FAIL

NaNoWriMo was a massive fail this year, for a number of reasons. The main reason is that I made a mistake with my choice of story. I chose the zombie manuscript, which I had started for NaNo two or three years ago and failed, thinking I could make it work this time. The problem was, I had no passion for it. Last year I did all sorts of pre-writing for 'Blood Moon', which I did finish. This time, I was all 'eh'.  And it showed. I just didn't care.

Lesson learned. 


Better luck next time, maybe.

NaNoWriMo DAy 8

Word Count: 14,582

I did a little better today. There isn't this urgency to write like there was last year. Then, I was thinking about the story all day, and had done some massive pre-writing. As I stated in an earlier post (I think) I didn't do that this time.

I'm almost at the end of rewriting, and while I know that I want all the characters to converge outside the city, I'm not quite sure how that will happen. The real bummer is that when I started this thing several years ago, I hadn't heard of The Walking Dead, either the graphic novel or the tv show. Now, I've changed from calling the zombies deadwalkers  (too close to walkers} to rotters (thanks, Kirstin!). Floaters and bloaters were also suggested, but I think I'll pass on those.

The truly ironic thing is that I never used to like zombies (not that I really like them now) and thought every movie/book with them was dumb. Now look at me.

I'm not confident I'll reach 50,000 words, but I'll keep plugging away.

Excerpt:

Jeremiah slips into his coat and buttons it, the silence like a living thing. A living thing with teeth. Marie watches him without speaking, but she doesn’t have to say anything because it’s already been said. Already he’s shrugging off the past hour, letting it slide from his shoulders, from his mind. It has to be this way.

            “Take whatever you want,” she says, her voice low and ragged. “You always do.”

            He doesn’t respond. He won’t allow himself to be drawn into it. Not again. It’s just the way things are. The way they have to be.

            Grabbing his pack, he quickly empties it, organizing the things he’s leaving her in trade and the things he’s taking: ammunition: four boxes of rifle shells and two for his pistols, followed by water (he refills his jug) and some canned vegetables and fruits. He’s not greedy.

            “That’s it, Marie,” he says finally, when he’s ready to leave. “Is there a back way out of here?”

            “If there was another way out of here, I wouldn’t tell you.”  She’s standing in front of the unmade bed, her hair wild, and she’s opening and closing her fists.

            “Marie…”

            “Why’d you have to come here? You just used me, like always.”
            “You’re wrong,” he says, not looking at her. “I just wanted to trade. You wanted something more from me, like you always did.”

            “And what’s wrong with that? Do you think I like being alone? Do you  think I like it when men come in here to trade and end up taking what isn’t for sale? Do you, Jeremiah? No, you couldn’t possibly understand, because you don’t care about anyone but yourself. You never did.”

            Jeremiah shakes his head. It will do no good to argue with this woman, who might be slightly unhinged now, which isn’t surprising. This basement room, while an amazing accomplishment, is not a place to stay mentally healthy. He has had enough of this windowless hole, and he’s had enough of her, too.

            “Well, I’ll see you, Marie.”  He heads toward the door, a little worried about what she’ll do.

            “You bastard.” 

            He turns around just in time to see her grab a pistol and point it at him, the barrel shaking while tears course down her cheeks.

            “Get out,” she screams while he struggles to undo all the locks. “Get out before I blast you to hell where you belong. I hope a rotter bites your head off, Jeremiah Stone.”

            He slams the door closed just as a bullet slams into the metal door not two inches from his head. It doesn’t punch through, but leaves a large blister, which is quickly joined by six more.

            Moving as quickly as he dares, he heads for where he thinks the stairs are, but a shuffling noise from that direction causes him to duck down another hallway. He presses silently against the wall, knife in hand, because being quiet is the only way he’ll get out of this place. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he sees a group of what he is sure are rotters shuffle past. How the hell did they get down here?

            When they start pounding on Marie’s door, Jeremiah knows he can’t walk away. Pulling out his rifle, he steps out into the hallway. To his horror, the door bursts open beneath the assault, as if she hadn’t reengaged the locks.

            Light floods out, illuminating the ragged figures as they move into the room. When he bursts inside the room, the first thing he sees is Marie sprawled across the bed, the mattress beneath her soaked red, but not from the rotters who are fighting over which one gets the prize. The smell of gunpowder is strong, and when he spots the pistol beside her hand, he melts back into the hallway, not sure if he should feel better because her death wasn’t as horrible as it could have been, or if he should feel like crap because she killed herself.

            Just another sin to add to the load he already carries, he figures, climbing the steps two at a time. He’s definitely going to hell.

 

NaNoWriMo Day 7

Word Count: 12,396

I wrote a little over 1,000 words today. I hope to do better tomorrow morning.

NaNoWriMo Day 6

Didn't  get much writing done today, due to lying in be a little too long.

Word Count: 11,463

I plan to do much better tomorrow!

NaNoWriMo Day 5

Word count for today: 10,565

It's going well. Some passages I don't change much, because I can't write it any better, while others have been completely redone or even cut.   I remain optimistic.

