I did it! I even did it a day early! This month I wrote 50,182 words of what will someday be a completed novel. One of my goals for my first year of retirement was to finish a very rough draft of a story I started last year. It took Nanowrimo to do it. Thank you Nanowrimo organizers! And thank you Mr. C for being supportive through a very anti-social month! Mr. C saw a lot of the back of my head as I hunched over the key board day after day after day.
50,000 words is only about 2/3 of the novel. But before I can finish it, I first have to do a terrible amount of editing. And the first thing will probably be cutting about 1/3 of those words out and re-writing the entire thing. That’s the process. Maybe I’ll do that during nanowrimo next year, lol. Seriously, I’d like to keep working on it though I don’t have any illusions of grandeur and I’ll probably never let any of you read it, lol!
But there you go. I set a goal and I accomplished it. I am very proud of myself!
What are you proud of today?
My goodness, this has been a busy week. Since I committed to attempting to write 50,000 words as part of nanowrimo, my time has been completely taken up. I am a slow, slow writer. Sometimes it takes me all day long to reach my daily goal of 1650 words, the amount I will need to average if I’m to reach the 50,000 mark by midnight on November 30th. Yesterday was a bit of a bust. My entire morning and early afternoon was taken up by the last minute decision to check out the Shuswap Needle Arts Guild. Of course, I came home in the mood to stitch, not to write, and I only managed 700 words. Argh. Well, it’s the spirit that counts, right? It’s all about balance.
So to rid myself of the stitching urge, I made this sweet little bookmark after supper while we watched Man of Steel, which Mr. C brought home from the library yesterday.
She is hand embroidered on tone-on-tone quilting cotton. I used heavy Pellon interfacing to give her some weight and backed her with this sweet 1930s repro print.
The pattern is from Little Stitches by Aneela Hoey. I’ve had this wonderful book for an entire year. I got it for Christmas last year and this is the first project I’ve made form it.
What’s keeping me away from the keyboard this morning?
…a fresh loaf of sourdough artisian bread, fresh from the oven.
What are you procrastinating about today?
Kat Russo turned west, leveled the wings and gave a final tweak to the trim before settling back in the left seat of the single-engine Piper Cherokee. It was a bit of a gutless wonder, she thought, but then she was only being paid to deliver it, not love it. And actually, she had to admit, it was a good trainer. Slow. Stable. A good airplane for its new owner, a guy in Winnipeg who had hired her to deliver it from where it was hangared in Thunder Bay, Ontario. The “guy” was a friend of her brother; a brand new private pilot with less than 100 hours in his log book. Yeah, she knew her brother was doing her a favour when he suggested his friend hire her to ferry the plane. She was grateful; she needed the money. More, she needed the reminder that she was capable of functioning in the real world again.
She’d been living with her big brother and his family in Winnipeg since she’d been decorated for bravery and then mustered out of the Canadian Forces a year ago. The brass said the back injury she’d sustained in Afghanistan had left her unfit for duty, but she knew it was really because of the PTSD she’d been diagnosed with. It wasn’t easy, living in her brother and sister-in-law’s basement suite in the West End, trying to pretend everything was hunky dory when what she really wanted to do was scream at her little nieces’ thumping footsteps on the ceiling above her room. At night she would lie on her bed and listen to the voices of her brother, Mario, and his wife Cecily rising and falling in soft rhythm above her. It lulled and infuriated her in turns. She knew they were concerned for her, and she hated it. She hated being a burden to them. She hated their solicitude, their kindness and their watchfulness. Most of all she hated herself for hating them.