#3DNC: Jeff's first chapter

Prologue

It had happened again. The Dream. It had been recurring every night for the past six weeks. There were minor inconsistencies here and there, but several factors always remain the same.

Rochelle is always there. I miss her more and more every day.

Robert is also there, and he is arguing with Rochelle about Star Wars. He claims Empire Strikes Back is the best—which it is—but Rochelle disagrees. She says that all about Yoda it is. Robert says it's the best because it has the most Han Solo and nobody in their right mind could ever think it was all about Yoda.

And then there's the third man. I call him Orson Welles. Not that he looks anything like him, but...you get it, don't you? Or you don't, fine. Whatever. I don't give a flying leap. O.W. is always giving a speech about why he doesn't tip waitresses. It sounds vaguely familiar, but I've given up trying to guess if I've heard it before and just assume that I'm remembering it from my previous dream.

Anyway, in the middle of everyone talking, suddenly Robert grows stiff and starts coughing. He grabs at his chest, moaning in pain. Even though I'm worried, I laugh at him. Every time. Makes me a sucky friend, I guess. O.W. keeps right on talking and ignoring Robert until eventually Rochelle yells at him to shut up and hits him with a beer bottle. I finally manage to control my laughter and then we all turn to see what's happening to Robert. Rochelle suggest heartburn and Mr. Welles recommends antacid. The end result is always the same. Robert falls to the ground and stops moving, stops breathing. Rochelle wonders if he is dead and then suddenly his chest bursts open and out leaps...a dinosaur?

I forgot to mention, there's always this creepy guy filming us. I've never seen him outside of the dream, but O.W. seems to know him. At least, he knows his name. Hefé, he calls him. The dream always ends with O.W. telling Hefé to stop filming.

The only major change between dreams is that I don't always wake up in a sweat.

I've told no one about my dream. I don't know why. Maybe I think it would frighten anyone else. Heckleberries, it frightens me. But it shouldn't, really. After all, it's just a dream.

Right?

Plymouth Rock

This was one of the sweatless awakenings. Thank goodness, I thought. I was in the car with my family and Robert on our way up to Plymouth Rock and it would be quite embarrassing to perspire in their presence. Although, I doubt Robert would care overmuch. He'd been my best friend since the move. My older brother Elmer, on the other hand, would tease me about it for weeks. He'd probably ask me which boy I'd been dreaming about that would get me so worked up in a sweat. Gosh, he could be so immature. You'd never guess he was heading off to college in the fall. Sometimes I wonder if he ever really aged, or if he's still a little boy inside, wanting to play in the sandbox with all the other kids. He's certainly more rebellious than I am, and I'm a teenage girl right at the height of the angsty stage of life. I've often heard my parents refer to me at the angel in the family, while Elmer is the black sheep. Personally, it bothers me when they say that. I'd rather see a sheep that's black over an angel anyway. I mean, when an angel tells you what to do, you gotta do it, but when a sheep tells you what to do, you can just tell it you can't understand what it's saying. Which would be the truth, so long as you don't speak sheep.

“Are we there yet?” It was me that had spoken. But don't worry, I'm not some irritating little kid that you want to strangle every five seconds; I'm sixteen. The question was not a loud inquiry to my parents, it was a soft one to Robert, who was sitting across the car from me in one of the chairs in the middle of the car. Elmer sat in the back and our picnic lunch sat in the way, way back. Not that we had a rear-facing—or, “rumble”—seat anymore, that was our old car. When we bought this minivan, all the worlds I'd imagined while riding in the car backward died out like stars, or something. I guess bugs die out pretty quickly too. Especially that one kind of fly, that only has a twenty-four hour life cycle. What is it called? Fuscrew it, I don't know.

Anyway, so I asked Robert if we were there yet and he didn't reply. I noticed that he had his headphones in, so I tried to guess what he was listening to. Kids in the Way? Nah, too dark for a bright sunny day like today. Anberlin? Nope, they're not good road trip music. Relient K? They're fun and talented and Robert enjoyed seeing them in concert when we won tickets to go see them(on my birthday, no less! Best birthday present ever!!! Matt Theissen's hair was glorious, so abundant you could have fit a cow in it. Although, why anyone would want to hide a cow in their hair is beyond me. Also, they ended up playing “Up and Up” which is Robert's favorite by them, as well as “Be My Escape”, which is my favorite song ever!!! Whoa, two uses of bold ever's followed by three exclamation points in the same rabbit trail. Righteous!). Having decided that they were most definitely the band he was listening to, I reached out and took one of Robert's earbuds and put it in my own ear. I was greeted with what sounded two knives being rubbed together while a third knife was stabbing a victim to death and we could hear her screams.

“What is this junk?” I asked Robert.

He looked up at me, shrugged, and said simply “I like heavy music some times. This is The Polygons.”

“Mmhmm,” I nodded, “Well, I've just been sleeping; do you know how much further we have to go?”

“Just half an hour, sweetie.” That would be my mom. Of course she was listening in on our conversation. “Would you like me to style your hair for the rest of the trip?” she offered.

“Mom,” I rolled my eyes, “I don't need to do anything with my hair when all we're doing is looking at a rock.”

“But it's an important rock,” she said defensively, “You'll wanna look your best.”

“Why?” I raised an eyebrow. I was so happy when I first learned to do that. “In case George Washington is there and asks me to marry him?”

A smart reply followed, “Actually, George Washington was not one of the original pilgrims who landed at Plymouth—”

“Shut up!” I snarled.

Again, you're probably thinking I'm horribly bratty and rebellious to speak that way to my mother, but actually, it was my brother who had piped up, and it was he I was silencing. After I'd snapped at him, he gave a satisfied smirk and opened up his book again. How could he read in the car and not get carsick? It's so unfair! Besides, he's using his ability to do so to read Ted Dekker. I mean, really, can you get any lower than that? If I was able to do what he could, I would be reading classics, like Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, or Anne of Green Gables, not trash about murders and alternate universes and such.

After a brief silence, Robert piped up. “I hear Plymouth Rock isn't even that big.”

“Where'd you hear that piece of rubbish?” asked my dad from the front. That was my dad, always trying to put Robert down. I don't know why he hated him so much.

“Have you ever seen Plymouth Rock?” I queried.

“No,” he admitted.

“Then how would you know that he's wrong?” I retorted. That shut him up for a while.

Okay, so maybe I do have a bit of a rebellious side

After what seemed like hours, but was only half of one, we finally reached our destination.

“Anyone want half a piece of gum?” my mom asked.

“Mom, stop taking only half the stick,” whined Elmer, “Nobody wants the other half!”

“Actually, if you don't mind, I'd love to finish it for you,” volunteered Robert.

“Here you go,” said my mom, delighted. I just rolled my eyes. That was Robert, always sucking up to my parents.

“And here we are,” announced my dad triumphantly.

We all took a moment to gaze upon the majesty of Plymouth Rock and ponder its significance in American history—hey, is that a butterfly? So pretty!

