I want to start by acknowledging how incredible this year has been. It marks the end of my service in the US Army National Guard and is the beginning of a new chapter of my life. The first question I get asked is, "what are you going to do now that you're out of the armed services?"
As many of you know I participated in NaNoWriMo 2018. Essentially what that means is I had the mental fortitude to withstand egregious amounts of coffee injected directly into my bloodstream. Also, I was able to write 1,700 words a day for a whole month ending at 50,000 words. I honestly learned a lot about my writing along the way. For context I’ve been writing fiction for around 8 years now, and this is the first time I’ve submitted anything to a competition or organization. It was a great experience to have participated and I have no regrets, well except now I’m even MORE addicted to coffee which I previously thought was impossible.
It may come as a surprise to you that I too was an angsty teenager turned college student at one point. Fortunately, in this period of my life my writing was all total garbage, as it was charged with a type of emotion that was ill-informed and lacked experience. It was still a significant force in my writing style at the time which is how I came upon writing poetry.
Well folks, it's been a good month. A long month. A month in which I've wanted to pull my hair out, and smash my face into a fiery hot grill. NaNoWriMo is over and I've submitted my 50,000 words and won. To be fair as long as I wrote 50k words I would have won regardless of how many other competitors there are, because the competition isn't about beating others, it's about beating yourself. That didn't come out right...
Nicholas gasped, he tore out of the thin plastic body bag that covered his body. It was pitch black. He felt the cold steel ceiling of his new prison. He had about six inches above him and beside him. Sealed in like a sardine can. He kicked the wall beneath his feet. The steel door buckled and slapped open after a few kicks. He used his fingers like small spiders and slid out into the small room in the basement of the morgue. This time it had been a car wreck. Dreadful stuff.
"A grander more transcendental country of strong-willed, fool-hardy folk has never existed in my opinion. They say the first rule for outsiders meeting a Coriscian is that you should never trust their generous motives, for they wish only for the betterment of their family and countrymen. As a Coriscian, I find this notion not only appalling, but downright absurd. I've never done anything for the betterment of my family or countrymen."
-Cr. Daralius Smott
As many of you know I’ve been cranking away at my novel for the NaNoWriMo competition this month, and I haven’t had time for much else. I’ve made a lot of progress over the past 10 days, writing over 72 pages (17,623 words) worth of content in such a short period of time.
The Rookshire bar aptly named “The Ambergrain Tavern,” had always been a host to strange folk with worldly stories. Being dead center of Knotrook Vale, weary travelers moving northwest from the port town of Darrow through to the Amberwoods frequented the tavern as it would be a long way to the next rest stop.
An odd feeling takes over you and in the spur of the moment you feel like picking out a book from the local library, buying some coffee from Faroxi’s Finest Teas and Spices, and sitting out in the grass to read. Inside the library you find that the stubborn looking librarian is a tall, imposing woman with sharp glasses and stark white hair.
INT. SIMON'S TRUCK - ON ROUTE 66 - NIGHT
Simon tries to stay awake at the wheel. He's just come from a funeral and is still dressed in his mourning suit. Next to him sits a peculiar looking creature with a fat beefy head with six black eyes. It's horns curl around it's long pointed ears like a goat. It too is wearing a suit…
INT. THE CATHEDRAL MAIN HALL - NIGHT
An older man with the traditional garb of a priest approaches a poor, young-looking man in the tattered remains of a crusty brown robe. He is kneeling before the massive golden statue of their god Romuti. The man on the floor looks to praying while the priest puts his hand on his shoulder in a comforting way.
INT. LANCASTER PRISON- Morning
Alfred smirks smugly as the prison guard pats him down and unlocks his handcuffs. He was free at last. Two hundred and forty three years, unbelievable. The prison guards stayed wary of him, always on guard, as if he was some kind of magician. The guard pushes him through the metal detector and allows him to disrobe and put on the clothes he came in with…
INT. LANCASTER MORGUE - MIDNIGHT
Nicholas gasps, tearing out of the thin plastic body bag that covered his body. It was pitch black. He felt the cold steel ceiling of his new prison. He has about six inches above him and beside him. Sealed in like a sardine can. He starts kicking the wall beneath his feet…
INT. LARGE HOTEL WAITING ROOM - UNKNOWN
Eugene wakes up on the floor of a large room. It is lavish with extravagant plants of which he’d never seen, luxurious recliner chairs, and several carts with snacks and drinks for the many other guests in the hotel’s waiting hall. Eugene rubs his eyes and stands up. Everyone is holding a black card with white numbers written on them…
EXT. HIGHWAY 70 - NIGHT
A 1993 Ford Taurus speeds down the road like a rogue boar. Close behind is an all white mini cooper keeping pace. Inside the Taurus is an aged man with his beloved wife in the back seat. She is screaming and panting, his right hand is holding hers tightly. She is incredibly pregnant, and sweating. The baby is coming in any moment…