No Novel Today

NaNoWriMo is just around the corner. And, after weeks of indecision (should I or shouldn’t I?), I’ve decided not to join it for this year.

I’ve got nothing against it. It’s just that, for reasons I’ve yet to form a coherent explanation for, I’m finding it harder and harder to write. It’s like some sort of massive writer’s block, and it stays even though I’ve tried all I can to go around or punch right through it. It’s not that I’ve got no ideas for a new story, I’ve at least 3 usable ones with plot already made and ready, it’s just the putting-on-paper part that’s bothering me.

I’ve no trouble with writing. But I seem to have problem to make them last. Nowadays I can a paragraph, maybe two, three, a dozen if they’re particularly small. And they will be nice, readable, and begging to be continued. But then I stopped. I can’t go on. This is not working so well.

No, wait. Maybe a week ago I can do that. Nowadays I can only make a paragraph. One. And then my brain goes full stop. Nowadays I have problem starting the writing, and continuing it.

Which is a shame, because I’ve worked hard on making a full-fledged plot and plans and everything for this potential new novel. New story. I have characters running and jumping in my head like a real person, a world all set up with places to go and ornaments to admire. Maybe I’ll manage to get a vignette or two, but a fully formed story would be difficult.

And now I’ve noticed that most of my sad unfinished story will probably only end up in my hard drive, never seeing the light of other people’s eye. What the heck. Here are some bits and pieces. Unedited.

There were many things for him to figure out, waking up in a cave. First, there’s the enigmatic who he is, but that didn’t seem as important for the moment. He was a in cave. A wild, nature-built cave. Where was he, why was he there, and was there something he should do before finding a way out of here? Because, obviously, he wouldn’t go to such an offbeat place without a purpose, wouldn’t he? Leaving without doing whatever it was that he was supposed to do might not end up with a pat on his back.

And another:

Smokes. Always did him good, didn’t it? Smokes and mirrors. Smokes and tobacco. Smokes and the smell of burnt of offering.

… Now where did that last part come from? He didn’t know no burnt offering.

His name’s Matt. Matthew Anderson, which is a bit of a cheap name, if you ask him. It’s like everyone that walks in this country have that name. Matthew? Which Matthew? Anderson? Which Anderson?

Anyway, his name’s Matt Anderson, and he’s a private investigator. It sounds a bit like a dream job or an impossible job, depending on how you look at it, out there solving crime and shooting mobs without the protection of a police badge. But he was surprisingly good at it. He had solved 6 major cases just the last year. *Murder* cases, mind you, because apparently there are people out here who think it wise to let some random guy handle the murderer of their loved one instead of the police. They were puzzling and exciting. Just like a real life Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie story. Exhilarating. Got himself close to death a couple of times.

And another:

He was a street cat, but he was proud.

He was young, a child, a kitten. But he lived, and he thrived, all by himself. He hunted, he scoured, he scavenged. No one can tell him what to do. He stole and he took what he could. He lived and die by the might of his claws and the scars in his eyes.

He moved about. Going from neighborhood to neighborhood, looking for food in all places imaginable. He was never in one place too long that anyone know him, that any humans would notice and blame him for their missing bones of a fish. He moved about, and he kept moving. The instinct of a survivalist kept him alive.

And… oh. This one is actually a finished flash fic. Still mostly draft, though:

Perfect Storm

If there’s one thing she liked about living near the lake, it was the night storm.

This might be weird to those who doesn’t know her, or those who doesn’t know the lake well. But at night, when it was storming, she would always woke up, opened her window, and looked out to the lake.

There, she saw what few else did, clutching beneath their blanket and trying to ward off the sound. The lightning, dancing and playing about up there on the sky, occasionally striking the water below, just for the lulz.

And the clouds, like some kind of phantom ensemble, by playing the most primal and ancient of all music. They played the rhythm to the lightning’s natural dance. They yelled, they cajoled, and hummed, before at last bursting out laughing.

And the squall of a rain, falling down from exploding clouds, adding ambient and harmony to the cloud’s raw power. Falling and disturbing the lake’s calm reflection, its echo took the cloud’s singing far and wide.

And the lake, the mirror, showed what it was like on the other side of the universe, the unreality. On the lake surface, the clouds were the colors of a rainbow, before raindrops broke into their strange reflection and created the realm of illusion. The lightning, stroke in and continued their dance all the way on the other side.

And it was from the window that she looked at it all, the nature’s concert, like it was made just for her. The rain beat, the cloud sang, and the lightning danced. She would sit there, looking at this perfect performance, all the way to its finale.

And then, at last, the lightning rested, the cloud stopped grumbling, and the rain dissipated. Only then can she sleep easy.

And another:

“I’m not going to be in the way.”

“I know you’re not going to.” I put the machine gun back to the rack and pulled out another. Some sorta laser rifle, I think. “But you know what out there is? Still dangerous.”

“Aren’t it dangerous for you too?”

“‘Course not.” I pulled he rifle closer, inspecting it. Tried to, at least. My mind was still swirling about the girl on my garage’s doorstep. “Mm… I have guns.”

“I can use a gun.”

“Big guns,” I turned to look at her and gestured to the displays on my side.

“I made most of those guns.”

“Yeah, okay,” I mumbled, pretending to not care. What I was telling myself was don’t look at her, just keep your eyes on the weapons. “But can you use them?”

And another. Touhou, this one.

Hmm…  Now that she gave the shelf another look, it was probably a collection which she should finish reading soon. Her common raids had accumulated quite a reading backlog. And she supposed she should return them when she was done, supposed.

…. Nah. Patchy wouldn’t mind if she borrowed them for just a little longer. Still, she should start reading them faster than multiplying them.

Marisa got up from her bed and was about to pick one of from the shelf when she heard a faint tug at the shop’s door. Wasn’t quite a knock, wasn’t quite the wind, maybe worth checking out. Maybe.

And I think I should stop by now.

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One thought on “No Novel Today

  1. No :c please don’t stop writing. It’s common to a writer to have something like writer’s block. But keep in mind that your story will be sad.

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