It was Elmer who broke the silence. “You know what? Robert's right, it's really not that impressive. I'll be in the car.”

“Come on, son,” chided my dad, “we just got here. Stick around for a bit.”

“Why?” Elmer wanted to know, and to be honest, I was wondering the same thing.

“Because it's history, man!” uttered my father, going off on one of his over-dramatic tangents, “Culture! You have to appreciate it while you're young! Lord knows I didn't fully comprehend the significance of history when I was your age.”

Elmer smirked, “Then I guess I'll just wait until I'm an old fogey like you to appreciate it. See ya.”

Elmer strolled off toward the car. My dad followed him, still trying to reason with the boy. The rest of us just sort of hung out and waited for them to come back. Eventually, we realized that they weren't going to and that my dad, despite his claims to the contrary, was probably just as bored as Elmer and in all likelihood, they'd slipped off to have a burger or something.

Around the time I figured this out, my mom decided to move off to a distance to admire the rock from a new angle, leaving Robert and I alone.

“So this is Plymouth Rock,” I said.

“Yup,” he agreed.

“And what spiritual significance have you gleaned from this enlightening experience?” I inquired dramatically.

Robert smiled. “Never take part in a Kirschbaum family trip.”

“I wish I could choose to opt out,” I groaned.

“You were born into the wrong family, Marie,” Robert remarked. Then he reached into his mouth, pulled out the piece of gum he'd been chewing, and flung it at Plymouth rock. The white glop stuck to the rock as if determined that it should be part of history too. For a moment, I stood in shock, nearly furious as my friend for defacing such a significant monument. Then I looked again and realized it was just a rock with a piece of gum attached. I turned to Robert and we both burst out laughing. I high-fived him, and we turned to go back to the car.

“Smile for the camera!” a voice called out. I hate random crowd photographers, but Robert and obligingly turned to face the camera and smiled. The man pressed his finger on the button, but there was no flash, no beep, no noise of any kind. To my surprise, I noticed that he was not photographing us, he was filming us. I was immediately taken aback, but then my shock multiplied tenfold when I realized that he was the man from my dream. Hefé.

#3DNC: Marian's first chapter

Here is the first chapter of Marian's novel-in-progress, Aakroveil, which she has been writing for a couple of years now and worked on over our three-day-novel madness. Enjoy!

