help but be awed. He had a wonderful view of life, lovely. He said there is a part of every man's /woman's soul that is pure and good, innocent of the ugliness we see in the world and the ugliness in our own lives, free of the mistakes we've made, the guilt we feel. He said this is the place to go to when you need to feel that purity and beauty. Oh, the things he talked about. His voice was a choir and his words were poetry. Sadly, John O'Donohue died two weeks ago at the age of 53. I wish I'd known him.
‘I would love to live
Like a river flows
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.’
John O'Donohue
Inspired ... I write the post below.
The Garden in Winter
I resolve to find beauty everyday, to read a poem or write a poem, for that matter. I resolve to see with my heart and not just my eyes. Beauty hides itself in anything, everything. The guttural giggle of an infant. The words "I love you" from a parent, partner, sibling or friend. The way the sky looks on a stormy day and the way we feel when a song brings tears to our eyes.
This morning, I woke to see the frost dripping from every bare branch and clinging leaf. The winter garden is beautiful even without the pinks of gallica and damask. We have those rosettes in the icicles dripping from branches of feathery tamarisk and lilac. We have the naked shapes of things poking up through the protection of snow. The winter garden has its own magic, changing with the years and every snowfall and thaw. Always a wonder. No footprints mar the perfection this snow brings. It is preserved, pristine and crisp like freshly-ironed linen. Smooth as the thick petals of a summer lily.
Friday, November 30, 2007
I finished!
Yay, it's over and Yay, I finished NaNoWriMo. It's an awful mess. Needs a ton of work, but it's a fair beginning and I like the story. Can't wait to get at the first proper writing of it. I can't even think of this as a first draft. It's too dreadful and not even fit for my eyes, but wow....that took discipline, I didn't know I had. What an exercise. Oh and this is the first novel, I've actually finished. Doesn't matter that it's awful, but the finishing is a big deal to me. And Beth, if you happen to be reading this...thank you for the mantra. "Finish something, so you know you can." I can't remember who you got it from ... Eve, was it? Anyway, it help push me along.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Rebecca
My favorite novel. I must have read it a dozen time over the years. Not for the melodrama, however, and it was certainly melodramatic, but for the writing and the lovely words and phrases Daphne Du Maurier put to the page. I actually swoon when I read such wordiness. It stuns me.
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and chain upon the gate. I called in my dream to the lodge keeper, and had no answer, and peering closer through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw the lodge was uninhabited.
No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me.
And later....
There was Manderley, our Manderley, secretive and silent as it had always been, the grey stone shining in the moonlight of my dream, the mullioned windows reflecting the green lawns and the terrace. Time could not wreck the perfect symmetry of those walls, nor the site itself, a jewel in the hollow of a hand.
And then there is the first paragraph of chapter five....
I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. ( I love that line) They are full of little cowardice's, little fears without foundation.
Oh, I do love her writing. She was a master mood-setter.
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and chain upon the gate. I called in my dream to the lodge keeper, and had no answer, and peering closer through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw the lodge was uninhabited.
No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me.
And later....
There was Manderley, our Manderley, secretive and silent as it had always been, the grey stone shining in the moonlight of my dream, the mullioned windows reflecting the green lawns and the terrace. Time could not wreck the perfect symmetry of those walls, nor the site itself, a jewel in the hollow of a hand.
And then there is the first paragraph of chapter five....
I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. ( I love that line) They are full of little cowardice's, little fears without foundation.
Oh, I do love her writing. She was a master mood-setter.
Friday, November 2, 2007
At Sixteen
When I was a teenager back in the sixties, I started to write my first novel. The Gothic romance genre was huge and I loved reading them. They all worked on a similar theme - a governess in some sort of peril in an old spooky mansion or castle in England. They were soooo bad, but also an enjoyable read. Phrases like "I felt the earl breathing on my neck and turned to find no one there"(eyelids flapping). Oh the melodrama. Oh the mood. I absolutely adored them. They all followed the same recipe - young girl, usually orphaned, of a good, but not wealthy family, leaves her home to become a governess to the children of a rich and widowed lord. The pictures on the book cover were all pretty much the same and easily picked out. There was always a beautiful girl, dressed in 19th century garb, running terrified into the night, away from the mansion or castle. It was dark and there was always ... I mean always, the yellow glow of candlelight illuminating one of the turreted windows.
