Hello, I am taking part in NaNoWriMo 2019. For those of you who don’t know NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. (I guess it should be called InaNoWriMo as it is now International!) The idea is to write a novel length story (at least 50000 words) in one month (so at least 1667 words a day for 30 days). Last year I took part and “won” (ie I wrote over 50k in a month). This year I am going to give it another go.
As I did last year I will use @MarianneWest’s daily freewrite prompt as a starting point (so each day I will use themostdangerouswritingapp.com and write for 5 minutes with @mariannewest’s prompt in mind. I will then write another 1500 odd words and publish it on the blockchain so you can see what crap I come up with!
Today, was another busy day and I only managed just over 1000 words (again). Not only that but I haven’t finished this chapter. So I will need to try to finish this tomorrow and write the next one.
But I’m still on target to finish by the end of November.
Today is 10th November 2019 and I am using the three weekend freewrite prompts to write part one of the tenth chapter of my story
(@mariannewest/weekend-freewrite-11-9-2019-part-1-the-first-sentence)
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If you are interested you can find the previous Chapters here One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine
Standing on the chair, she and Tom had scratched away at the bones.
Abbie smiled as she read the line in the book. How many times had she read that line? It was that line that had hooked her and reeled her in.
The House by M.A. West had become her favourite book. And not just because Alex had given it to her, but because she had discovered that the story was very far from boring.
It was, she discovered, the story of two adolescents living in a deprived area with inadequate parents, making gruesome discoveries about the people they lived with.
No wonder she liked it. It was like looking in a mirror.
Although in her case she didn’t have a Tom to share her strange life with.
She was reading the book by the torchlight on her phone. The light above her on the coach was not adequate, giving out a weak orange glow that flickered everytime the coach hit a bump (which seemed to be pretty much all the time). She sat by the window, the side of her head pressed up against the cold glass, feeling the judder of the engines rattle her skull as she read.
"I don't know how you can read like that."
She looked up. A smiling man with a ponytail was looking at her over the seat in front.
She opened her mouth to reply when another voice came from the seat behind her.
"I know there are lots of you who don't like government interference." An old woman with a woollen hat pulled so far down on her head it almost covered her eyes, was looking at both her and the ponytail guy.
"I'm sorry?" Abbie said.
"You elves are all the same!” The woman sniffed, pulled her hat down still further over her eyes, and sat back down again.
Abbie looked at the guy with the ponytail and he widened his eyes. Both of them laughed.
"What the actual?" Abbie said.
"I wonder if she has tin foil lining that hat," Ponytail said.
“Probably.”
"What are you reading?"
"You won’t have heard of it. It's called The House," Abbie showed him the cover. "I know it doesn't look much but-"
"It's one of my favourite books!" Ponytail said. "I love it. I've read it... maybe five or six times."
Abbie looked at him, open-mouthed. Other than Alex she didn't know anyone who had read the book.
"My name is Matt," Ponytail said, offering Abbie his hand.
"Abbie," Abbie said.
Matt smiled. "My favourite bit is when Tom-"
"Finds the blue envelope on the floor," Abbie blurted out at the same time as Matt.
They laughed.
"It’s at that point, just when you thing you have a handle on where the book is going, the whole thing starts to get a bit weird. But weird is good." Matt pointed at the seat next to Abbie. "Do you mind?"
Abbie paused. She had always been warned against talking to strangers - one of the few sensible things Helen had ever taught her.
"Don't talk to strange men," she would say, leaving Abbie with a Coke and a bag of crisps in one pub garden, or another.
“Right back at you!” Abbie would shout at her mother’s retreating back.
But Helen was dead. Or - if she wasn’t - soon would be.
Time to invent new rules.
"Of course," she said. "Be my guest."
After all, it wasn't every day you met another fan of M.A. West.
"I first read that book when I was about your age," Matt said. "My... someone I knew gave me a copy."
Abbie looked at him. Was he going to say, therapist? Did he know Alex too? No, that would be weird. Only one way to find out. Keep yourself to yourself. Don’t give anything away. Her mother’s voice.
“My therapist gave me this copy,” Abbie said. “Her name was Alex.”
If the name - or occupation - meant anything to him Matt didn’t show it.
“Actually,” he said. “That was a lie. That’s one thing you should know about me straight away. I tell a lot of lies.”
“I admire your honesty.”
“Clever girl!” The way he said, it wasn’t patronising. It sounded… admiring. “The truth is, I stole that book from the library. I liked the plain cover.”
Abbie laughed. “The cover put me off reading it for ages.” Then what he said before that filtered into her head. “Isn’t the whole point of the library that you can borrow books for free. You don’t need to nick it.”
“What can I say? I was a troubled kid.”
“Wait a minute,” Abbie said, making a show of rumaging in her bag.”Somewhere in here I have a I have a membership card for that particular club!”
Matt laughed. “You are funny.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
That was true. Helen had told her that many times. Usually, it wasn’t meant as a compliment. You think you are funny, Abbie. Well, maybe you are. But let me tell you, my girl. Every one thinks you are funny-peculiar, not funny-ha-ha.
But Matt seemed to find her funny-ha-ha. His laughter seemed genuine. Not forced. Not fake. So put that in your pipe, Helen dear.
They chatted for a while about the book and about being misfits. Matt kept looking over the seat in front. Abbie had a feeling he was with someone, checking on them. She tried to see where he was looking.
She thought it might be the pregnant woman a few seats ahead.
Perhaps she was his girlfriend, his wife. Maybe the baby is his. Or maybe he’s just a friend. Or a brother.
Why do you care, Abbie? Her mother’s voice asked. He is at least twice your age. What makes you think he’d look at a little girl like you, when there are real women around. Unless he’s a pervert.
I don’t recall that being a stumbling block for you, mother dear. Either dating older men, or bringing perverts into our house.
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