Saturday, November 5, 2011

NaNoWriMo Masochism

You probably aren't aware of this, but I've written a handful of short stories. The first few were horrible harlequin romances and my apologies to those who read them. The most recent are more literary and symbolic; nobody's read them. When I write short stories, it's more to get something out of my system - to articulate a concept and/or story that comes across vest in words.

This evening, I wrote a very short story. Putting words to a strong emotion can diffuse it; not only did writing this out act as a catalyst, but it also gave me a horrible idea.
NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, is a thing in which participants attempt to write a 50,000 word novel each November. It's highly masochistic. The official goal of NaNoWriMo participants is to complete 50,000 within November, but common personal goals include finishing a novel and writing as much as one can in a month. I've never done this before but it's intrigued me, especially since so many people tell me I should write (more than this blog and secret short stories).
So I'm writing the events that lead up to the short story I wrote's EXTREMELY semi-autobiographical. I keep telling myself "The Bell Jar was semi-autobiographical, so this still counts as fiction..."
Here is the original short story (and yes, I'm cringing as I post this):

I'm concentrating carefully on not spilling my tea, the rest of the room evades my vision. Upon setting my cup down and collapsing into the couch, I look up.
There's a baby.
A baby in his lap.
How on earth did that get there?

In my rambling adventures, a baby appeared. And it is in the lap that I left. Smiling, my old comrade says “this is Emma.”

With angry, wrangling trumpet blasts, earth and stone shoot up through the floorboards. Dust and slivers shatter through the air. The ground rumbles and the walls shudder. Water blasts from wrecked plumbing. Everything is coming apart in the shocked quake.

A small bird trembles in its tarnished cage. What was once a comfortable home is now a steaming bell jar and the little creature must get out at any cost. It flutters against the tight bars, losing feathers and eyes flashing. There must be a way out! The bird throws itself desperately to get away.

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