NaNoWriMo, Day 1 (and 2)
Posted by Jason on November 3, 2010
So I’ve decided to give NaNoWriMo a go this year. I first heard about it three years ago, but every November since has made it impossible to participate. This year, I’ve got some things going on, and I don’t think I have much of a chance of reaching 50,000 words. Even so, I think it’s worth doing if it gets me writing again, and even if I reach half that number I’ll be happy.
I debated on it for a while, and I decided to post my (hopefully) daily progress here. This blog is intended to be a look at works in progress, raw and unedited, and things that I’m not sure what to do with yet. This is definitely both.
I’m not entirely sure where this is going yet, but my goal is just to enjoy the ride. I always enjoy feedback, but in the spirit of NaNoWriMo, none of this will be edited until after the end of the month. That is, assuming I make it there!
Since I didn’t get to write anything yesterday, this is my progress for days 1 and 2. I’ve already done some more today, and you’ll be seeing it soon. Anyway, I hope you get some enjoyment out of this!
6 [TK-MONTH], Anno Ordinis 1093
My Dearest M——,
I hope these words reach you with as much joy and excitement as that with which they leave my pen. Indeed, I write in such a frenzied hand that I fear you will not be able to read them, such is my hast in eagerness to set down that which I have to say. There, a deep calming breath and a steaming mug of the Licorice Tea that I love so has calmed my excited tremors and steadied my hand. Ah, a marked improvement already! Now, as you are no doubt wondering what has worked me into such a state, perhaps I should begin where last I left off.
No doubt you will recall that, in my last missive, I told you how I had been chosen to accompany the Proctor on his sabbatical journey to Angelorum, the homeworld of our Chapter—and, indeed, our entire Order. After the great lengths to which I went in that previous letter to expound the loathing with which I viewed this assignment, the tedium of the long months in Fuguespace, the unbearable doldrums of such a ruined—if sanctified—backwater, you must be quite perplexed at the tone which I here adopt; indeed, my change of heart surprises none so much as it does me. Yet, I think, there is quite an excellent reason for it, which, if you’ll allow me to proceed in due course, shall become clear to you, my dearest one.
The months of Fugue travel were, as I predicted, less than pleasant. I know you have never experienced what it is like to travel between the suns, and so your ability to empathize is, sadly, limited; still, I find myself unable to fully render in our crude tongue an accurate portrait of that experience. It is, as its name suggests, rather like being half-waking, half in dream. One feels as if one were perpetually on the eve of some great moment, that, just around the corner lies some long sought-for goal or item, that, if only one could just reach a bit further, could just hold on to what is so slippery in the mind, one would attain… well, it is never entirely clear what one might obtain. Added to that are the spectres of dreams: a passing fancy may suddenly seem as real as the rough black fabric of my habit, this pen scratching away on old scraped vellum, seem to me at this very moment. A thought passes my mind that a fig is between my fingers, and suddenly there it is, juicy, golden, glowing, more perfect than even the idealized Fig of the philosophers. Yet, when brought to my lips, it would be only vapors, a memory of a taste on my tongue, as insubstantial as that dream which spawned it.
It was quite to my good fortune that it is customer for travelers to stay isolated in their cabins for the extent of the journey. The reasons are largely practical: who, in his dreams, has not suddenly imagined himself naked (in the most literal sense) among his peers, baring for all to see that with which the Archons had gifted him. Yes, I know you would protest that I have nothing for which to feel shameful in that regard, yet still such an encounter—should the Fugue manifest it, as it routinely does to unaccustomed travelers—would be… uncomfortable.
I said it was to my great good fortune to be cloistered within the four walls of my cabin, with only its steel bunk, ancient teak writing desk, and some few books of the Chapter’s books to accompany me; and the reason is that, in that half-dreaming state, you came to me, my love. I would sit at my desk, attempting to compose my thoughts, when suddenly I’d feel the weight of your body behind me, the perfect roundness of your breasts pressing into my back. Yet, still, I would turn and you would be gone, and my heart would ache for you. At night, though, at night… Many were the nights I awoke—if that word may be properly used—to the lingering scent of your lilly perfume, or the fading memories of your whispers in my ear. Closing my eyes, I felt the soft waves of your golden red hair cascading over my bare chest, felt the deep crimson softness of your lips brushing my eyelids, my cheeks, my own parched and eager lips. It was is if you were there with me as I felt myself grow stiff and your moistness envelop me, and I would open my eyes to see just a fading hint, a memory of your achingly perfect smile fading into wisps of aether. Yes, my love, you came to me, and I… I came to you.
Forgive me for being so detailed, for, though I could write of the wonders of your beauty for days on end, you are no doubt wondering what this other matter is that has me so excited.