It’s not that I haven’t been writing. I’ve been spending a lot of time over at Cool Blue Souls getting that site off the ground (if you haven’t stopped by yet, I encourage you to visit us. Lots of good stuff–all free). My daybook writing continues to chug along at a daily clip, and I’m working on revising on old manuscript and drafting a new one–both fiction. These are good days indeed.

I am also participating in NanoWriMo again this year. It’s a writing challenge that runs from November 1 through 30. To put it simply, you write a 50,000 novella/book in 30 days. That works out to 1,667 words a day.

It sounds intimidating, I know.

This will be the fourth time in six years that I will have participated. The first was my best product by far; the second and third attempts lacked focus and heart–two things I DO have this time around. I am excited.

One of the reasons that I enjoy participating is the immersion in a world of like-minded souls. We are all writers, unrelenting in our pursuit of truth through words. And in that immersion, we do not give lies or rationalizations any room to take over. As long as the pen moves across that page, truth is pursued.

I liken it to walking a good 10 or 15 miles. You reach that third or fourth mile and you just begin to feel your stride, your pace. You walk right through the barricades of guilt, of pressure, of negative thoughts that might have been permeating your mind, your ideas just an hour ago. You begin to think of new things, possibilities, truths, solutions.

That’s what happens when you hit that first 10,000 word mark. Yeah, you’re writing fiction, or an epic poem, or maybe something else just as intense. But what is really happening is that you are churning out words, language, symbols of things deeper in your life. You are cleaning the pipes of your inner thoughts, feelings, concerns, struggles.

In the end, when November 30 comes around and you upload your manuscript to check the word count, something beyond the simple euphoria of finishing overwhelms you. You realize that you have just concluded a life-changing journey that has dropped you on the shores of some new island, where opportunities are fresh, unrealized, waiting.

I encourage you to take this journey with me. Join NanoWriMo and give it a try. I know what you are afraid of. I know what you are concerned about. Trust me. It’s supposed to be hard. The hard is what makes it great. :)

I am not complaining, nor am I looking for any encouragement to “get through this” or “just keep writing.” I just need a little time to sort through this whole moment.

Thus, the shift in my Nano Project.

I started writing a story called Cafe Yesterday. Then I came up with another idea for a seven-book series that is a lot like Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians. The ideas are flowing like crazy. The actual time I have to place Butt In Chair and write for any sustained period is practically nonexistent.

Take today for example. Leave house by 6:30 to take H to the gym. Pick up H at 10, then take M to soccer tournament at 10:30. Take H to skating lessons at 12:15. Take M to horse lessons at 3:00.

Again. No pleas for sympathy. We’re all in the same boat. I get that.

But as a writer, I can’t just flick that creative switch on and off as easily as I can start and stop the Jeep in the carpool shuffle. As much as I’d like to be like those writers who can do that….I cannot.

Yet….I will not abandon the Nano Project altogether. Instead, I will attempt a creative nonfiction piece of no fewer than 50,000 words that chronicles my attempts to locate, lasso, and enliven my muse, to discipline myself as a writer to somehow do the things I’ve always wanted to do.

Could be ultra boring to read, and I promise you nothing. I may not even share all that I write. But if I can do this–If I can fulfill this promise to me to spend 50,000 words exploring the writer within, then I believe something good will come out of it.

Now. Back to the car pool line…

by Rus VanWestervelt

At first, Devin let the panic consume him almost as fully as the speed with which he was falling. The panic started much earlier, of course, when he was still on the ridge, that first slip and then the desperate lunge for the small branch that gave him just enough time to realize what was happening.

He had been in the woods for nearly three days, hiding, surviving, eluding Jake and the others who wanted him dead. Their reasons were no different than any of the others; Jake was just better at the game. He had a way of running his business that way: smooth, clean, with a reputation of giving you every break you deserved—and then some. But when your time was up, when you had crossed that line and missed his final deadline, Jake made sure the payback was swift. It just made good business sense to clean up and move on.

But Devin was different from the others who had crossed that line. Everybody who knew of his survival skills in the woods was already dead, and so he played the role of the senseless fool to Jake and all the others, knowing that when he needed to fall back on being a Rambo in the woods, he would fool them all.

