Wordsmithing: namowrimo writing something and counting words

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

National Novel Writing Month planning

To say that my plan for namowrimo is sketchy is grossly exaggerating the faint scrappings on my page. I have names, chapter titles and a concept.

I also have fifteen pages of notes for the novel I've decided not to write - plus a board full of images and a wordy opening paragraph; why would I want to write that project?

I don't even know if I'm writing MG or YA.

I can't quite pin down the genre - although action is the driver so, maybe, that would do.

No worries, then? 50,000 words in a month about some-thing-or-the-other? That sounds about right.

Today I entered some kind of regional word war... not quite sure if it is with, or against, the Irish fraternity across the water. I hope it is with them - against our trans-atlantic cousins, because, as my writing name suggests, I have strong Gaelic connections. It's going to be like when England play Eire at football... but without the fence to sit on!

RETURN: YA Paranormal Romance

I was running late. But, it was nothing I couldn’t make up with a bit of effort. I shook my head. Confident and happy? I smiled. Increasing my stride, I pushed until the muscles in my legs burned. I kept up the pace even when the hill grew steeper.

Magpie Lane was hardly wider than a ribbon that edged the woods but that didn’t stop traffic using it to get to the motorway quicker. Large trucks and fast cars loved Magpie Lane. They sent vibrations running through me rising from the soles of my trainers. I felt the disturbance in the ground, even before the air pressure tried to knock me off balance. I hunched my shoulders as the cab hauling a container spat stones up at me.

Jogging on the spot, at the entrance to woodland, I ached to leave the road and go inside. My Mum was probably still asleep but I could hear her you-never-know-what might-be-in-there lecture buzzing on repeat inside my head. I should run safe. Not even I would argue that running through the woods on my own was the best definition of safe but I wanted to run-wild and the woodland offered me that. This early, I should be safe from axe murderers or perverts in the trees and besides, I was fast.

I jogged down the slope into the trees. From two paces in, I felt different. Freer. It felt so right. Running in the woods did great things for my style. Avoiding the roots and dodging branches forced my stride longer, I had to step higher. The woodland, The Weald, was only a sliver of ancient woodland that the developers forgot to build on but it felt like it could have been anywhere. Everywhere. At any time. The oaks and beech trees dominated the space and the skinny, silver-birches squeezed up beside them. I laughed. For a second, the woods reminded me of school and I needed to run a lot faster.

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Tuesday, 27 October 2009

National Novel Writing Month planning