I’m going to keep it brief and give you a little excerpt at the end of this blog to tie up another great year of NANOWRIMO. I hope that your month was successful and that it taught you something about your ability to persevere, in the face of ominous word counts, writer’s block doldrums, and persnickety characters that don’t do as they’re told.

I, for one, am proud of you. The winner of the goodie bag will be chosen this week and I’ll announce the name on the blog this week. Think of it as an early Christmas. I’m still curious to know how it went for all of you and if you have any pitfalls or successes you’d like to share, please send them my way. If this was your first or your 25th, I know that you got something out of the process.

If anything, it teaches us how to manage our time better, how to flow with the writing even when its not going how we think it should, and how to keep going even when its hard. I hope the very best for your project. My final piece of advice is this:

When the first day of December rolls around, I ask that you take that hard-earned manuscript you slaved over for a month, save it (Twice) and put it away. For a whole month. Don’t look at it, don’t tweak it. Don’t edit it. (the only exception is that if you’re really close to finishing something or the whole thing, keep extending your daily word count goal until you’re at a good stopping place). Don’t open it again until January 1st at the earliest. Give your brain and your thoughts time to settle and reflect, so you can come at it with fresh eyes and a begin the process of turning that beautiful raw material into a wondrous book.

Here’s a little (unedited) piece of my new project. Enjoy! (and Congratulations)

…

I wish the train would go faster, why do we have to keep stopping for people? I get off, shove my way through the current going down, swimming upwards like a desperate salmon. I keep the soup intact. I climb his stairs two at a time and the ache in my chest is probably equal parts worry and being terribly out of shape.
“Please answer. Please answer,” I whisper as I raise my finger to the antiquated brass button. Charlie rips the door open before I can even ring his bell. He looks wild. Unmoored. His eyes are fighting and strange. Like he’s made…decisions. I don’t know what to say so…Kansas takes over.
“Hey—”
“Get out of my way.”
“Where you going?” I ask and tilt my head to the side like an innocent farm girl, unaccustomed to dark thoughts.
“Out,” he grouches.
“I’ll go with you.” I shrug at this, and the soup and bread shrugs too. He glares at me; I can feel his mouth forming sharp blades of words.
“I’m suicidal.” The admission itself is a lifeline that he throws out. He could have said he had a meeting, or lawyers to talk to, or a walk to think. He hopes I’ll back down if he throws it, head on, into my face. I force myself to smirk and roll my eyes, even while I bully him backwards, my will and the box of warm food herding him.
“You’re hungry.”
“No!” he says, a split second before his stomach rises to greet me with a groan. “Just go, Meg. I’ll see you at the funeral.” His back is pressed to the not yet closed door.
“Who’s? Yours?” I pause, Charlie’s eyes go soft through the anger. “Get in the apartment, Charlie. Before it gets cold.” I force him back, and slam the door closed, putting myself between him and it. I set down the box and take off my coat and hang it up next to where he’s standing. He sighs, takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“Meg,” he whispers.
“Let’s eat,” I say and take off his scarf for him, hanging it with reverence next to my shabby long trench. He gives in and throws his coat over the bright blue. As though he can’t look at it tonight. I take the box into the kitchen and start to unpack the hot soup and warm bread. I have to get the step stool to reach the bowls in the cabinet and Charlie is just standing there watching me, shirt with his cuffs rolled up, untucked and pining for the bridge or busy street that would have ended the pain.
But the pain can fade. I know. It can become livable. It’s been my asshole roommate for some time. I set down the bowls and crack open the top of the container. Charlie leans in, trying to feign disinterest.
“Is that—”
“Chicken and wild rice, from Saul’s private stash.”
Charlie fake glares and his stomach growls again. “You little shit.”
I don’t respond but I pass him a full bowl and a chunk of fresh bread. He holds them both in his hands, warm, soft. Little things to cling to in a world that was so desperate and cold five minutes ago. He doesn’t speak, but he sits at the island and I saddle up next to him.
I talk about work. I talk about an article I’m working on about AI, I talk about the impending writer’s strike. I keep my topics to things easy to let go of. I talk about anything, but leave spaces of silence for him to contribute. He doesn’t, but he presses his long thigh against mine under the counter, and finishes the rest of the soup.
I offer to stay. He says it’s unnecessary. The funeral is tomorrow. We have things to take care of. He shakes his head. He’s changed from the man marching to death. To someone resigned to accept it. But I’m wary, and I don’t want to return to my cold apartment. Not with his knee touching mine.
“I can take the couch.”
“No.”
“Charlie.”
“I’m fine.” He says, and I believe him, but I look at him like I’m not sure. “I’m gonna be fine.” He says, and nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”