I know I normally do a creative writing excerpt, something that I put together a top my head. (At least that’s what I try to do). This month, I want to try something a little different. I’m going to post short excerpts that I’ve written for my National Novel Writing Month novel.
As well as, the actual first thing I should admit is that I’m not actually writing a novel for NaNoWriMo. That’s too much and while I have several short stories that I’m working on. I haven’t had a chance to really stretch my… let’s call it “alternative writing” skills. So I figured I would take this time to catch up on several short story ideas that I’ve been kicking around for a few years. (Oh dear God, did I just say few years? That sounds much worse out loud)
Hopefully, I’ll be able to finish up about four-six short stories. One week, hopefully faster. And then, one extra, a fanfic that I promise I would write for a friend.
Right now, those stories I plan on writing are as follows:
- Castle of Glass
- Icy Eyes – revised edition
- The Whiskey Lullaby
- Never Just Friends
- the Others
- Power Ranger/Stargate fanfiction
That’s the plan at least. I guess we are going to find out how that goes.
Fuck! He’d forgotten just how poorly laid out this kitchen was. Trash is in the wrong side of the room yet walk always crossed kitchen get to it and that was even include the fact that occasionally one goddamn refrigerator to the thing would stay against the wall. No no the fan for being 400 pounds and 6 feet tall would occasionally just sort of roll its way out get your damn way. The sink never stopped dripping…
His father would say it was a test of character that there was always something needed worked on. Wasn’t that what house was a project? Something to distract you from all your bullshit in your life?’s father always going on about shit like that. Everything is one goddamn tester another. The fights with him. The fights with his mother. Well, the fights with his mother, may been something else. He’d only been like, eight? And shit after what he’d done with that woman he was in no position to talk.
He crumbled the pathetic plastic cup in his hands. Bright happy blue party blue. Held idea was it to get cheap dispensable party cops rough fucking funeral service? He disregarded the question the same way disregard the cup toss into the nearest giant black plastic bag last black plastic bag like a goddamn blackhole… He whirled on the squeaking hinges of the kitchen door opening.
Embarrassed that his mother arms folded fingers whittling staring at him Tentatively. Told wrong with her he wanted to ask why couldn’t she be a strong woman? I could as you stood up for herself? That’s all he ever Asked. Okay, so maybe he’d never actually asked her for that. But why should he have to? She was his mother!
“Mom…” Well, he might see what she wanted to say. Might as well get this unfortunate encounter the way.
Why the hell was she just standing there? She made it that far, getting to goddamn kitchen door! What she could just come further and introduce herself? She had blue eyes, he noticed as he stood there. How would he never noticed before? 26 years of knowing her you never realize her eyes were blue. Pale, too. Put a sunrise and a clear winter morning to shame. He should know watched enough growing up in this godforsaken backwater town of his.
“What you want for me!?” He slammed the knife he hadn’t realized it picked up in his hand down the cutting board hard. To the blade sat of three quarters of an inch in the cutting board. He hadn’t realize he’d done that.
Some of his new life skills were seeping into his personal life. He just be careful about that. Not that he call that much this much of a personal life. He left partially to himself, partially for his mother.
Thoughts: Like most of my writing recently that was written with voice dictation. It’s also national writing month, so I’m not actually all that concerned with any editing in it quite yet. I’m not sure what’s gonna happen with this story. I can take it to a very dark place, down the rabbit hole, and I kinda want to. The thought of taking it there, however, unnerves me. It’s not a very pleasant place. The fact it’s not a nice place and all. It’s wrong on a lot of different levels. But it’s also something I haven’t try to do a lot of before.
I thing one of the ideas that I really enjoy about working on the short stories is that for almost all of them. I have no idea where they’re headed or what they’re about. I can sit down at my desk and just go for it. In fact, the scene that I posted above I wrote last night (well, that’s not the entire scene but you get the idea) and is part of a section that I just are going with. I had knowing tension of even heading in that direction all of a sudden I could see the characters choices being made. The narrator and his history and why he would take the next steps that he took even if they’re not very nice steps and they make him a horrible person. There’s something about that freedom that’s very attractive.
I enjoyed the idea that the narrator might have no shot of being a redeemable person and get still be a likable character and that he and I are in nicely with his sister and they love each other very much. Okay I’m gonna stop that for now. Spoilers after all.