Excerpt:

Jack snatches the sheet off the bed and opens the window, punching the screen out. As it falls, he quickly knots the threadbare sheet around one leg of the bed, convinced that it’s not in his best interest not to meet this Reverend Moon, whoever he is.  Relying on his luck, because it’s all he has, Jack swings his legs over the windowsill and begins lowering himself down the side of the house just as the door bangs open.

            Two men thrust their heads out through the window, looking down at him silently, with vacant expressions. Jack finds their stares unnerving, and loosens his grip on the sheet so that he slides down even faster, his bare feet barely touching the smooth siding of the house.

            One of the men disappears from the window and Jack gets a bad feeling in his gut. Sure enough, the tension in the sheet abruptly slackens, sending him hurtling down. Luckily the window above the back yard, which although has dead and dying grass and plants, is still a softer landing than the sidewalk would have been.

            Jack rolls as he lands, his fingers grabbing at the sheet, which has followed him down. Jumping to his feet, he jets out of the yard, the air cold on his skin. There’s a wooden privacy fence surrounding the yard but that poses no problem, because the gate is wide open and he hurtles through it and then he’s on the street, still running as hard as he can, the sheet flapping behind him like a white tail.

            By the time he slows, stitch in his side and his lungs burning, the house is far behind him and he’s in the warehouse district again, which is really annoying because no way in hell does  he want to meet up with those Lord of the Flies jokers again.

            Tying the fabric toga-style around him (yay for frat parties), Jack pauses to get his bearings. There’s a faint scent of the river beneath the usual reek of rot and sewage, and it’s toward this he starts walking. He could really use some fresh (fresher) air, and then maybe he can find a way out of this damned warehouse district and into the main city where there’s hopefully some food.

            It’s not long before clothing tops even his desire for food, the wind whipping through the buildings, his feet sore from walking on the cracked cement. It’s slow going, because if he cuts his foot, he’s dead.

            “Come on, Lady Luck,” he mutters, hunching his shoulders. “Don’t fail me now.”

            As if the fickle lady has heard him, he rounds a corner and stumbles, nearly falling headlong onto the street. Cursing, he regains his footing and looks around to see what it is.

            “Oh, God.” Jack turns away from the corpse, the sight of its half-eaten face making his empty belly churn, but not before the practical side of him notes the size of the unneeded clothing.

NaNoWriMo Day 4

Today's word count:  7789

A good day writing. That extra hour really made a difference today. I was able to 'sleep in' and then have a nice amount of time to get some more words down on paper.

An excerpt:

 

-8-

           

            It’s simpler than he thought to find Marie. Once he finds the church (Moon’s church, they called it), which is only a few blocks away from that house of weirdness, it’s easy to get to the  Tower, which is an old hotel. The streets are quiet and empty, the back of his neck prickles constantly as he creeps along the street. Empty cars, trash, corpses. The same things he’s been seeing since he entered the city. And the smell—he’s looking forward to fresh air, that’s for sure.

             After seeing all those people?rotters? pouring out of the church, Jeremiah’s in no mood to dally, and he gets as far away from that place as he can, Gabriel’s words about Moon and that he can control the dead make him even more jumpy. The sooner he gets his ammunition and gets out of this hell hole the better.

            He approaches the hotel slowly, calmly. As eager as he is to get out from in the open, he knows that haste will only cause him to make mistakes, mistakes he can’t afford to make. This place is huge, at least twenty stories. No glass remains in the windows that he can see, the blackness like blind eyes. Carefully, fingers tight on his pistol, he enters the Tower.

            Dead, stale air seasoned with sewage greets him, and it’s a moment until his eyes adjust to the low light. Broken tiles and glass crunch beneath his boots, too loud in the stillness. Sweat trickles down his face. This is a perfect place for rotters, too many places to hide.  As if hearing his thoughts, a figure lurches out of the shadows, broken face snarling, grey hands outstretched, ready to grab and tear. One shot and the thing goes down, face gone and that nasty, rotten smell filling the air. Jeremiah’s head whips around as he looks for more, where there’s one zombie, there’s ten more, and it’s only a matter of time, a few seconds, before they converge.

            Cursing himself for wasting a bullet, Jeremiah hurries to the stairs and yanks it open. Fresh, cool air washes over his face, startling him. Fresh air? Puzzled, he moves into the stairwell, letting the door shut behind him. This place is getting to him, he’s making stupid mistakes, like shooting that rotter instead of using the knife. Now he can hear them, milling around behind the door.

            Suddenly the stairwell is flooded with light, sending shards of pain into his eyes. He flings up his arm, startled.

            The ratcheting of a shotgun, loud in the enclosed space, makes him freeze.

            “Don’t move.” The voice is female and strong, accompanied by cold metal jammed into his gut. “Who the hell—Jeremiah? Is it really you?”

            “Hello, Marie.” He finally opens his eyes and smiles.

            “Well, I’ll be damned. This is pretty much unbelievable.”  Dropping the shotgun, she shakes her head, a grudging smile on her face. It leaves quickly and the shotgun comes back up.