Chapter One


“She’s dead.”
Dorian looked down at the crumpled corpse. A hundred pairs of eyes were on him, seeing how he would react. He could feel the horror and fear streaming from the people around him. They all held their breath, waiting for him to fix things. But he couldn’t bring her back.
She was face down in a puddle of blood, and there was a trail of blood on the grass, leading back to the woods. The woods which were at least a mile away. He knelt, and gently turned the body. Her face was unfamiliar to him, but she had been pretty once. His eyes swept down her, looking for the wound. Several people gasped. Her stomach had been gashed open. The cut was so deep that there was more than mere blood on the ground. Dorian, sickened, turned the body back to its original position.
“Who found her?” he called out. A young boy stepped forward. His face was ashen and streaked with tears.
“I, sir.” He answered timidly.
The crowd lost their hushed silence, and began to murmur anxiously. A few shouted questions. “Was she killed by an animal?” “Is she really a faerie?” and so on. Dorian nodded permission to the undertakers to wrap the poor woman’s body up and take her away. Yes, she was definitely a faerie. Her damaged wings and soft, ethereal features made that plain. No, she was not killed by an animal. She was murdered, and her murder could start a war. He thought these things to himself, but spoke no more to the crowd. He pushed past them, ignoring their pleas and hysteria. It was if there had never been a murder before in Wenton. His head was exploding, and he collapsed into his carriage with relief, as the closed door muffled the sounds of the crowd.
Dorian leaned his head back against the cushioned seat with his eyes firmly closed. He wanted to swear loudly and angrily, and break something costly. Never had there been a murdered faerie in all their land. Not during his time as Lord of Wenton, and not anytime before that since the faerie kingdom of Brightveil and the human kingdom of Aakroveil signed a treaty; a treaty that had been upheld for over a hundred years. Now, suddenly, someone gets it into his mind to go into faerie territory, brutally kill a faerie woman, and drag her back unto human land so that there would be no confusion as to which species had done the deed. The treaty was broken, and Dorian knew who had done it.
“I’ve never seen one up close before.”
Dorian jumped and opened his eyes. He saw a figure sitting in the dark corner of the other side of the carriage.
“I didn’t scare you, did I?” she asked innocently.
Dorian relaxed. It was just Lady Winters. Actually, it was a good thing she was there, he thought. It was easier for him to think when she was around. He often thought of her as his second brain.
“Well, when you sneak into my carriage, I’ll admit it is quite frightening. You will forgive me,” he added, “if I am a little on edge.”
“Understandably so.” She swiftly moved over next to Dorian. “Here,” she handed him a glass containing a hot substance, “drink this.”
“What is it?” he sniffed suspiciously.
“Dorian!” she chided playfully, “don’t you trust me?” He glanced over at her wearily and took a sip at her coaxing.
“Tea.’ He muttered, again closing his eyes. “Thank you. I won’t ask how you managed to brew some all the way out here.”
“That’s good, because I wouldn’t tell you.”
They sat in silence for a little while. The rocking of the carriage and the clip clop of the horse were the only things to be heard. Dorian was surprised at Meg’s silence. She had been on his council of advisers for seven years ever since her husband died and always had an opinion on every matter of importance. How she could be silent at a time like this was beyond his understanding.
“What am I going to do, Meg?” he finally asked.
“That’s not for you to decide.” She responded. “This needs to be taken up with the king.”
Dorian grimaced. King Harding had been a good ruler, but he was currently incapacitated by grief. Queen Olivia had died a few months before, and Harding hadn’t been thinking straight ever since. His daughter, Princess Emma, was also gravely ill. She was so ill that she’d been sequestered to her rooms for the past three months. Dorian prayed that she would not die; Harding’s grief might kill him is she did. Dorian doubted he would realize the gravity of the situation or propose any possible solutions with the weight of his wife’s death and his daughter’s illness upon him.
“How long do you think we have before the faeries retaliate?” he asked, avoiding the subject of their King; although, he knew the answer better than she could.
“It depends. That faerie could have been the daughter of a prominent family in the community, or she may have been a loner. Her absence may be discovered this minute, or it might go unnoticed for months.” She grabbed his tea, took a sip, and handed it back. Dorian was about to protest, but decided against it.
“It is safe to say,” she continued, “ that we have a week or two before anything dramatic happens. Dorian,” she stared at him intently, “we have to find the killer.”
Impossible, Dorian wanted to tell her. The man who killed that woman cannot be found, unless he wants to find you. In which case, you’re probably already dead. Yet, Dorian could not tell her this, so he simply shook his head.
“No, Meg. This is beyond me and my soldiers. We are dealing with a mad man. You would have to be utterly mad to kill a faerie.”
“Agreed, but we can’t let someone get away with this. It’s murder, Dorian.”
“I know what it is!” he replied, fiercely. She set her jaw, but turned her face away, and let the matter drop. They had left the country behind now, and were nearing the city.
“I’ll tell the driver to take you home.” He said. Meg stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“No, need,” she said. “I instructed him before you came in.”
Dorian smiled, ever so slightly. It was the first hint of a smile all morning. “Lady Winters, you never cease to amaze me,” he told her with gallant admiration.
She smiled back as some tension released. “I hope I never will.”
***
Dorian’s carriage pulled up in front of his fortified castle. He was relieved to see home after such a tumultuous morning. He had left Lady Winters at her home a few miles away. “No doubt we shall see each-other soon,” she said as she exited the carriage, “once the king finds out about this, he will surely call together a council and you will have to be prepared for it.” Dorian prayed not. The last thing he wanted was to discuss this matter with an ailing king and unconcerned nobles. No one, not even Meg who had a better head on her shoulders than most, really knew the danger that was about to come. Dorian stepped out of his carriage and stormed into his home through the massive wood doors. They slammed shut behind him.
Once inside, Dorian took a deep breath, and then proceeded to yell at the top of his lungs. It was something akin to a deep-throated scream. His servants nearby jumped at the sound, but carried on their duties quietly. Dorian had been known to make loud seemingly unwarranted noises at times.
At the sound of Dorian’s yell, an old man hobbled down the hall toward him. He was quite an amusing sight: a few days’ stubble dotting his face, shaggy, long hair sloppily thrown back into a ponytail. He was still in his dressing gown, even though it was almost midmorning, and he had a book and pen tucked under his thin arm. His bright eyes spoke of intelligence and delight. He moved as fast as he could toward Dorian, who signaled him to follow away from the servants. The old man let out a little chuckle as he nodded to the serving maids and half ran, half stumbled after Dorian.
Once they were out of sight, he burst out excitedly, “Dorian, my dove! You’re back! Fantastic!” he clapped his hands together like a child at a circus. “Tell me all about it. Was it gruesome? Who was murdered? I’ve been waiting in anticipation all morning! What took you so long?”
Dorian rolled his eyes. “You know, old man, I don’t know why I tolerate you and your babbling. Someone has been killed. Could you show a little more respect?”
“Ah,” the old man coughed and collected himself, “of course. Forgive me, Dorian. It’s just been a very exciting day.”
Dorian groaned. “It is eleven o’clock in the morning, and already the day has been horrible, Toepoh, not exciting. I shudder to think what will happen during the rest of it.”
Toepoh said nothing, but looked at Dorian anxiously. Dorian saw the eagerness in his eyes, sighed, and consented to tell him about the crime. He mentioned everything from the number of spectators to the size of the pool of blood. He carefully left out that Lady Winters had snuck into his carriage, as Toepoh had the ridiculous assumption that the woman had feelings for Dorian. Toepoh hung on Dorian’s every word and wrote down all the details dutifully. It grieved Dorian to tell the story, but Toepoh was quite thrilled to copy it down. Lastly, Dorian mentioned the cause of death. Toepoh stopped writing and looked up at Dorian, a little of the shine in his face diminished.
“Goodness me…you don’t mean-“
“Yes. This was Draven’s doing.”
Toepoh involuntarily shivered. “We’re in danger, then?”
Finally! Dorian thought. Someone who understands.
“Yes.” He replied. “I cannot help but think that this killing is a message, to me: a warning that something more is coming.”
“No doubt, no doubt.” Toepoh babbled energetically, “Dorian,” he paused, and the gleam in his old eyes returned, “this is fantastic!”
Dorian shot him an angry glare. “Fantastic? Toepoh, a woman is dead, and our entire kingdom is in great danger.”
“Indeed, but things like this make great stories! Think of it – murder, mayhem, a national pandemic of terror! War, suffering, intrigue!”
“Stop!” Dorian held up his hand, and then put it to his forehead. “This is not fantastic! This is frightening.”
Toepoh softened a bit. “Are you really frightened, Dorian?”
“Yes.” Dorian said. “I am.” They stopped walking outside of the door which led into the Scriptorium. Dorian unlocked the door. “I haven’t seen Draven in ten years. Suddenly, he is in my life again, and I want nothing to do with it. You don’t understand how powerful he is, and his innate capability to destroy lives. The worst part of it is, I don’t know what he wants or where he’ll strike next.”
“Maybe this will help you then,” Toepoh gestured inward to the Scriptorium.
The Scriptorium was the largest, most organized, and beautiful room in Dorian’s mansion. In it were all the things Dorian held most dear: books, desks, paper, ink, stories, and imagination. Whenever one opened the door to the Scriptorium, they could not help but be overwhelmed by its glorious majesty even if it was their hundredth time visiting the room.
Dorian’s Scriptorium was carpeted, something that was considered quiet a luxury. It was furnished with two fireplaces, the walls were lined with oak bookshelves (at a safe distance away from the fireplaces), chairs and couches, desks and tables, and even a small pantry if the men were working too hard to eat a proper supper. It was like home within home, Dorian often thought. He and Toepoh came here when he was upset or couldn’t sleep.
“What would you like to work on today, my dove?” Toepoh made his way to his desk and began arranging his paper, ink, and pen. Dorian threw himself down on a couch, exhausted.
“I don’t think now is the time for stories.”
“You’re tired, bitter, and emotionally distraught. It’s the perfect time for a story.”
Dorian truly did wonder why he kept the chintzy old man around. God knows he had tried to get rid of him. Toepoh had been his scribe for over ten years, and more than once, Dorian had fired him, but somehow Toepoh didn’t seem to think that affected his ability to work for Dorian, live with Dorian, and eat his food.

