Day One of NaNoWriMo:
Less than an hour of writing, and 332 words down. At this rate, I should hit 50K in five months. Some peeps are blogging their novels, I'm gonna hold off on making anything public until I actually finish the thing. But here's the opening passage to wet your whistle.
He’d been here before. Or he thought that he did. Either this was really happening, or he was flashing back to a scene from one of those Skinemax movies he would always watch whenever he wasn’t feeling so high on himself. The sweat on his brow felt real enough. He recognized the Cure CD playing on the bookshelf system in this modest bedroom. The chest he was looking at sure looked real.
“There should be more talking right now,” he thought. “Witty banter, dirty talking… hell, I’ll take her reading the sports scores from the TV. I still need to know how the Tigers did tonight.” But those thoughts soon gave way to those of pure mechanics. He quickly went through his checklist of movements in his repertoire, mentally checking off which ones would be included in his performance tonight. “Can’t do my specialty tonight,” he angrily muttered under his breath. He kept telling himself he should have stretched before his last softball game. No triple was worth going without his special move.
His companion caught sight of this, but before she could say anything, he went into his routine. His performance was more mechanical, more like an Olympic diver in the prelims, making sure the degree of difficulty was just enough to impress the judge to go on to the medal round. He started into his routine, but then noticed something was off. “That track doesn’t sound like that,” he thought, noticing the oddly repeating four-note pattern coming from the CD. Four guitar strums, then silence, then another four strums, repeating ad nauseum. He’d heard this rhythm before. “Wait a minute, this sounds a lot like my…”
As the sunlight glistened through Tony’s window, the familiar four-beat strain of his alarm clock welcomed him to another Tuesday morning. As he struggled to reach the snooze button, one thought came into his mind, one that did not bode well for the rest of the day: “Damnit, time to wash the sheets again.”
Any (con/de) structive criticism is welcome.
Less than an hour of writing, and 332 words down. At this rate, I should hit 50K in five months. Some peeps are blogging their novels, I'm gonna hold off on making anything public until I actually finish the thing. But here's the opening passage to wet your whistle.
He’d been here before. Or he thought that he did. Either this was really happening, or he was flashing back to a scene from one of those Skinemax movies he would always watch whenever he wasn’t feeling so high on himself. The sweat on his brow felt real enough. He recognized the Cure CD playing on the bookshelf system in this modest bedroom. The chest he was looking at sure looked real.
“There should be more talking right now,” he thought. “Witty banter, dirty talking… hell, I’ll take her reading the sports scores from the TV. I still need to know how the Tigers did tonight.” But those thoughts soon gave way to those of pure mechanics. He quickly went through his checklist of movements in his repertoire, mentally checking off which ones would be included in his performance tonight. “Can’t do my specialty tonight,” he angrily muttered under his breath. He kept telling himself he should have stretched before his last softball game. No triple was worth going without his special move.
His companion caught sight of this, but before she could say anything, he went into his routine. His performance was more mechanical, more like an Olympic diver in the prelims, making sure the degree of difficulty was just enough to impress the judge to go on to the medal round. He started into his routine, but then noticed something was off. “That track doesn’t sound like that,” he thought, noticing the oddly repeating four-note pattern coming from the CD. Four guitar strums, then silence, then another four strums, repeating ad nauseum. He’d heard this rhythm before. “Wait a minute, this sounds a lot like my…”
As the sunlight glistened through Tony’s window, the familiar four-beat strain of his alarm clock welcomed him to another Tuesday morning. As he struggled to reach the snooze button, one thought came into his mind, one that did not bode well for the rest of the day: “Damnit, time to wash the sheets again.”
Any (con/de) structive criticism is welcome.
1 Comments:
Hey I kinda liked it better without that first paragraph...
I don't know if that's constructive or deconstructive, sorry.
By
Sandra Vahtel, at 11:53 AM
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