            “What are you doing here? Are you alone? What do you want, Jeremiah?” Her blue eyes are hard, as hard as they were the last time he saw her, hard to hide the hurt, he knows this, knows he’s responsible.

            “I’m alone,” he says, taking off his hat and rubbing his tired head. “I just want some place to crash for a bit, and I need some supplies. Ammunition. Food and water, if you have it.”

            “You know I do, or else you wouldn’t be here.” Turning on her heel, she descends the stairs, leaving him to follow, or not.

            She’s thinner than the last time he saw her, of course, her blonde hair cut to her ears, the way she holds the shotgun practiced and easy. He’ll have to step easy now, watch what he says.

            At the bottom of the stairs she waits for him, mouth an impatient line.

            “I wish you hadn’t riled up the rotters, Jeremiah. I would have thought you’d know better.” 

            “Will they be able to break down the door?”  He stays close behind her as they trot down the hallway, finally stopping outside the boiler room.

            “Eventually,” she says, unlocking the door and holding it open for him.

            It’s amazing, what she’s done to this place. The walls are lined with boxes and cans, bedding and so much stuff that for a second he’s in awe. In one corner is a double bed, neatly made, with a bookcase beside it. There’s also a camp stove and jugs of water. She’s been here a long time, he thinks.

            “Marie, you’re amazing.”

            “Ha!” She locks the door, sliding bolts, lowering a bar, before turning to face him. “I’ve always been amazing, Jeremiah,” she says, hands on her hips. “Why has it taken you so long to realize it?”

            He slides his pack off to the cement floor, an unfamiliar smile tugging at his lips. How long since he actually smiled?

            “I waited, you know,” she says, her voice soft. “The whole place was going to hell, people fleeing, and what did I do? I waited. It was almost too late by the time I realized you weren’t coming for me, that we really weren’t that epic love story I thought we were.”

            “Marie, I—”

            “Don’t. Don’t say it. I know you had to take care of your family, but it would have been nice to have been on your mind, too.” 

            “You were. When it happened, you were the first person I thought of, Marie. I swear it.”

            She stares at him. “Where’s your wife, Jeremiah? And your son? Did you save them?”

            “I—I tried.” He drops his head. “Aiden was at school. He—I got there too late.”  Jeremiah grits his teeth, remembering the way his wife had screamed when they finally reached the elementary school. The building had taken a direct hit, instantly reducing the brick building to nothing more than rubble.

            “And your wife?” Her implacable questions stir up the pain, the guilt again.

            “She refused to leave.” It’s all he can say, the only words he can force past the stone in his throat.

            “Refused leave with you. I can understand that, after she found out about us.” Marie nods. “You tried to persuade her to leave, using your logic, but you didn’t count on a mother’s heart. What was she doing, digging in the rubble? That’s what I would have done, no matter how hopeless. Not you, though. You couldn’t handle the guilt of being too late to save your son, and so you left your wife. What happened to her, Jeremiah? Is she still alive? Did you go back for her? What did you do?”

            He says nothing, black shame making him tremble. He’s forgotten this about her, the way she could see right through to the ugly part of him and make him hate himself.

            “You went back when the guilt finally became too much, and you found her, right?”

            Jeremiah shakes his head, speaking with effort through stiff lips. “No, I didn’t find her. There were no—living people there. Not anymore.”  His fingers caress the butt of his pistol, the pistol that’s become a part of him, the strongest part. The only part.

            “You always were late to the party, Jeremiah.” The mocking tone cuts to the quick, and in two strides he’s in her face, grabbing her arms, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no idea what it was like for me, knowing I’d failed my son, and then having to put a bullet in my wife’s brain to stop her from eating me. You didn’t have to do that.”

            “No, I didn’t,” she spits, trying to twist out of his grip, but he only tightens his fingers, digging into her flesh. “I was too busy trying to stay alive, trying to believe what my lover had told me, that he’d come back for me and we’d get out of there together.” Her eyes shoot sparks at him. “But you didn’t come. I waited and waited, until the rotters were at the door, until it was too late, after everyone but me was left. You forgot about me, Jeremiah.”

            The rage leaks out of him then, because she’s right. He’d been so consumed with pain and guilt about his wife and son, that any thought he had of her blew right out of his head.

            His hands drop and the takes a step back, but she throws herself against him and takes his face in her hands.

            “But I don’t care,” she whispers, her face so close to his. “I don’t care, because you’re here now, and now is all that matters.”

NaNoWriMo Day 3

Current word count: 6196

I finally feel like I"m getting somewhere and not just regurgitating the old story. I've changed some events around, like having Jeremiah save Zeke after he goes into the city, instead of before. Also, added some scenes with Gabriel, Liam and Jeremiah, to lead up to their meeting later.

It's been a good writing day despite not getting up at 4:30 like I wanted to this morning. Since it was Saturday, I had plenty of time to write. Yay for Saturday!

Should do well tomorrow too, with the extra hour.