Writing location: Tonight? Just The Chair…
Broke 20,000. And then kept going. Because I could. Because it was there.
Five days ahead of pace now. (Is it a race? The NaNoWriMo boards tell me there’s some kind of word war going between Vermont and New Hampshire.)
As promised (did I make a promise about this?) I’ve got an excerpt up on my NaNoWriMo profile page. Limited to 10,000 characters there. Hopefully it’s enough of a taste.
Their server ate my indents though.
Today’s Oblique Strategy: Consider transitions.
Today’s Word Count: 21,872 of 50,000 (43.74%)
I got a notification from Schmap.com: They’ve decided to include (with my permission) this photo of sushi from Matsuri for their Baltimore edition:
Pretty neat! Guess they liked it, too…
A. & I kept hitting refresh last night slowly watching the precincts report in. 25%… 26%…
Things turned out all right here. I’m still bitter about my attempts to vote yesterday. Such a Baroque and system of voter security. The state can’t keep track of my registration, won’t let me register on the same day, and yet you don’t need to produce any kind of identification to have a ballot placed in your hand. (Hmm… OK.) My bitterness and cynicism last evening and this morning merely stems from the fact that I gave a shit this year like never before. (Not that I didn’t care before…)
Anyway, I’m running late this morning. But it’s already off to a decent start.
The smell is overpowering. Like Her in death. No one can tell where it has come from. We pull our shirt collars up to our noses and wave our hands. The smell overtakes everything else. I’m elected to take care of it. I grab the garbage can and take it out to the edge of the property. I grab the shovel and plunge it into the ground. The stab becomes a line. The line becomes a circle. The circle becomes a square. The square becomes a cube. I’ve never dug so quickly before. I pour the can into the hole. The liquids pour out then the few solids. The smell is still everywhere. I throw the can in with the rest of the garbage. I’m fearful that someone will smell this. I’m fearful will think one of us has killed Her. I fill the hole. Shovelful after shovelful of dirt. But it isn’t enough to fill the hole. It’s half full. Maybe. Certainly there’s more dirt than this. I bite my lip as a friend (W.?) approaches and says that no matter how closely you keep track of the dirt, there’s always some the goes missing. I can still smell It. I writhe out of my clothes and bury those, too.
