The Frantic Diary of the Month of November

Hope Springs Eternal ( -Someone, not me) - A Nanowrimo attempt

Name:
Location: Annapolis Valley, Canada

Decide to take private art lessons to see where it takes me.

Tuesday, November 28

This is the end, there will be more

Ah.

So I hit fifty thou

Holy cow plop

Missed more school, my story has completely lost its mind and word gave me the 'you have to many spell/grammer errors, if you want them correct go to the tools bar as word will no longer show them' (or something to that effect) popup, which was depression, but I forbear. All it means is that I have to split the sucker into chunks and plot it in a new word doc.

I found that I could use the Sindar Tengwar in Adobe, which is just fun because coping words and organizing them in paint sucks.

Adobe's been fun, an in between not writing activity that leads to a shortage in disk space and a mass output of crap images. All in all; fun.

There wasn't enough donations this year, which is worring because that's what sunk nanoedmo, but I have my little halo so its not really my fault. Donate people, I'm an addic, don't cut off the supply!

Or something. ;)

My brain is fried (as can probably be guessed by the quality of my post) but the sad thing is I'm barely over half way with my story. When I started I wasn't sure I could stretch the idea into 50 000 words and now the months ending and I'm not done. Wierd.

I'm not sure I will ever finish this story. Since I finally passed the 50k mark I'm going to go back and read through (always a depressing activity, which is why I didn't do it before hitting word count) and figure out if its salvagable, and if I even want to try. Then decide where to go from there. Thing is, I'm no longer rushing against time so I might start putting it off until, oh it's next year and then I'll put it in some dusty folder (metaphoically speaking) and start again.

Still, theres a fair amount of pride. It's the most I've written. Possibly the crappiest (yes, even worst than my early stuff) but 50 thousand is a lot of words.

Slight funny thing?

On the sight it says that a 50k novel breaks down to about 175 pages. Mine? 101.

hehehe. Long sentences, it's a bad habit and it means that theres also a whole bunch of bridge words. Not to mention the fact that my dialoge (what little there is) is always submerged in a paragraph of description.

I am unable to have a conversation between polly and sam;

Polly glared at Sam, "why on earth would I do that."

"Might be fun."

"You're an idiot."

"Oh, yeah, real mature."

Okay, so it's a crappy example but it makes the point. I can't even do it like so;

Polly glared at Sam, "why on earth would I do that."

Sam shrugged casually, "Might be fun."

"You're an idiot," Polly responded.

Sam just rolled his eyes, "Oh, yeah, real mature."

Nope, my dialog goes like this;

Polly glanced upward toward the top of the tower, squinting against the sun and straining her neck to see what Sam was pointing to. When she finally saw it, her eyes widened and she felt a quick surge of panic. She hated hights, and that, that was one scary height. "Why on earth would I do that?" she asked, going on the offense in an effort to keep him from noticing her fear.

It didn't work. Sam's eyes twinkled with slight humour as he responded, "might be fun," he said casually, shifting against the rail behind him and waiting for her reaction.

Polly's mind was blank so she shot out the first thing that came to mind; "You're an idiot." Once again her eyes widened in shock, but this time it was at her own stupidity. Sure, act like a five year old arguing about cooties, that'll keep him from suspecting fear. Ugh. She sighed mentally and braced herself for the response.

Sam snorted softly, and then rolled his eyes purposefully in her direct, "Oh, yeah," he mocked, "real mature." Polly could feel herself blushing, and knew her pale skin would be looking like tomato with freckles by this point, but she couldn't be mad at Sam; she was the one who started this stupid game. And besides, instead of laughing at her, like she would have done if the situation was reversed, Sam was quietly staring out at the passing traffic, pretending not to notice her flaming face and giving her a moment to compose herself.

She really wished she could hate him, but his moral superiority wasn't done to be mean, he was just a gentleman. The last of a dying breed.

Okay, now picture pages of that. Afraid yet?

Oh, well. Not like it was going to be published anyways.

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