It didn't seem like a difficult goal at first. 1667 words per day doesn't sound too intimidating. The first week was a breeze. Character descriptions and major plot events built my word count up quickly.
The details are proving to be more difficult. I am not yet discouraged. My word count is just over 19,000 and I am still on track. I just find that meeting my word quota is taking longer each day. Procrastination is also taking root and digging in its heels. Hence, this blog post :)
Needless to say, my crafting has taken a back seat to the novel writing fiend within me. I hope to get back on track with my projects once November is over. I have some great holiday craft ideas that I am itching to try out! In place of crafty how-to's, I will give you novel teasers. A poor consolation prize, I know, but I could use any feedback you can give. Don't worry about my feelings. I have thick skin! Brutal honesty is best. If you think it's a writhing mass of worthless drivel, please tell me so!
Now that I've given you such confidence in my writing ability, here is an excerpt from the first chapter :)
The heat is suffocating, so we keep our distance. The shadows of the flames flicker across our faces and our eyes are ignited as we watch the house burn. We stare as if entranced as the house sacrifices itself to the fire.
I glance at my grandmother. Her aged cheeks are dry. The heat from the flames prevents her tears from falling. She stands silent, just as helpless as the rest of us. I cannot recall a time when I have ever considered her helpless. Yet even her well of control cannot douse the inferno before us.
Ashes dance through the air, fiery around the edges at first, then fading as the air sucks the warmth from them. One lodges itself in my grandmother's hair. She is unaffected by its landing. I do not think she is even aware that a piece of her home is now resting in her curls. Although she was roused from sleep and forced to flee for her life, my grandmother's curls hold firm. My hand instinctively reaches up to my own hair. Wisps fly around my face like the dancing ashes. The elastic band is just barely holding the bulk of my long hair away from my face. I swat at a wayward piece of ash as it nears my face. The wind catches it and pulls it further away from me. The ash in my grandmother's hair is pale gray, only a few shades darker than the hair around it. It comforts me to see she does not look disheveled. In a small town like this, and for a granddaughter that is teetering on the edge of freaking out, appearances are everything. The burning would be even harder if its disaster was mirrored by her appearance.
Her eyes stare at the hollow windows. The heat of the force raging inside the house shattered them long ago. I was not here when the glass shattered. The window frames were already gaping by the time I got here. The flames reach through the glassless frames, hungry for the oxygen in the open air. The darkness of the night swallows the smoke as it rises away from the remains of the emblazoned structure. My grandmother's sharp eyes take it all in, her cocoa brown irises ignited like a setting sun. Her face is radiant in the glow from the house.
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