Jake was hundreds of miles south, still in Baltimore, combing the Medfield district one block at a time, getting a little more agitated with each homeless idiot who hadn’t seen Devin in days. They suppressed their smiles, their laughter in seeing Jake a little unnerved by Devin’s disappearance. Stevie and the others on the street knew better than to let Jake sense their delight; marked men like Devin didn’t survive this long, and the fact that Jake was now the one conducting the search-and-kill mission told them all that this payback was anything but swift. Something was going wrong. They hoped Devin was enjoying this brief reprieve; once Jake found him, the payback would be anything but swift. Devin was in for a slow and torturous end to his life.

Devin knew it would be this way with Jake. In the past, death was never waiting at the end of the game. He had been beaten badly a few times, and one of them—Carl—had dished out his paybacks by getting a little too friendly with Devin’s little sister. Jake’s rules were different; his reputation rested on his kindness and faith in his customers to honor their end of the contract. When they didn’t, it was never a question how it would turn out. It was a matter of when.

In the seconds before the thin branch snapped and Devin slipped over the cliff’s edge, he cracked a smile in his panic at the irony of eluding Jake. He had made it this far north without a soul following him. He had been extremely careful in remaining anonymous since leaving Baltimore. He had pocketed the last few sales of smack to give him enough cash to run, and the slate-gray Honda Civic he stole from the Fullerton Park-and-Ride was too common to warrant a stop along I-95. Devin was 400 miles away before Jake—or anybody else for that matter—had even realized that he had run. As far as the world was concerned, Devin Andrews had disappeared completely, just as if he had never existed at all.

The smile didn’t last long, though. The crisp crack of the branch wiped all expression from his face. His feet dug into the dry dirt trying to get some kind of leverage, but the ground crumbled beneath him as pebbles and patches of grass tumbled down into the ravine, lost in the darkness. He was at least 100 feet from the bottom (as far as he could tell), and he was nearly certain that he would not survive the fall.

When the branch snapped, he searched desperately to the left, then to the right for something to cling to. Every vine and branch in sight was thinner than the one he held on to, with the exception of a single root about 8 feet below him, protruding from the cliff.

Thank God for the Mighty Oak, Devin thought. The root stuck out about 14 inches, to his left, too far to grab on the way down. In the final few seconds before the branch broke free, he cast his legs to the right to gather momentum for a quick pendulum swing to the left. It was the only way he would be able to grab the root, the last lifeline before he gained too much speed into the darkness.

The plan worked. The branch broke free just as Devin’s legs shifted to the left. He focused all of his energies on stretching his hand out to the protruding root and wrapping his fingers quickly around it. The sensation of relief was instantaneous; he expected almost a chalky coat from the dry dirt, but the wood was damp in his hand, and the smile returned to his face. He had thwarted death once again.

He almost wished Jake could see him now. Would he forgive him of his debt and take him in to work the other side? He had never had so much power, but he imagined that, although the stress would be a little different than having to answer to people like Jake, the thrill would be unparalleled. The control, running the game, and of course, all that money.  Yeah, if Jake saw him like this—surviving, even thriving on the edge of death, he’d take him in immediately and see that what he had to offer would be good for business. Damn good.

He looked directly below him and tried to map out a path to safety. There were a few larger rocks jutting out of the cliff to his right, about 5 feet below the outstretched tips of his boots. Another good pendulum swing in the other direction would put him squarely in line to land safely there. He could clearly see the flaw in that drop, though, as there was nothing to cling to once he landed. If he lost his balance at all, he would tip over backward and sink into the abyss. Damn bad.

The dampness in the root he was holding on to was beginning to make his own palm perspire, and he could feel his fingers beginning to slip to the tip of the root, thinning gradually to a strand of life no thicker than a piece of hemp. He knew he had no choice. He repeated the swing of his feet—this time to the left—and let go of the root precisely at the right time. He landed perfectly on the two rocks, and he hugged the cliff in relief, once again.

