I’ve crawled out of my cave briefly to chat and share some new developments from Camp NaNoWriMo.
The first three days of camp were beyond productive. I built myself a whopping ten day cushion going well past my daily goal of 968 words, which came in handy yesterday because I wrote absolutely nothing, just ate dry hamburgers, undercooked Bratwurst sausages, and bland potato salad ( 😦 ), slurped melted homemade strawberry ice cream, and spat out seeds from sweet, locally grown watermelons at my granddaddy’s 4th of July cookout.
I’m so happy that I drew out an outline for Love Poetry. Each day I come back to my computer, I know exactly what I’m going to write for that day. Sometimes I even go back to add to what I wrote the previous day, a wave of inspiration coming upon me as I read over the selection.
I’m trying to refrain from editing anything. Editing too soon lead to my downfall my last attempt at NaNoWriMo. So no editing. A first draft should read like a first draft. Write it first. Edit later.
I had a mini heart attack on day two of camp. While praising myself for writing an outline, I suddenly remembered my outline for my planned NaNoWriMo novel, Lost Boy, also scribbled on a scrap sheet of paper, and slightly different from the outline I shared back in April. I nearly tore up my room looking for that damn outline! Everything I found was for a different, abandoned story. Why do I have so many story ideas on scrap sheets of paper?
Eventually, I found it. Folded in an unused 2017 planner in my desk drawer. *sigh* One of these days, I’ll make use of the OneNote program in my Microsoft Office Suite.
But not now. Now I have to get back to writing Love Poetry. But before I leave you, here’s a very short excerpt from what I’ve written so far. Enjoy. 🙂
Camp Excerpt from Love Poetry
She turns around in her seat, and Bruce is staring at her, one eyebrow raised. He glances at the couple then back at her, and there’s that damn smile again, slowly spread across his face like the Cheshire cat. Jessica can’t help but feel of tinge of jealousy toward the woman now that Bruce has seen her, which is idiotic, she knows. She’s descended, head over heels into her own personal wonderland, but she wants to take back some semblance of control. She wants him to see how she really is, not this frazzled wretch, who couldn’t care to look presentable, whose attention is snatched everywhere but to him. Can we have a do-over? she wants to ask. Go someplace else, somewhere less red, less intimate to make her nervous, preferable out of the country where Whitmore can’t find her. In her comfort zone, Jessica would look like that woman too, wearing something semi-decent, something more in her style, less overly available cocktail waitress, more catch me if you can bartender…
© Nortina Simmons