Their first adventure together, the time they met, took place on a blistering hot summer day. Dorian had been a wanderer back then, traveling from distant country to distant country. He was running from his past on foot and through pen. Dorian was at this time staying in the village of Mertz. It was small and quiet for the first few months he lived there. One day he was taking his daily walk, and he happened upon a mob ready to lynch a man. He hardly had time to think before he rushed into the crowd. He tried to ask the men and women aside him what on earth was going on, but they were too busy hurling insults at the old man on the scaffold. Dorian saw the executioner pull a dirty hood over the man’s face, and knew that the condemned man had but a minute to live. Dorian pushed furiously through the crowd, reached the scaffold, and jumped atop it. That got the crowd to silence their cries. They all stared at him angrily and with bloodthirsty eyes.
“In the name of God, someone tell me what is going on here!” Dorian shouted.
A young man stepped forward. “Move aside, stranger. This man is being hanged for slander.”
“Slander?” Dorian scoffed. “Hardly a hanging offense.”
A voice came from behind the hood. “Oh, you don’t know what I said.” Dorian yanked the hood off of the prisoner. The old man’s blue eyes smiled at him. He seemed to be thrilled about his impending death.
“Shut up.” Dorian said quietly. He threw the hood down authoritatively. “What has this man said that could get him hanged?” He addressed the crowd once more.
“He wrote unspeakable things against our high lord! Lies!” Several cries of agreement and outrage rose from the crowd.
“They weren’t lies!” the old man screamed back at them. “Ha! Why don’t you go ask your precious high lord if what I said was true or not?” The crowd was in uproar. The young man who had answered Dorian’s questions tried to run up as If he were going to strangle Toepoh himself, but the crowd was too dense. He gave up, reached into his pocket, and threw a knife.
The crowd gasped as Dorian caught it mid-flight.
“Now,” Dorian said, calmly dropping the knife to the floor and wiping a little blood from his hand, “How much is this man’s life worth to you? I have fifty pieces of silver here.” He reached into his coat and produced a full money bag. “That is more than enough to compensate for any dishonor done to your high lord. Take it, and let this man go.”
It is amazing how quickly attitudes can change when the subject of money is introduced. The mob became more civil almost instantaneously. After a few of the people discussed the matter together, they accepted the bribe on condition that Toepoh would never show his face in Mertz again. Toepoh agreed to the terms, and he was cut down. Dorian nodded to him and hopped down from the scaffold to join the dispersing crowd.
“Wait!” Toepoh called after him, heaving himself to the ground. He had to run after Dorian, for he wouldn’t stop. “Are you simply going to walk away without giving me the opportunity to say thank you?”
“You have said it.” Dorian replied. “Good-bye.”
Toepoh chuckled. “Well, that was a close one! Never been so close to death in my life. It was an exhilarating experience. I feel a good ten years younger! Ah, it is too bad I shall have to leave Mertz.” Dorian glanced askance at Toepoh as he dug around in his pocket. He drew out a book. “Let’s see…” he scanned down a list, “Hebron, Alidar, Urrmon, and now Mertz! Soon I’ll be banished from all of Aakroveil!” He wrote Mertz in at the bottom of the list.
“Have you been banished from all those towns?” Dorian asked, astonished.
“Indeed, yes! Each experience livelier than the other! My mother was wrong to tell me that writing would be a boring career for me. I have found it to be life-threatening and life-enhancing!” Toepoh turned to Dorian. “Would you care to hear about the incidents? Let’s see…in Hebron-oh, listen up, this is a good story-you see, there was this woman, she was married to a wealthy lord, and she…”
Has he already forgotten that I just saved him from death a few minutes ago?
“Go on your way, my man.” Dorian cut him off as quickly as possible. “I must return to my lodgings and you must pack your things and be gone.” Toepoh looked at him, utterly incredulously
“You…erm, what do you call yourself?”
Dorian paused a moment, deciding whether or not this was advisable. “Dorian.” He said uncertainly.
“Yes, Dorian, darling, you saved my life…”
Apparently not.
“And I am not about to walk away and let you forget about it.”
“What?” Dorian stopped walking.
“Oh yes.” Toepoh chuckled once more. “You’re going to wish you had let me die on the scaffold…it would have saved you the trouble of having me indebted to you for all earthly life and heavenly life too.”
No matter how much Dorian slapped, ordered, or yelled at him, Toepoh refused to leave his side. He became his “humble manservant”, although there was nothing humble or servile about him. He became Dorian’s companion and scribe. In many ways, Dorian owed a lot to Toepoh. He helped him to open up to the world, and he encouraged him to keep writing, even when it seemed like the project would rob him of his sanity if he continued. It was also Toepoh who learned that the high lord of Wenton had died. The two of them traveled to Wenton, and it wasn’t long until the people there realized no man would be better for the esteemed position than Dorian.
That was ten years ago. Ten long, wonderful years passed. They were safe and loved in Wenton. Dorian ruled his city wisely, and rekindled a love of learning. Dorian finally found an outlet for his writing. He wrote mostly for children, and once a week, the young ones would gather in the town square to listen to him perform his work.


“So, Dorian, what do you want to write now?” Toepoh asked for what was probably the hundredth time. Dorian closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and spouted off what came to the top of his head. The two of them worked until supper. Toepoh blew on the many pages of the story Dorian had conjured, and put it in an envelope marked “Adults Only”. After a day of violence and fear, the story’s contents hadn’t been much different. Dorian declined to eat, sat in the Scriptorium, and sketched for a few hours. Finally, he fell asleep on the couch he had spent most of the day on. Toepoh gently laid a blanket over him, and went to his own rooms. He had never bothered to change out of his dressing gown.

#3DNC: Betsy's first chapter

Here is the first chapter of Betsy's novel-in-progress, Dragon's Hoard. It is a retelling of the beauty-and-the-beast tale. Enjoy!


Chapter One

Noemi smiled gently as she asked the man, “What mill do you take your grain to, goodman?”
The wiry farmer shuffled his feet and glanced at the couple before him. “I come to the mill here and m’Lord permits me to have it ground.” He said with a hesitant, careful diction.
Edouard nodded his approval of the answer. “Many of the surrounding villages come to the Estate to mill their grain. I just had a new stone installed which grinds the flour so fine that it feels soft as the petals of a tigerlily.” The Lord caressed the hand he held. “But even the tigerlilies blush in jealousy of your unblemished skin, my Lady.”
“Ah, my Lord, you have made me blush. You should not say such things till a year hence.” Withdrawing her hand, Noemi proceeded to speak to a group of peasant children who had stopped their chores to gawk at the visiting nobles. Edouard watched her, admiring the feminine body, taking in the rich clothes.
When she is my wife, we will be the awe of the Royal Court. Even the king will be jealous of my conquest and I will have the world laid at my feet for her sake. How I would enjoy seeing the face of that boy who pretended to try to win her hand at the Fair. Why, he was a puppy, and a very sickly looking puppy, too. Against my charm and fetching looks, his conquest was doomed from its conception. In this, at least, Edouard was correct. He cut a striking figure and was more than fetching. Standing at a little over six feet tall, and with icy blue eyes that pierced the hearts of girls from all over the kingdom, Lord Edouard of Birwythe was of muscular build and healthy digestion. Wavy black hair tied in a pony-tail framed his angular face and his whole appearance was enhanced by the stunning work of his tailor.
“My Lord, what is done for the education of these children? They seem in need of one to teach them.” Edouard’s reverie snapped shut as Noemi made the query, and he blinked at the unexpected question. Children? Education?
He searched for an answer that would appease her concern. “I have been looking into finding a scholar with just such an inclination, my Lady. They are scarce to come by and it may take time.”
“La, my Lord, one does not need wait till an intellectual presents himself to begin a good work. Could you not find a peasant who has some learning to begin the project until a scholar may be found?” Noemi’s teasing answer irritated Edouard, but he did not let her see it.
“What an excellent idea, my Lady. I shall implement it at once.” So saying, Edouard signaled to his gentleman-in-waiting standing behind him. “Dashiell, make a note of this: the village of Heron is to receive one learned peasant to teach the children in education until a suitable teacher be found to take over.” The man bobbed his head and retrieved a small wooden book and stylus from his satchel. Noemi looked on while he made the necessary markings in the clay which was inside the case of the book-covers. Glancing over Dashiell’s shoulder, Edouard noted with a mental nod of approval that the gentleman-in-waiting had not removed the thin cloth that kept the clay moist. Well. I shall be interested to see how long this scheme will continue. That should satisfy Noemi, and may the stars decree the clay will not dry too soon. At least the people love her. They adore her. And they are right to. She is peerless among women.
He turned to Noemi. “Come, my Lady, you have been walking far too much today. Shall we return and have our afternoon repast?”
“You are all consideration, my Lord. I am willing to return to the manor.” As the two nobles mounted their steeds, the people of the village gathered to bid them farewell. Hiding his disgust for the wretchedness and dirt surrounding him, Edouard smiled with Noemi and waved to the crowd as they trotted through it.
The ride to the Estate was a gentle distance, not being quite four miles as the crow flies. As they came upon the beautiful grounds and slowed their mounts to a walk, Edouard could not help admiring his home to himself while Noemi chatted in the background about the different villages they had visited that day. It is quite fortunate for me that Grandfather chose this land to build upon. Here, we have no worries of attack from any side, and the prospect to the West is especially stunning. Father’s renovations to the castle made it look more graceful. It is less of a fortress now and more of a, well, more of a manor. And it can only be improved by the addition of the Lady Noemi to its household. So thinking, and occasionally humming sympathetically to give Noemi the impression that he was listening to her, Edouard occupied himself until they reached the inner court-yard of the Estate.