My own novel was titled The Hour Glass and much to my astonishment, it recently turned up in a box of old papers I hadn't seen in years.
Here's the beginning. Don't laugh ... unless you feel you must. After all, it was written by a young girl who really, really tried. I mean, really tried ... tried too much.
My days in this life have passed quickly and I have aged into an invaluable antique. After all these twisted years, time has finally shattered it's glass (Oddly enough, I still love metaphor) in my garden and the one-thousand particles of sand are slowly disappearing into the soil as inane trespassers. I feel a strange awareness that soon I will be dead. No, not dead ... just gone and my house and possessions will leave with me. No trace of my existence will remain, but somewhere in this wooded lot, an hour glass will sit amongst the fallen trees, waiting patiently for another decade, another century, another victim of this madness. The day's sky is abounding with hazy wintry clouds, so I must tell my story quickly before the snow falls and washes away my last hopes and dreams. Makes absolutely no sense at all, but there is a slight glimmer of a premise and at the time of writing, I'm sure I thought it was the best beginning ever written in the history of best beginnings. I have no idea what the rest of the story entailed or would entail as it wasn't finished, but the next paragraph started like this (and it actually gets worse here).
I remember the year was '32 (I know, but I wrote '32 instead of) and some time in February. Yes, I'm sure it was February. Everything always happens to me in February.......
My own novel was titled The Hour Glass and much to my astonishment, it recently turned up in a box of old papers I hadn't seen in years.
Here's the beginning. Don't laugh ... unless you feel you must. After all, it was written by a young girl who really, really tried. I mean, really tried ... tried too much.
My days in this life have passed quickly and I have aged into an invaluable antique. After all these twisted years, time has finally shattered it's glass (Oddly enough, I still love metaphor) in my garden and the one-thousand particles of sand are slowly disappearing into the soil as inane trespassers. I feel a strange awareness that soon I will be dead. No, not dead ... just gone and my house and possessions will leave with me. No trace of my existence will remain, but somewhere in this wooded lot, an hour glass will sit amongst the fallen trees, waiting patiently for another decade, another century, another victim of this madness. The day's sky is abounding with hazy wintry clouds, so I must tell my story quickly before the snow falls and washes away my last hopes and dreams. Makes absolutely no sense at all, but there is a slight glimmer of a premise and at the time of writing, I'm sure I thought it was the best beginning ever written in the history of best beginnings. I have no idea what the rest of the story entailed or would entail as it wasn't finished, but the next paragraph started like this (and it actually gets worse here).
I remember the year was '32 (I know, but I wrote '32 instead of) and some time in February. Yes, I'm sure it was February. Everything always happens to me in February.......
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Also, I might add, I proudly received my first rejection letter at that age. A poem to Seventeen Magazine. So writing, it seems, was something I always wanted to do. Good or bad, doesn't matter. It's the doing, that does.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
NaNoWriMo Daily Journal
Day One
1800 words in three hours. Surprising how quickly it moves when you make very few corrections as you go. (And I remembered to hit spell-check) The writing style, as it turns out, is very tongue-it-cheek, but I had a gooood time. Enough for the first day.
Prologue opening....
I died. It was the hottest day in September of 1723, and one of the last things I remember was feeling faint as I climbed the stairs to the drop. Beads of perspiration rolled down my cheeks and dripped like candle wax onto the wood floor. I remember staring down at the wet-speckled planks, asking for a cloth to wipe my face. Strange I should think it bothersome when I was about to die.
Well, we're going for quantity with this challenge, not quality. If I were critiquing, the first thing I'd say is, I used the word remember twice in the same paragraph. Also, the second line is a bit too much like "It was a dark and stormy night". I mustn't fix though. The idea is not to.
Day Two
2423 words today. So far, I've not given up the ghost. Itching to rewrite what's written. It's all I can do to stop myself.
A line from wip.....
...tall stalks of oats and barley, heavily laden with water, dripping and bent low like mourners in the kirkyard...
