Week Two’s writing block has come and gone. It’s time to get back into the race!
Last night I wowed myself: writing nearly ten thousand words in one day. Before my record was only six thousand. But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures! My method for this is to have 15 minutes of writing on the Write or Die web app (which will save you, especially if you’re behind on words) with 400-500 words written in that time. Then I have a 5 minute break to format, stretch, and eat. In one hour I already have at least 1200 words done, which is almost the daily word goal!
And now that I’m all caught up with today’s goal of 30k, I’ve changed my goal for the month to 60k rather than 50k, as NaNo suggests. Shouldn’t be too hard.
Look at it. Isn’t it beautiful? 😉
Judging from how far I’ve gotten, the finished product should be many, many more words than just 60k. I may have hit the halfway point of the month and goal, but I’m nowhere near the halfway point of the plot. Which is fine, of course. At least I won’t have to face the editing mess next month, as I’ve been forgetting to split my manuscript into chapters! And I’m not too satisfied with the direction it’s been going; since I’m word-vomiting most of the time, it’s mostly just me rambling and possibly repeating things I’ve already written. Then again, NaNo isn’t about quality. I need to keep that in mind.
Now Playing: Killing Myself for Christmas by Sick Puppies. Just because I’m sick of the fact that radio stations over here have already started playing many renditions of the same holiday songs over and over again despite the fact that it’s not even Thanksgiving. *sigh* Not that I have anything against holiday spirit and consumerism, but… meh. Can’t they wait until December, at least?
Since I’ve had a couple of friends asking to read my manuscript, as much as it pains me, here are the first couple of paragraphs. Yeah, it sucks. I haven’t the time to go through and edit, which won’t be happening until March, I think. Hopefully by then I should be done with the whole thing. But until then, here it is:
The sky sneers down at me, the few seconds of dignity it can retain before spewing out emotions worse than a bipolar schizophrenic. The last of the boxes rolling down the hill of our driveway are soaked before they can run to the safety of the car trunk, cramped and overheated. The lid closes with a solid and satisfying thunk, and we’re off.
The clean tears drip down and down, sweet and sour. Aunt Deja tries to make small talk, but Cherelle is toeing the line between consciousness and dreamland. I stare out the window, watching the condensation fog up and the tears splatter with death. Are they tears of an angel? Or something more?
I continue to tell myself not to think of the ‘incident’, but easier said than done. It constantly haunts me in my thoughts, my dreams, my epiphanies. In the reflection of the glass I stay very still, reaching up with a finger to outline the blue rings around my eyes through the condensation. My eyes can’t focus. Rings, outside. Rings, outside. They blur together and I squeeze my eyes shut. Sleep deprivation has been giving me the worst headaches, the tension of wrenching your brain, as if wringing water from a towel. But I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all.
Pain, it seems, never ends. I once heard a saying that went like this: “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” Who knew that there could be so much weakness in this world?
I like to pretend, always have, always will. I pretend when I can no longer stand reality, when the going gets tough. When I am sick of the voices in my head that scream, scream, scream. It’s called a conscience. I call him Filop, Flop for short, because the thoughts that he gives me flop around like dead fish. Alysse was the only one who understood me, even if not completely.
Flop is ruled dominantly by my emotions. I’ve done many, many reckless things because of Flop; some regrettable and some hilariously embarrassing. But mostly stupid. Sometimes, I give him too much free rein and things get broken. People get broken. And people are much harder to fix than any inanimate object.
But you don’t know Alysse. She’s like a surgeon, only with people’s thoughts. Not a therapist, mind you, but she can make people feel good or help them forget the more regrettable things that I’ve done. Some people would describe her as a manipulator, but once that word comes up a significant number conjure up images of psychopaths, sociopaths, CEOs, lawyers, and other messy professions. I disagree. Not all manipulators are bad; it merely depends on the reason. Alysse never manipulates people to do bad. She would never do that.
It’s hard to think that people would still talk of her in such a degrading fashion, despite the fact that when she was alive, Alysse was fairly well liked, if not popular. She just knew exactly what to say and how to get along with other people. Aunt Deja says that she had a high EQ, emotional quotient, which Alysse obviously inherited from her. In a way, I’m glad to get out of there. Away from the looks from my classmates, from the memories of Alysse interspersed all throughout the city. I don’t need any more reminders than what I already have.
So, this is it. Starting over. Creating a new image for myself. I am Zena, currently twinless and alone. Who are you?
And, just in case, please let me know if you’re going to use any part of what I’ve written to post on the Internet. I’m flattered; nevertheless, it’s still called copyright infringement without letting I, the author, know. Thanks.
Epiphanies About Epiphanies 