ᴥᴥᴥ ҉ ᴥᴥᴥ

After they had supped, Edouard escorted Noemi back to her mount and bade her farewell. “When will you visit again, my Lady?”

Her voice bubbled with laughter. “My Lord, if you continue to see me with such regularity, you will tire of me before we are even married. I would not have that.”

Taking her hand, he smiled. “Nay, say not that I would become tired of you, for one would sooner become tired of the ever broadening adventure of life than of your company.”

Noemi blushed at his compliment. “La, sir, but you flatter me. I must tend to matters in my own lands. But –“ stopping his protest, “I will send a messenger with news of when I can next visit. Farewell till then.” Edouard kissed the hand he held and then stood back as the Lady Noemi and her train of retainers passed out of the gate and down the road.

“Dashiell.” The man bobbed forward, having anticipated the necessity of his presence after the Lady Noemi’s departure.

“Here, m’Lord.”

Edouard’s voice expressed unease. “The clay; has it dried?”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

“That draghored woman!”

Dashiell made an effort to interject. “M’Lord, if I may – “

“Noemi never comes for a visit but she doesn’t meddle in my affairs. Whose land, villages, and people are these? Mine. Not hers. Mine.” Edouard turned on his servant. “And when she is mine also, she will know it.”

Dashiell attempted to appease his master. “M’Lord, I can find a way of mending what has been done. Maybe we can interpret the message a different way.”

Waving impatiently, Edouard entered the door of his home. “You will think of some way to fix this mess, Dashiell. I do not give a siyt if you have to lie about it.”

Dashiell fidgeted uncomfortably. “Yes sir. Then do I have your permission to go, my Lord?”

“You are dismissed, Dashiell.” Edouard turned to the mirror on the wall to make sure nothing marred his appearance. When Noemi’s land is mine, he mused, I will receive more revenue than has ever been collected by one person in the entire history of king Grenier’s reign. Even the sorcerers and witches will be jealous of my wealth then. And not only will they envy the wealth of my property and people, but they will envy me the woman that I will wed to get it all.

#3DNC: Sørina's first chapter

As promised, here is the first chapter of my novel-in-progress, The Four Senses. All suggestions, comments, critiques, and other responses are welcome!

Chapter One

“Do you think I am blind?” I snarled. The tiny 18-year-old shrank away from me.  

“Do you think I am deaf, and dumb, and senseless?”

“Of course not, Ms. Woods,” she whined, pressing her skinny body against the orange chair, its metal legs chilly against her bones.

“Do you think I have a two-digit IQ?”

“Of course not!” she whined again. “I just panicked.”

“Look, Jennifer, I don't want to tell you how to be a better criminal, but seriously! Couldn't you even change the font? I mean, you copied-and-pasted an entire essay, dumped it into the center of a page, and handed it in? How stupid do you think I am?”

My temperature rose with my frustration-level. A prickling sensation crawled up my neck, redding my face, then down my arms, dampening my shirt.

Jennifer squirmed in her chair, managed a glance at my face, then blurted out: “I didn't know what you wanted, I hate poetry, what was I supposed to do?” Her fear spewed out along a stream of entitlement.

“You know what you were supposed to do. You were supposed to come see me, and you were supposed to write your own essay.”
“But I don't know how to write an essay!” Her squeaky-toy voice was rising up towards a wail now, the end of her little nose reddening. “Nobody ever taught me how to write!”

Yeah, that's probably true, I thought, my anger cooling into embarrassment. They don't teach them anything now-a-days. I thought of the high school where I had taught for one nightmare of a year, a year that nearly landed me in either the psych ward or my grave (not sure which is worse). Those kids had six English teachers in four years, and the Seniors I inherited had never been assigned a five-paragraph essay in their lives.

“I know,” I sighed. “That isn't your fault.”

Jennifer twisted her ankles together in confusion at my swift shift in tone.

“It isn't the high school teachers' fault, either,” I went on, carried by inertia. “It's the whole stinking system. For twelve years at least—nearly your whole education—you've been oppressed by a broken system that teaches you only superficial formulas and tests meaningless skills and forces everyone to stoop to the level of the lowest common denominator—” I saw her eyes had glazed over. “Anyway, you knew what you did was wrong, so why did you do it?”

“I just hoped I wouldn't get caught!”

“Jennifer,” I intoned, remembering that lowering the vocal pitch one octave can strike an impressionable youth with the force of authority, “getting caught has nothing to do with it. You still damage your soul whether anyone finds out about it or not. Do you want to grow up to be a felon?” but I broke off again, scoffing at my own pompous hypocrisy. Hadn't I gone along with the system? Hadn't I been a meaningless cog in the meaningless machine? Hadn't I gone against my own conscience in implementing immoral grading systems? Who was I to scold this sad little girl?

“Whatever,” I muttered. “I have to report you.”

She looked about twelve years old then, in her pink leggings, layered tank tops, and cheap beads.

“It goes on your permanent record.”

Her eyeliner began to trickle down her face.

“And you fail the assignment. You were doing so well, too, but failing the last essay means you fail the course. I can't let you take the final exam, you know. I don't know why you did this to me, or to yourself. You were my success story this semester!”