Day Three
1859 words today. The story is moving. A mystery has appeared. Moved on to chapter two with the plot starting to show itself. I've got no log line and I've done no plotting outline for this. Just want to see what happens as it happens.
Some lines from wip...
She stared up at the low beams crossing the ceiling, hand-hewn by her great-grandfather – thick with layers of bees wax, richly oiled and cared for with the passage of time. His marks. His hands.
Day Four
1969 words today. Hard slog today and I'm not happy with much of it at all. Tired. Maybe it has something to do with the clocks going back. I guess part of this exercise is to force yourself to write even when you're really not buzzed to. So today's efforts were certainly quantity over quality for the most part.
some lines from wip...
(five year old son just fell in the midden)
“What a mess you are boy and you stink.” she said. Margaret held her nose away, trying not to smell the odor emanating from his clothes. “There's nothing for it but to strip down and have a dunk in the pond.”
“It's too cold mama. I'll die of kinsumpton.”
“If there is such a thing as kinsumpton, well you could, but since there isn't, I don't see it a possibility. A quick scrub-down and we'll have you in the house warming by the fire.” She grabbed the shoulder of his jacket with two fingers and led him to the pond. “Oh, you do get into messes at the farm, lad.”
“Liliana's mummy died of kinsumpton. Liliana told me herself. You know, I really do feel it coming on Mama. I am ailing since the midden.” He stuck his hand to his forehead. “Are you sure there's no such thing as kinsumpton, because Liliana is two years older than me and she is very wise. She told me so.”
“And I'm much older and wiser than you both, so who are you going to listen to?”
They reached the pond and he removed his clothes and quickly jumped into the water, continuing to speak through chattering teeth. “Well, all I have to say is, if I do die of kinsumpton, I don't want you to feel sorry. You were a good mother in many ways."
Day Five
2132 words today. Don't know how I managed it. Spent most of the day on an exercise in the Book and Writer's Community Forum and about four hours on todays Nano words.
little snippet sent with tired eyes.... and posting this one because I love the last historical phrase used in the time period.
He handed him his mug of hot cider. Ephram looked at his mother as if to ask permission and she nodded. “What do you say to the kind gentleman?”
“Thank you m'lord.” The mug was much bigger than his little hand and he used both to hold it, struggling with it's weight.
“Your servant, laddie”
“Your servant, sir.”
Day Six
2350 words today. Mostly dialogue bits, but I also managed to get the story plotted, which is good. There's going to be a lot of research next month when I start the rewrites. Lots of brackets and question marks and "remember to check this" notes. I do like the story though. I hoped it would show itself and it has.
Day Seven
3002 words today. Reworked story line a bit. Changed setting from Edinburgh to London, because I have a better knowledge of the city during this time period and I know very little about Edinburgh in any period. No time for research. It's kind of a race against the clock. This thing is getting messy. Oh my God, the editing it needs. I've got too much untagged dialogue, not enough internals, the pov switches are ridiculous. My MC is a dullard. She didn't start out that way. It's the hurrying, I think. Getting it down without playing with much isn't my style. Normally I take my time working on a simple line or phrase, getting is just so. But I promised myself, I'd keep writing no matter what and just treat it like a very rough overly long summary with some reasonable bits to work with. I can just melt into it when the month is over and I'm looking forward to the first rewrite ... breaking it down and making it make sense with all the pretty, shiny bits I so miss. I think I'll read some poetry tonight. I need something pretty to read.
Day Eight
1478 words today. Slowed down a bit. Hope I can pick it up tomorrow. Too many interruptions and things that couldn't wait.
Day Nine
986 words today. Spent most of the day working on character sketches, histories, backgrounds etc., so didn't get a great deal written. Woke up thinking about the crap I've put to the pages and wondering if a race is really a helpful exercise, because it is a race. How helpful is it though, when you write crap and you know it's crap? How does continuing to write said crap motivate you write more crap, if that makes any sense? Got myself a mantra yesterday from Beth at Books and Writer's Community. "Finish something, so you know you can." (Wasn't written for me especially, but I knew I had to take it as my own while I'm doing this) I especially need this mantra now, when I just want to burn what I've got thus far. But, I remind myself again, for this exercise, I'm more interested in story. I knew from the start, it would have no "pretty, shiny" bits. I need to cut the crap ... I mean let it go. So, I'll finish it, ignoring the crappy bits, even the ones that no longer have any relationship to the story because the story has changed so much. I'm hoping to reach 50,000 by the 27th so I can clean it up a bit, not that anyone will read it, but I'd only be cheating myself if I padded it with the crap before sending it for the word count to be verified. I just don't want to look back yet. I know I'll throw in the towel if I do. I'll stop whining now.
