The idea is to write a 50 000 word novel in 30 days. Well, the 30 days have passed and all I have to show for it is a hankering (read: addiction) for coffee and an allergy to the people who pulled it off.
In truth, many people went out of their way to tell me that this was crazy, and that I shouldn't do it.
In spite of them being partially right; nanowrimo is indeed crazy, I have the following to say to them: I'm doing it all over again next year, and the year after that, and the one after that as well.
It's not because I want to prove a point (even though I do), nano is a tonne of fun. Even though I went through 3 tins of strong roast coffee and managed to go insane (temporarily), I still want to do this and next time I'll have this experience to learn from so I can be one of the people that pull it off.
Nevertheless, since this post has little to do with poetry I wanted to share my other writing interest, as someone reminded me that it's actually something I like doing (along with imagining all the fun and dramatic ways to kill people).
The seventy eight year old woman just lay there, next to her husband, with one hand on his lifeless chest, weeping in silence.
The flames, at the lick of human flesh, quickly descended on the two bodies. The thin layer of human oils that had been fearfully and feverishly expelled - along with sweat - from the old woman welcomed the fire that ravaged her. She could feel her skin peeling off under the intense heat. She shivered with a fervent fear as the fire cheated her out of the peace-of-mind of one final breath.
Francis Marlene van Dyke died at the age of seventy-eight. Burned, boiled, choked and coughed to death.
(c) extract from House On Fire (2010)
This short story is incomplete. After killing these two people I wasn't comfortable with writing about death. I guess if I could write without imagining and seeing my words come to life in vivid detail, maybe then I could finish the story.
We'll see.
Namaste
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