Home > Literature, Not-A-Reviews > National Novel Writing Month

National Novel Writing Month

November is National Novel Writing Month. National Novel Writing Month is an event for young people, older people, any people in the world (not just the USA) that want to write a novel but have never had the permission to just fly off the handle and improvise one. The only rules are that you write 50 thousand words in the month of November. In order to do this successfully, you have to write a little over 1667 words each day of the month. This will end you up with a finished novel of variable quality, little to no plot or structure and, if you’re me, a lot of wacky stuff. As it’s my first day writing for NaNoWriMo, I thought I’d post, out of context, an excerpt from the first section I wrote today to give you an idea of what mine is gonna be like. Or at least, is like now.

I should’ve known how my day would go from the start. I woke up, looked outside my window, and there was a bald eagle sitting on my windowsill. It was vomiting profusely. I knew birds vomited to feed their young and [stuff] like that, but honestly, this thing was just givin’er. Puking. Puking all over the place. A technicolor yawn that most of my human friends would have trouble rivalling. Like, this creature wasn’t just puking, it was stumbling all over the place, trying to flap its wings to stop puking, just stop the flow of vomit for two seconds, trying to breathe. I mean, I cannot exaggerate how much this eagle was vomiting. For one, it’s still leaking in my roof. I think. For two, this thing was just goin’ for it, you know? I thank god the poor bastard lived. It was a close call, but eventually, it coughed up one dry mouse skeleton and flew away.

The second thing to happen was a DHL van pulling up outside my house. I hadn’t ordered anything to be delivered to the house today or any other day, but I figured it must’ve been one of my roommates to place the call. Probably something from Amazon. One of them had said something about a kindle, but I think that was when they were setting their Aya Hirano merchandise on fire. That probably wasn’t the same guy. But who knows, maybe guys who are scandalised that a woman they’ll never bed has actually had sex with other men are the kind of guys to like ebook readers that utilise a new and revolutionary electronic paper layout. No idea why he didn’t just get a Kobo. Same functionality, same entirely unlit screen, same uselessness when you’re trying to read at night or on the bus somewhere. I think an ebook reader should at least be backlit, but then when you get outside with a backlit ebook reader, you can’t read a thing, can you?

Anyway, this wasn’t what was important about the van. The important thing about the van was that it was bowling through my small student housing neighbourhood at 8 in the morning blasting Fun Night by Andrew WK. And I don’t mean “playing it slightly louder than is totally necessary” blasting, I mean I felt the vomit working itself between the cracks in the windowsill opening because the bass was shuddering it apart. I really should check that vomit leak one day. I mean, when I get back home. You see, I don’t know where I am. But I’ll get back to that later. At the moment, I was busy trying not to party from the force of the guitars blasting their way through my windows and doors. I heard the door shudder open downstairs—that damn lock, we can never get that [PLEASANT!] thing to close, but damned if it wants to open—and two gigantic boxes of stuff were deposited roughly onto the front hallway floor. I heard this from upstairs, and thinking that eventually, someone would have to sign for the packages, I got out of bed to begin the arduous five floor trek down the stairs. I live on the fourth floor, you see, but the front door enters into the basement. It’s a stupid house, I realize, but hey—you live with what you can get when you’re renting as a student going to a not-so-prestigious university in stupid backwater capitals where they have several prestigious universities that your mother wants you to go to so that you can uphold the family name of forever being a student of BIG-ASS PRESTIGIOUS SCHOOL and you know what mom, maybe I’m a—

Anyway. Damn, I say anyway a lot. Am I orating or writing? Can you tell? Do I sound casual to you, dear reader? I know you’re out there, and I know someone is reading this. I wouldn’t like to think that I’m just typing into this fake old computer for no reason. Oh, you haven’t fooled me. This monitor isn’t really a single colour display, I’ve looked at the pixels, you can give me something other than green. And your input system doesn’t even work. It helps with the typing though, thinking there’s someone listening. Thinking that someone cares enough to get me out of—where am I? Any—fuck, I was about to say “anyway” again. I think I’ve already used up my anyway license. I should have my anyway license revoked. Just like my diplomatic immunity that time I got shot by Riggs. Or was it Murtaugh? I think it was Murtaugh. The black one. Danny Glover. Lethal Weapon something. Was it two? Or four? Before Joe Pesci showed up. God, Joe Pesci is a tough little creep, isn’t he? When George Carlin said he prayed to Joe Pesci, that was because he knew that Joe Pesci gets stuff done. Joe Pesci will kill your fucking dog for fun. Joe Pesci. Joe Pesci. Joe Pesci. Have I used up my Joe Pesci license yet? I think I got that revoked along with my diplomatic immunity and my anyway license.

All of this was running through my brain as I finally hit the stairs for the ground floor, which wasn’t located on the ground and wasn’t where the delivery had been made to. The delivery was in the basement remember? The landlord cut the house up so much on one floor that he ended up with an extra. Did I just abandon this story’s chances of plausibility? Does anyone outside of Randall Munroe even get that joke? Randall Munroe and that guy who does the Lego comic. Crap, I’m about to go off track again—just like my ankle did when it found itself itself deep in a box full of office supplies. I looked down to see a pen sticking out of my ankle. Naturally, the first thing I thought of was Sam Raimi, the second being how far away the nearest phone was to seek urgent medical attention. Did I actually see a pen sticking out of my ankle? Did I just want to make the shout out to Evil Dead? You’ll never know, will you.

Happy NaNoWriMo everbody! I’ll check back in when I have a plot!

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Categories: Literature, Not-A-Reviews
  1. 18yogfw
    November 12, 2010 at 9:53 pm

    I like it, although I’m not sure I get it. But it’s very you, as much as I can still say that.

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