Day Ten
day of rest with some research
Day Eleven
day of excuses
Day Twelve
520 words
Day Thirteen
1488 words today. Need to pick it up.
Day Fourteen
2357 words today. Story is moving. It's still crap, very rough and very muddled, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel as I'm on schedule and almost at the half-way mark. And I do like the story. To write a novel in a month, you at least have to like the story. If I didn't, I'd quit now. Writing crap for the sake of writing is no exercise. I could write in, it, in, on, for, so, and, off, or and at 5000 times and it would be the same thing. The repair work will be fun. I've passed over huge chunks of important bits, but it's only 50k words, so there's lots to do when this is over.
Day Fifteen ... Half-Way Day
1730 words today and about 900 short of where I should be on this day. No bad though ... well in terms of word count. Not whining today. "Finish something, so you know you can." Also, I don't see this as a first draft. It's kind of a pre first-draft.
Day Sixteen
Away
Day Seventeen
Away
Day Eighteen
Away
Day Nineteen
Home but with migrane, so no writing. Urgh! Visited my sisters who both live in lake country. Something about the air pressure over large lakes. Get a nasty one 7 out 10 visits.
Day Twenty
Home but no writing. Over the migrane, but very draining.
Day Twenty-One
Up by 1561 words today, but I actually wrote 3291 words. Opened my file this am to find everything I wrote on thursday was gone. I suppose I didn't hit the save button, but probably hit disgard instead. Normally, I'd kick the computer moniter, but I was strangely calm about it, probably because I'm not proud of the words anyway. I've been writing like mad trying to make up for the days away and the 1730 words I lost. Um .... oh, drat! That's the best I can do.
Oh dear, I just realized I have nine days left. I need to write 2700 words a day or more, if I'm going to finish this thing. I did 3300 today, so I know I can manage this, but so much for finishing early.
"Finish something so you know you can." I have this pasted onto the monitor. It's so simple. Just finish it.
Day Twenty-Two
2467 words today. Need to pick it up.
Day Twenty-Three
3232 words today and I actually like some of the writing for a change. That light is getting brighter.
Day Twenty-four
3556 words today with only six days left. Ouch!
Day Twenty - Five
1435 words today. Five days left. Too many interuptions. 13,653 words to go.
Day Twenty-six
3679 words today. Hard slog, but I needed it. Lost about 6 six days this month and I was determined to hit 40,000 today. 9974 words to go with four days left. The writing is still dreadful, but heh.
Day Twenty-Seven
3994 words today. Getting closer.
Day Twenty-Eight
Computer bit the dust today. OMG. Main board died. Had to quickly buy another computer. No words this day. A day for hand-wringing. So close.
Day Twenty-Nine
3236 words today. One more day and not too bad afterall. Almost done.
3064 also. Somewhere, I've miscalculated. Must have been one of those days I thought I was away. I don't add to the diary everyday, usually the next morning before I start, so I messed up somewhere. The tally to date, however, is accurate according to office suite 3.
Day Thirty
3751 words and it's done, fin, the end. Awful. Awful. Awful, but I finished.
1800 words in three hours. Surprising how quickly it moves when you make very few corrections as you go. (And I remembered to hit spell-check) The writing style, as it turns out, is very tongue-it-cheek, but I had a gooood time. Enough for the first day.
Prologue opening....
I died. It was the hottest day in September of 1723, and one of the last things I remember was feeling faint as I climbed the stairs to the drop. Beads of perspiration rolled down my cheeks and dripped like candle wax onto the wood floor. I remember staring down at the wet-speckled planks, asking for a cloth to wipe my face. Strange I should think it bothersome when I was about to die.