I recalled her writing sample: the nonsensical sentences, the random punctuation, the vague clichés, the lack of sequential thought. Then I thought through those long hours we had spent together in this yellowish office, laboring over comma splices and in-text citations. I remember her research paper: a decent C, with some pretty syntax and specific examples. What a waste.

Then I started to shrivel up inside, wondering what papers I had to to fill out, how to report her properly, and what right I had to reduce youth to cringing insects. A vision of forms in triplicate wavered in my mind for a moment, the words policies and procedures buzzing my brain. What if she appealed? What if I had to go before the ombudsperson? What if I had done this all wrong?

Jennifer was sniveling. I lunged up, grabbed the tissue box, dropped it, retrieved it, and shoved it at her. Time to be stern again.

“You did this to yourself. I tried my best with you. All I can hope is that you will do better next time and have success in the class and everything you do in life.”

I swiveled away. She started packing up all her pink Staples specials inside one other, zipping up one pockets, cases, and bags, then slunk away. Yet another failure.

* * *

But the time had come, as the walrus said, to get ready for class. That's not what the walrus said, but what he said didn't make much sense, and I had to print a handout and copy it before I went to face what was left of my dwindling class. In the back of my skull, the mental tick of my generation tapped out: check facebook check facebook check facebook. I gave in. There are still ten minutes before class, I reasoned. So I pulled up twitter and facebook and gmail and yahoo—just for a minute!—and read:

To: Cassandra Woods

From: Aurora Dunne

4/12/13

Hey, Cass, I'm in the airport, just catching up on emails here during a layover before I fly out on the last leg of my trip home, and stumbled on something you'd like. Have you seen this fiction blog? http://thefoursenses.wordpress.com/. Really impressive writing. All these different voices, different tones and styles as if all the different characters wrote the various posts, yet there's a kind of story weaving through as you go along. I'm guessing this kind of online fiction is the way to go in the future--kind of reader-generated, to some extent, like the old choose-your-own-adventure stories. And it's got a wild premise. Let me know what you think. You should jump on this kind of stuff and write online blog-novels and make a million! OK, I'm on my way home from--well, I can't say where I've been, but you can guess if you look at the headlines. Uprisings. Genocide. The worst place to be right now, if you live there; Americans were still safe. But it was ghastly: Bodies in double rows down all the corridors of the hospital, and mostly children. I took pictures and will tell you all about it. I'll call you!

Whew. What do you say to that? That's Aurora for you. Aurora Dunne, as sturdy a friend as a girl could want, but who swirls past me in her own glorious whirlwind, tearing around the globe, saving the world, binding wounds, impervious to it all. She can save lives with one hand, and package them up like neat lab experiments with the other. She was in Haiti right after the earthquake, sawing off legs with back-room carpentry tools, without anesthesia. She was in New Orleans before Katrina had finished pouring in floods of filth, following around after the teams that spray-painted body counts on doors, working her way around the Superdome with pathetic supplies for the displaced thousands. She was in Japan after the tsunami, evaluating the severity of radiation exposures. How much horror can one person see? I have seen nothing, and yet I limp along with a wounded mind. What is her mind like inside? Maybe living a life of service heals the broken brain. I wonder if I will ever grow up.

Meanwhile... I clicked the link.

THE FOUR SENSES

Better Deaf Than....

1/25/13

L Van

Having lost my hearing rather than my sight has its advantages, or so I speculate. I can still read—with my eyes, that is—rather than having recourse to the potentially alienating experience of having to read with my fingertips as some of my associates do who have had their hearing taken from them. As a tangent, however, I recall a short story by C. S. Lewis in which a man born blind received his sight. When he first tried to read by looking at the words, rather than touching the Braille, he felt alienated. He had cultivated an intimate, physical relationship with the very textures of words gained through years of actual tactile contact with the embodied shapes of letters.

Aurora was right; I loved this combination of the philosophical with the personal. It was quite beautiful writing, if a bit snobbish. I wonder why she thought it was fiction?

I suppose that viewing letters with our eyes is also physical, and that each printed character also has a physical shape—yet something in the human animal believes that touch is more “real” and intimate than sight. Love at first sight is not enough; it yearns for physical consummation.

I wouldn't know....

Yet this is far off the topic. I was going to enumerate the advantages of hearing loss, as imposed upon an adult rather than as a congenital disorder, when compared to the disadvantages of such a loss of sight.

“Imposed upon”? What did that mean? Did he have an accident, or a disease, or a botched eye surgery?

I find I cannot do it. I cannot relieve the daily tortures of my situation by reflecting that someone else's sorrows are worse. On the one hand, that would be inhumane. Any rationally philanthropic human being should desire to suffer ultimate pain himself rather than that anyone else should suffer at all. This is the allegorical meaning of the Christian myth, by the way.

It's more than an allegory, buddy, I thought.

On the other hand, I cannot reflect on my advantages, because I am myopic enough to say there are none. I cannot drive, for instance, though it is not forbidden within the city. It is not safe; I cannot hear horns of warning, nor trucks bellowing up in the left lane, nor the subtle shifts of engine whine that tell me of my car's health. Small inconvenience, compared to my true woes, but inconvenience nonetheless.

I cannot hear my friends knocking on my front door. This would be a sorrow indeed, had I any friends. But I have none.

Aw, poor fellow.

And now I must steel myself to write the true horror. I cannot listen to music. There are more days when I desire death than when I do not, because of this fact alone. What is life without music.

I tried, God knows I tried (if there is a God, which I doubt more and more these days), hour after hour every day for weeks after. I took up the carpet, wrenching out the staples with violence that damaged my fingers nearly as much as it tore the upholstery. I set the speakers on the floorboards. I turned up the volume as far as it would go, watching the digital numbers rise with hope and dread. I laid my head against the speaker, ear flat on the floor. It was of no use. Beethoven himself never suffered as I do.

But they did not take my piano away. I do not know whether that is to exacerbate the torture or to provide release. But at least they left my piano here—yet I cannot touch it. I could not stand its cool indifference.

I sat silent in my faded, musty office. Shouts and laughter passed by in the hair. My eyes unfocused and I started through the computer screen. I tried to imagine the loss of hearing. I remember the old children's game: Which would you rather lose, your sight or your hearing? That obviously depended on one's vocation. I'd rather lose my hearing, I suppose—speaking of hearing, what was all that noise in the hall? Oh man, it's time for class! And I still have that handout to print and copy. What kind of professional am I—what kind of professor? Not a professor, just an adjunct, just a “Ms.,” a nobody, an overworked, underpaid, irresponsible nobody....

And so my mind ran on, all the way to the copy room, all throughout the angst of fighting the copy machine. The fluorescent lights hummed and flickered, messing with my eyes. Leftover lunch smells clogged the air: curry, tuna, popcorn, coffee, and ramen. A gallimaufry, I mumbled, playing with Shakespeare's word for stew. Too pretty a word for that sickening smell. Then the copier jammed, I got toner on my fingers, the seams of my shirt chafed my skin, and sweat still lingered against its cotton. Ah, every sense annoyed me. Could I just turn it all off?