Devin had exactly 3 seconds before the rocks broke free from the dirt. In that short time, he shouted Jake’s name in his personal triumph of survival; he grinned madly, now certain he had thwarted death. He even hugged the side of the mountain in some twisted sense of camaraderie. They had been there for each other, the mountain and he; it was only natural for him to face this challenge and then defy the pull of gravity, the pull of death. The fact that the mountain helped him was ironic but welcome to Devin, and he knew that, after taking a moment to celebrate this thought and catch his breath, he would look down and find a few more rocks, another root, or even better, a small ledge to sit on.

But those 3 seconds passed quickly. When the rocks crumbled, he went along with them just as fast down the side of the mountain. The panic consumed him instantly once more. At first, he sought out another branch, or rock, or root that might save him, but as quickly as he saw them and stretched his hand to grab on, they passed him by, faster and faster as he fell. His center of weight began to pull him down harder, his backside now falling first into the darkness. In one last attempt to catch a branch from a solitary oak growing out of the side of the cliff, he twisted his body to the right to reach the tree. He used every drop of energy within him to lunge at the oak, and he felt it working. He could see himself wrapping his hand around the branch, outstretched like a savior’s offering, nothing short of a Godsend. He could feel his fingers touch the bark, feel the damp wood once more, sense the cheating of death one last time.

All of that he could envision, but none of it ever had the chance to happen. Devin’s back hit a cluster of rocks and snapped his body like a ragdoll, his arms and legs flailing as he bounced back into the air and then back toward the bottom once more.

There was no more looking for branches or roots, no more efforts to show Jake

Jake who?

That he was tough enough to have his debt forgiven with an invitation to join him on the other side. There was none of that.

Slipping out of consciousness, still falling endlessly into the abyss, Devin struggled to keep his eyes open. His hopes were dim that anything could save him now. He watched the side of the mountain rush by him as if he were on the road, pedal pushed to that metal, screaming along I-95 with the world passing him by. The only difference was that it was now a vertical blur, no brakes, no rest stops. Just down.

Branches brushed him as he fell, scraping into his arms, his face, his back. He ceased wincing after the first few, suddenly dulled to the pain in the realization of what was happening. He closed his eyes, struggled to open them, then closed them again.

When he reopened them for the final time, he caught a glimpse of red on the side of the mountain. It was an intentional red, a crimson that he was certain was nothing more than blood filling his eyes. It passed him quickly, but then reappeared, as if the last second had rewound and replayed. It passed a second time, and appeared once more.

This time, it remained. He never lost the sense of falling, and indeed the rest of the mountain screamed by him, up-up-upward to the sky as he continued to sink further and further into darkness. The crimson remained still long enough for him to discern the figure of a beautiful young woman, dressed in a deep red evening gown. His eyes were drawn to her stunning diamond and emerald necklace, set in soft gold, that caught light from some source unknown and sparkled brightly. She fell with him, or at least the image of her did, and the sad, forlorn face she offered chilled him in these last few seconds.

Julia.

The crimson figure raised her arms to him

Come back

And beckoned him to come to her.

Please

Still falling, and out of control, Devin tried to reach out to her. She smiled sadly, gently, and whispered something to him,

Please come back

but he could not hear her

Julia

Or understand her

I need you

Or do anything but continue to fall, with the memory of her whispers and her sorrowful beauty, until all went black, and he hit the bottom of the ravine.

Black. And nothing more, for many days to come.

Yes, I confess. I am writing High School Yearbook, and I have never watched High School Musical.

I get the main idea, though, and I’m running with it, using every stitch of previous knowledge I’ve gained about working with yearbook teams over the past 20-plus years. What I’m realizing is that these teams that I’ve worked with are micro-dramas capturing all that is real to the rest of us, regardless of our age. The concepts of love, fitting in, doing your best, and working together are universal themes that, even if you’ve never worked on a yearbook team, you can relate, even if you’ve found yourself on the other end of any of these concepts.

Maybe that’s what is so fun about this: I’m writing about you, about me, about the rest of the world, and I’m having the time of my life doing it.

Second, I’m done committing myself to any Challenges online for awhile. I keep trying to do these things, and I keep falling way, way short.