Well, we're going for quantity with this challenge, not quality. If I were critiquing, the first thing I'd say is, I used the word remember twice in the same paragraph. Also, the second line is a bit too much like "It was a dark and stormy night". I mustn't fix though. The idea is not to.
Day Two
2423 words today. So far, I've not given up the ghost. Itching to rewrite what's written. It's all I can do to stop myself.
A line from wip.....
...tall stalks of oats and barley, heavily laden with water, dripping and bent low like mourners in the kirkyard...
Day Three
1859 words today. The story is moving. A mystery has appeared. Moved on to chapter two with the plot starting to show itself. I've got no log line and I've done no plotting outline for this. Just want to see what happens as it happens.
Some lines from wip...
She stared up at the low beams crossing the ceiling, hand-hewn by her great-grandfather – thick with layers of bees wax, richly oiled and cared for with the passage of time. His marks. His hands.
Day Four
1969 words today. Hard slog today and I'm not happy with much of it at all. Tired. Maybe it has something to do with the clocks going back. I guess part of this exercise is to force yourself to write even when you're really not buzzed to. So today's efforts were certainly quantity over quality for the most part.
some lines from wip...
(five year old son just fell in the midden)
“What a mess you are boy and you stink.” she said. Margaret held her nose away, trying not to smell the odor emanating from his clothes. “There's nothing for it but to strip down and have a dunk in the pond.”
“It's too cold mama. I'll die of kinsumpton.”
“If there is such a thing as kinsumpton, well you could, but since there isn't, I don't see it a possibility. A quick scrub-down and we'll have you in the house warming by the fire.” She grabbed the shoulder of his jacket with two fingers and led him to the pond. “Oh, you do get into messes at the farm, lad.”
“Liliana's mummy died of kinsumpton. Liliana told me herself. You know, I really do feel it coming on Mama. I am ailing since the midden.” He stuck his hand to his forehead. “Are you sure there's no such thing as kinsumpton, because Liliana is two years older than me and she is very wise. She told me so.”
“And I'm much older and wiser than you both, so who are you going to listen to?”
They reached the pond and he removed his clothes and quickly jumped into the water, continuing to speak through chattering teeth. “Well, all I have to say is, if I do die of kinsumpton, I don't want you to feel sorry. You were a good mother in many ways."
Day Five
2132 words today. Don't know how I managed it. Spent most of the day on an exercise in the Book and Writer's Community Forum and about four hours on todays Nano words.
little snippet sent with tired eyes.... and posting this one because I love the last historical phrase used in the time period.
He handed him his mug of hot cider. Ephram looked at his mother as if to ask permission and she nodded. “What do you say to the kind gentleman?”
“Thank you m'lord.” The mug was much bigger than his little hand and he used both to hold it, struggling with it's weight.
“Your servant, laddie”
“Your servant, sir.”
Day Six
2350 words today. Mostly dialogue bits, but I also managed to get the story plotted, which is good. There's going to be a lot of research next month when I start the rewrites. Lots of brackets and question marks and "remember to check this" notes. I do like the story though. I hoped it would show itself and it has.
Day Seven
3002 words today. Reworked story line a bit. Changed setting from Edinburgh to London, because I have a better knowledge of the city during this time period and I know very little about Edinburgh in any period. No time for research. It's kind of a race against the clock. This thing is getting messy. Oh my God, the editing it needs. I've got too much untagged dialogue, not enough internals, the pov switches are ridiculous. My MC is a dullard. She didn't start out that way. It's the hurrying, I think. Getting it down without playing with much isn't my style. Normally I take my time working on a simple line or phrase, getting is just so. But I promised myself, I'd keep writing no matter what and just treat it like a very rough overly long summary with some reasonable bits to work with. I can just melt into it when the month is over and I'm looking forward to the first rewrite ... breaking it down and making it make sense with all the pretty, shiny bits I so miss. I think I'll read some poetry tonight. I need something pretty to read.
Day Eight
1478 words today. Slowed down a bit. Hope I can pick it up tomorrow. Too many interruptions and things that couldn't wait.