3-Day novel Journal

If you've been following these blog posts, you might be interested in the following edited extracts from the journal I kept (with additions by my friends) through the weekend. Perhaps this would help you plan your own #3DNC, or maybe you'll have suggestions for us? 

Actually, I can't imagine that anybody would be interested in this journal besides us and our close friends. So, Sharon, Marian, Betsy, friends, and family: this is for you! 

Everyone: Tune in over the next few days for sample chapters from our novels. 

3-Day Novel Journal

Friday, 30 August

7:30 pm -- Arrived at the cabin with Betsy. The view outside is perfect: homely and quaint. A Shire-like cabin, with smooth green lawns, a creek with a rocky dam, a mossy bank. A story-tale site!

8:00 pm -- Did some prep work: outlining, re-arranging previously-written material, typing up chapter summaries, etc.

9:00 -- Sharon and Marian arrived, with immediate ensuing craziness, multiple conversations, loud mockery, and a constant stream of Wholockian reference, followed by a yoga session.

11:59 -- We started! With happy dances and hugs all around, we got down to work.

Saturday, 31 August
12:05 am -- I finished typing my outline.

12:11 -- I started writing the actual prose! This is the moment I've been building up to for a year!

1:15 -- finished chapter one! The tone is very casual, and I'm not thrilled with the sentences. But the embedded blog posts fit in very well, and I think I've got the main character off to a good start. It's been an interesting, productive hour or so, with three of us working away mostly in silence. Now to try to sleep for a bit, perhaps?

1:34 -- I guess nobody's going to bed. Everyone's awake, so I'll work on some of the blog posts instead of trying to plow through a whole chapter at this hour. If I can write a chapter an hour regularly, I can do this. 28 chapters in 36 (ish) hours....

2:00 -- Now one of my characters is trying to work out logical proofs, and my mind just won't do it. Time for sleep.

7:29am -- I only got bits of sleep, in fits and starts. The brain is not a whole lot clearer now than it was, but I'm back at it. Everyone is awake. Sharon and Betsy are doing yoga. Now I'm outside, alone, in front of a lovely fire, about to tackle those philosophical musings again.

7:54 -- Betsy  just read me a couple of excellent sentences she wrote last night to set up the rules of her secondary world. Very nice indeed. The larks begin to sing at 8:00 each morning precisely in her universe. I'm waiting for them to start here.

8:38 -- All four of us are at work. I have finished writing one series of embedded blog posts, but have not yet written a chapter. I need to get to it!

9:14 -- We're listening to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack when Betsy gets a text: her text alert sound is the TARDIS' materialization sound. “The TARDIS and Lord of the Rings,” she says: “That's pretty epic.” I think what I'm writing is pretty awful.

9:24 -- Chapter two done!

10:05 -- My battery died, and when I restarted, I found that the latest version had not been saved. I only lost a few sentences, but that was enough to annoy me. Meanwhile, Marian and I had a debate about whether or not River Song's hot red shoes were stilettos. We had to watch the beginning of “The Time of Angels” to solve this dispute. Marian was
right; I was wrong.

10:16 -- We're all in the cabin now, plugged in. Sharon's got Bach playing from her Kindle fire. I'm about to rewrite a student essay (a real one) in order to incorporate its sentence structure into my story. I'm getting a bit too caught up in the teaching aspect of the story, not focusing enough on moving the plot forward. I need to speed it up!

10:33 --We had a lovely discussion about profanity. Betsy: Can I invent my own curse words? Me: If they are monosyllabic.

10:45 -- Marian grew an antler.

10:55 -- Sharon tells Betsy I love you. Sorina bursts into song. Marian has a notebook on her head.

11:04 -- I am having serious problems with verb tenses. I wrote my outline more or less in present tense, so it's tough to switch it over to past tense as it should be. Plus a lot of the narrative is kind of stream-of-consciousness, which makes most sense in the present tense.
This leads to potentially confusing shifts. But it's probably the least of my worries, and I don't even know what my greatest worries should be.

12:00 -- Finished chapter five! Time for lunch. Poor Marian is sick to her stomach. Sharon is working away in total silence, hour after hour, completely focused.

12:40 -- Sharon is still a novel-writing machine. She spells out her thoughts in sign-language when she's stuck. I'm trying to give one of my bloggers a character arc. I think I'll write a whole series of his posts in a row, in order to develop him, and then figure out where they fit into the narrative later. I should probably do that with several of the bloggers, but that takes a lot of time away from writing the main narrative.


1:41 -- Marian is sleeping. Betsy seems to have gotten a second wind, and Sharon is just still plugging away. She's the energizer bunny.

2:21 -- Finished another set of blog posts! I'm going running. :)

4:17 -- In the last two hours, I went for an hour-long run up a goodly hill and back, then all four of us went and washed in the creek. Now all four of us are outside by the fire, listening to soundtracks, and ready to go at it again. 

5:20ish -- Finished chapter six.  

5:29 -- Discussion on leeches. I call leeches "small vampires disguised as slugs." Betsy insists we document this for posterity.

6:32 -- Chapter Seven done. 

6:37 -- Betsy randomly breaks out, in the middle of a silence, with “Be vewy, vewy quiet,” as if she didn't know she said it out loud.

7:32 -- Finished chapter eight. I'm so sick of this stupid book! I don't think it's a book I would read, so why am I writing it?

9:10 -- We've spent the last hour and a half reading each other's work (Marian, Betsy, and I; Sharon is still keeping hers close to her chest).

9:30 -- We took a Doctor Who break to watch “The Pandorica Opens.” That is an emotional roller-coaster.

11:02 -- We're back at it again. All of us. Still awake, still writing. Sharon is a writing machine.

11:20 -- Chapter nine—done. And I really like that one. It's very, very weird. And I love it. One more tonight?

Sunday, September 1st
 
12:30am -- Chapter Ten done. Ten chapters in 24 hours. I have 16 chapters left, and 39 hours left. Can I do it?

10:07am -- That was almost eight hours in bed, then, although not eight hours of sleep. Still, not bad. The brain fog is not as bad as usual this morning, and it is another beautiful day: overcast, humid, and heavy, but not raining and not searingly hot. We do have a small local
tragedy: Sharon's Kindle Fire docking station is not working, so she is currently without a computer to work on. She worked on Marian's for a few hours this morning until Marian woke up, and just now called her husband to bring her a laptop. So later this afternoon
some of are going to drive 20 minutes or so into the nearest town and he's going to drive 1 ½ hours up here, to bring her a computer.

10:54 -- Marian tells us that "Your body becomes desexualized in ballet class."

10:56 -- Marian randomly announces: "A misogynistic masseuse working on a moose."