Third, as if this seems foolish to write after I just said no more challenges, I’ve begun my third annual NanoWriMo challenge, which is to write a book during the month of November. Believe it or not, I was successful in my previous two attempts (and the first year’s fruit, Journey to Cold Rock, will be released in March 2008–pushed back a little because of some last-minute necessary revisions). I had planned on writing a serious, deep novel about a person who learns he has a gift to heal, but I opted for the much less serious, more superficial book that spins off of High School Musical and is aptly called, High School Yearbook. I’ll post excerpts here whenever I get excited enough about a particular passage or chapter. So…stay tuned!

Fourth, I’m Back on my Mac! It’s old, it’s taped together, but it WORKS, and now that I figured how to be a little creative with Comcast, I should be back online more regularly. . .

woohoo!
Fifth, more meaningful stuff to come later tonight/tomorrow. Just had to share the good news that I’m finally back with a computer in front of me! WooHoo!!!!!

Uploaded my still incomplete novel a few moments ago….Total word count submitted: 51,777. I’m feelin’ really good about this. Second year in a row I’ve written 50K in the month of November, although this work is still unfinished–unlike last year’s book, which I was able to type “The End” on 11/30 and feel like I had a complete draft to play around with. I’ve still got a good 15K to go for this book before those lovely two words can be typed after three hard returns and a shift to the center of the page….

Now, I should probably try to get an hour or two of sleep, because at 9 I need to be at the courthouse for jury duty….That’s right! They selected numbers 50 through 687. And because I’m number 625, that makes me the big jury winner….

Wouldn’t that be great if they gave you juror door prizes or parting gifts?

And special thanks go to Juror no. 7, who leaves us today with a brand new blender and a $20 gift card to Kameras R Us! We think he did just a great job of intimidating Juror no. 2 to change her vote to convict! Congrats, Juror no. 7! We hope to see you back here real soon!

Ah, yes. Sleep is a definite priority for me right now!

I’ll update when I return. I can’t wait! I’m taking HP and the Half-Blood Prince with me, as well as my Moleskine Reporter’s Journal (I have a Moleskine for every occasion!) and “plenty of quarters for the vending machines” as the district court’s recorded message advised me to do in my special instructions phone call….

Enjoy the day, all! And for those of you who are wrapping up your books or who are blogging for the 30th straight day….waHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! Congrats to you!!!

Q: Will you finish?

A: Of course we will. It’s what we do, we crazy writers. We set a goal to write 50K in one month, and we do it. We never said it was going to be pretty (although some great things do happen when you write 50K in one “sitting”).

Q: Is any of it good?

A: It’s all good, if you ask me. It’s a vomit draft, and therefore it serves its purpose to have words on a page to work with. This activity, this exercise in writing, is making the clay–lots of clay–to spend a whole year molding into something worthy of sending off for representation.

Q: What happens after you finish?

A: You take a breather–at least I do. Last year, I took off two weeks before I just had to jump back in and start working with what I had just written. Some people take a longer break. I think that there is another nationally sponsored revision month (maybe March) where you spend a certain number of hours in the month revising what you wrote in November. I can’t wait that long. It took me a full year to revise Cold Rock, which was last year’s Nano creation.

Q: What’s this final week going to look like for you?

A: It’s going to look a lot like the screen on my laptop. Virtually every possible minute will be spent on this draft to make sure I make the November 30 deadline. That means night time sleeps turn into short naps whenever absolutely necessary. It means lots and lots of coffee and very little sugar (causes too many quick crashes, which is devastating for any artist). It means I send my internal editor on a week-long trip to the Bahamas so that he doesn’t try and stop me from finishing.

In a nutshell, it means insanity.

And I love every minute of it.

:)

So. I am, on Day 14 here, tabling all of my work on The Pact and beginning anew with a stream of consciousness piece aptly titled, Seventeen Days in November.

This will be the ultimate of discovery drafts for me, and I’m not sure what I will end up sharing with my larger community, if any of it. I am committed to writing 50,000 words this month, though, so I may very well produce something worthy of posting here. . . .

Did I mention it’s good to be back?

I have one more major deadline to complete for a pub that’s going to press for release on Saturday, and then I’ll be free to post on a more-daily routine…I can’t wait to trip on over to all of your sites as well and see what y’all have been up to in the last few weeks.

Love to all, and in peace,

Good night. :)