Day Nine
986 words today. Spent most of the day working on character sketches, histories, backgrounds etc., so didn't get a great deal written. Woke up thinking about the crap I've put to the pages and wondering if a race is really a helpful exercise, because it is a race. How helpful is it though, when you write crap and you know it's crap? How does continuing to write said crap motivate you write more crap, if that makes any sense? Got myself a mantra yesterday from Beth at Books and Writer's Community. "Finish something, so you know you can." (Wasn't written for me especially, but I knew I had to take it as my own while I'm doing this) I especially need this mantra now, when I just want to burn what I've got thus far. But, I remind myself again, for this exercise, I'm more interested in story. I knew from the start, it would have no "pretty, shiny" bits. I need to cut the crap ... I mean let it go. So, I'll finish it, ignoring the crappy bits, even the ones that no longer have any relationship to the story because the story has changed so much. I'm hoping to reach 50,000 by the 27th so I can clean it up a bit, not that anyone will read it, but I'd only be cheating myself if I padded it with the crap before sending it for the word count to be verified. I just don't want to look back yet. I know I'll throw in the towel if I do. I'll stop whining now.
Day Ten
day of rest with some research
Day Eleven
day of excuses
Day Twelve
520 words
Day Thirteen
1488 words today. Need to pick it up.
Day Fourteen
2357 words today. Story is moving. It's still crap, very rough and very muddled, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel as I'm on schedule and almost at the half-way mark. And I do like the story. To write a novel in a month, you at least have to like the story. If I didn't, I'd quit now. Writing crap for the sake of writing is no exercise. I could write in, it, in, on, for, so, and, off, or and at 5000 times and it would be the same thing. The repair work will be fun. I've passed over huge chunks of important bits, but it's only 50k words, so there's lots to do when this is over.
Day Fifteen ... Half-Way Day
1730 words today and about 900 short of where I should be on this day. No bad though ... well in terms of word count. Not whining today. "Finish something, so you know you can." Also, I don't see this as a first draft. It's kind of a pre first-draft.
Day Sixteen
Away
Day Seventeen
Away
Day Eighteen
Away
Day Nineteen
Home but with migrane, so no writing. Urgh! Visited my sisters who both live in lake country. Something about the air pressure over large lakes. Get a nasty one 7 out 10 visits.
Day Twenty
Home but no writing. Over the migrane, but very draining.
Day Twenty-One
Up by 1561 words today, but I actually wrote 3291 words. Opened my file this am to find everything I wrote on thursday was gone. I suppose I didn't hit the save button, but probably hit disgard instead. Normally, I'd kick the computer moniter, but I was strangely calm about it, probably because I'm not proud of the words anyway. I've been writing like mad trying to make up for the days away and the 1730 words I lost. Um .... oh, drat! That's the best I can do.
Oh dear, I just realized I have nine days left. I need to write 2700 words a day or more, if I'm going to finish this thing. I did 3300 today, so I know I can manage this, but so much for finishing early.
"Finish something so you know you can." I have this pasted onto the monitor. It's so simple. Just finish it.
Day Twenty-Two
2467 words today. Need to pick it up.
Day Twenty-Three
3232 words today and I actually like some of the writing for a change. That light is getting brighter.
Day Twenty-four
3556 words today with only six days left. Ouch!
Day Twenty - Five
1435 words today. Five days left. Too many interuptions. 13,653 words to go.
Day Twenty-six
3679 words today. Hard slog, but I needed it. Lost about 6 six days this month and I was determined to hit 40,000 today. 9974 words to go with four days left. The writing is still dreadful, but heh.
Day Twenty-Seven
3994 words today. Getting closer.
Day Twenty-Eight
Computer bit the dust today. OMG. Main board died. Had to quickly buy another computer. No words this day. A day for hand-wringing. So close.
Day Twenty-Nine
3236 words today. One more day and not too bad afterall. Almost done.
3064 also. Somewhere, I've miscalculated. Must have been one of those days I thought I was away. I don't add to the diary everyday, usually the next morning before I start, so I messed up somewhere. The tally to date, however, is accurate according to office suite 3.
Day Thirty
3751 words and it's done, fin, the end. Awful. Awful. Awful, but I finished.
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