11:00 – 12:00 -- We walked in the water to worship. We sat on a log and were joined by a snake. We sang the doxology, then Sharon read Hebrews 10:19-25 and we discussed briefly what it meant to draw near to God. Marian read Galatians 2:17-21 and we discussed in what ways we set aside grace. We sang "Come thou fount," "Man of Sorrows," "Praise the Savior," "We are marching," and "Awake O Israel." Then Sharon closed in prayer.

A little snake watched us all through our worship, charmed out of his hole whenever we sang or Sharon spoke. So Sharon must be a parselmouth. On the way back we saw a 4-foot long snake about 2 inches round and Marian vowed never to get in the creek again.

During this time we also established that Betsy is a hick because she used the word "crick" once and as Marian pointed out that if you steal from a store once, you become a thief. Therefore, Betsy is a hick.

2:03 -- Back at it! I can't believe it's 2 in the afternoon and I haven't written anything yet. This is bad. Dunno if I can crank out ten chapters today at this rate.

3:11 -- Marian is giving birth.

Later -- Marian: It's really hot outside. Me: That's because you were out there. Marian: It's a big problem. In the winter I melt the snow.

3:22 -- Marian's baby is born! It's a girl!

4:04 -- Me: What's the word like “hooker” for a guy?

5:33 -- Finally wrote one chapter, the first all day. Blah.

6:14 -- Washed in the creek.

8:03 -- Finished Chapter 12---the sensory deprivation chapter. Very weird!! I need to go back and check the chapter in Richard Feynmann's book that inspired this, make sure I'm not plagiarizing anything.

Marian and I had a push-up contest. We tied.

8:20 -- The smoke alarm went off to let us know the french fries were ready.

8:40 -- Chapter thirteen done! I read Marian's latest chapter It is amazing. Marian is definitely the most talent and capable writer in this mad little group.

9:26 -- Let's get a calipers and measure nose widths. The unanimous decision is that I have the best nose.

9:55 -- Finished chapter 14! My heroes have reached the dystopic city.

11:31 -- watched Doctor Who “The Big Bang.” Maybe another chapter before bed? Or
maybe no bed tonight?

Monday, September 2nd

2:46am -- I went to bed around 1, but couldn't sleep at all. So now I'm up and writing again.

3:35 -- Finished chapter sixteen. I wonder if I can sleep now? Fat chance.

7:10 -- I did sleep for a few hours after all. Back at it.

9:45-- We're talking about Sharon's flaws. Apparently she only has one. Before that, we went for a walk and talked about Christian romance novels. More Doctor Who quotes ensue.

We realized that next year everyone in this group will be over 21—partay!!

10:32 -- Me: Next year we need to bring booze—and boys. Sharon: Which ones?


12:32-- Ffinished Chapter Seventeen.

1:38 -- We're all sort of winding down, whether by choice or necessity. Sharon and Marian
danced like Miley Cyrus. I'm going for a run.

I ran in the rain and got chased home by a thunderstorm. We worked a bit more, then cleaned the cabin and headed out by 4:00. We met up with Jeff and a few others at Ekphrasis, exhausted, where most of us read our first chapters.

First chapters to follow, starting tomorrow.

3-Day Novel Debriefing

As I wrote in previous post “72 Hours of Novel Madness”, six members-or-friends of my Artists' Fellowship Group recently participated in the Three-Day Novel Contest.

We participated to varying levels. Here are the stats:

- Jeff paid the fee, entered the contest, and submitted his completed manuscript. He wrote 15 chapters with 20,926 words.

- Stephanie paid the fee, entered the contest, and finished a prologue, 7 chapters, epilogue, and 14,294 words.

 

The other four of us spent the weekend at a cabin in the woods, and didn't officially participate in the contest. 

- Marian was working on Aakraveil, a novel she's already been writing for two years or so. She carefully crafted 2 chapters with 9, 504 words.

- Sharon wrote 6 chapters with 24,000 words in her sci-fi/fantasy/spiritual novel with a working title of Hummingbird and Hoth.

- Betsy wrote 12 chapters with 22,022 words in her retelling of Beauty & the Beast, entitled Dragon's Hoard.

- Sorina (me) wrote 17 chapters with 29,073 words of a dystopic novel entitled The Four Senses. 

I'll post the first chapters of some of these works over the coming days.

But what you want now is the lively and hilarious narrative answering those questions like “What was it like?!?” “How did you survive?” and “How do you overcome writer's block?”

I don't believe in writer's block, so I won't answer that one. I think if you've got writer's block, you're not a writer. But that's probably me being obnoxious. 

What was it like? How did we survive? 
It was like Heaven. 
We survived through Love. 

It was an amazing weekend of fellowship and mutual admiration. The kindness shown me by my fellow writers kept me going. We got to be really girly and juvenile in the best ways: dancing, singing, giving backrubs, and constantly telling each other how beautiful and talented we are. This won't work for everyone. Some people need to be locked away in silence to get that much work done. But as the statistics above show, it worked (more or less) for us. I was really happy for this as my first 3-Day Novel experience.


What would I do differently next time?
- Write out chapter summaries for the whole book
- Do any necessary research beforehand
- Plan what music to listen to and make playlists. Maybe bring noise-canceling headphones so that I can give my retreat signal to the others when I need to have a good solid few hours of uninterrupted work.
- Devise a much simple plot and straight-forward narrative. This book has blog posts embedded in it (the main character reads a blog as the action goes along), so writing the blog posts really, really slowed me down. I think without them I could have written twice as many words and finished the entire story.
- Actually pay the fee and enter the contest. That gives me both a more focused goal and more bragging rights!

What would I do the same?
- Work with friends, preferably those same friends. I thought I would go crazy from the company (I'm a super introvert) but found that I worked better with people around. When the action was right there, I could tune it out into a sort of background noise; when everyone was outside and I was in, or vice versa, I found my brain distracted by wondering what was going on elsewhere. I think this is a result of being homeschooled: I always had to focus on my work in the midst of noise and activity.
- Take lots of healthy breaks. Go running, swimming, do yoga, cook, eat, watch Doctor Who. Sure, all that takes time, but it resets the brain and keeps the ideas fresh.
- Try to keep the syntax simple and the story moving forward. Think like a theatre director: make everything active and visual. Don't try to write literature. Just try to tell a story.

What is my novel about?
It's the dystopic tale of an Adjunct English professor (yup) who finds herself living a microcosm of her generation's problems: the inability to grow up, get settled, find a husband, find a sustainable job, move beyond teenage emotions, or deal with the challenges of vocation and sexuality. She's an exaggerated version of my weaknesses and those I observe in adults my age and younger. She's an exaggerated version of the repressed conservative Christian trying to deal with the world.
And then she stumbles upon a dystopic, totalitarian society in which everyone has had one of their senses taken away by an oppressive power. She sets out to find this place and to tell the world about it through her writing. I got her all the way through her road adventures, reading the posts these victims have put on their blog, into the city, away from the authorities, disguised, and ready to start digging into the underworld.

So tomorrow I will post excerpts from the journal I kept during the weekend, and each day after that I'll post selections from what we all wrote. Enjoy!