NaNo 2019 Recap + Snippets

So you may or may not know that last month was this little thing called NaNoWriMo (commonly shortened to NaNo)--National Novel Writing Month. You might also know, or perhaps not, that I participated in said event. "How'd it go?" you might be asking. I'm hoping you did, because if you didn't, I might as well end the post right here.

NaNo was pretty good for me this year! I decided to be a rebel this time around and not aim for 50k. Let's be honest, that goal is a little crazy for us who are working full-time and trying to maintain social lives and also look after our mental health. Instead, because I hadn't really done much writing since Realm Makers in July, I decided to simply do at least 30 minutes a day. That way, I was making a habit of writing on a regular basis.

It ended up working out better for me than the lofty goal of 50,000 words last year. In 2018, I ended up feeling burnt out and very tired by the end of NaNo. That wasn't the case this time around. Being able to work at my own pace was a much-needed change from last year, and it was the reason why I enjoyed Camp NaNo in April and July so much more than regular ol' NaNo.

So what was my final word count? Just under 17k, which obviously isn't a lot. But every little bit counts--at least, that's what I try to tell myself. Just like last year, it was a little difficult to not play the comparison game when you see or hear people hitting 50k, 100k, or even 150k. That's one thing I really don't care for about NaNo. I know seeing other people hit these crazy awesome goals is supposed to be awesome and build a community spirit and should make you really happy for other people . . . but it's far too easy to become disappointed with your own work if you're not doing nearly as good. And I dunno if it makes it worse when people who have reached the "proper" goal tell that it's okay and everyone has different lives/writing paces?

On a more positive note, I had my best day of writing this year. On Sunday, November 17th, I ended up writing for about four hours (which I don't think I've ever done before), and my final word count for the day was 3,777 words. I've been recording my writing progress since the beginning of 2016, and my former best writing day was Thursday, December 28th of 2017, when I wrote 3,044 words. Finding that out made me so ecstatic! I was thrilled to discover that I'd beaten my personal writing record.

Unlike last year, I did not attend any NaNo write-ins at the library, nor did I attempt to go out to a cafe or some other such place to work on my story. I just felt too busy this November; I didn't have time to leave my house for writing-related purposes. Besides, my best writing tends to happen in my bedroom anyway.

Now I bet you're wondering what I wrote in November. If you're on Facebook, you would've seen my post talking about this very subject. If you didn't see it, I'll quickly explain now. I (initially) had planned to work on two projects: Shattered and the expansion of my Havok submission, From the Mind of the Dead. As it turned out, I became quite passionate about the latter story, so I focused on that all month.

When From the Mind of the Dead was published on Havok, I had a number of people telling me that they wished it was longer. I realized that expanding the flash fiction into a novel was a bad idea, because it would very quickly lose the tension and suspense the original version had. Whereas the flash fiction was a very tight piece of writing, a novelized version would become much looser.

That's when I had an idea: what if I were to write an anthology of novellas instead? The first story would be the expanded, though not lengthy, Havok submission. In it, Blake Lawrence is accused of murdering his girlfriend. He is brought to the Judgment Dome, the only courthouse in New Darglia City, where justice has become nothing more than a televised game show. Upon having his name cleared, Blake vows to help those who are wrongly accused and ensure that truth is sought out in the midst of the glitz and glamour. The rest of the stories would be about him becoming a detective, solving crimes with his partner, Niko, and facing off against a mysterious masked prosecutor in court.

I really love the ideas I have for this collection, which I'm calling The Darglia Unravelings. I was kind of obsessed with it last month, as it was often the subject of my thoughts. If you're interested, I'll share several snippets with you from what I wrote in November.

. . . Well, even if you're not interested, you're still getting them.

source

I haven’t killed anyone, I swear.

But everyone else thinks otherwise. It becomes abundantly clear the instant I step into the Judgment Dome. Boos and catcalls are flung left and right, “Blake” being tossed around as if my name is a vulgarity. People are already using the computers at their seats to make bets. It doesn’t take a detective to figure out that they’re betting I’m guilty.

The bailiff nudges me forward, and I head for the center of the amphitheater. My surroundings blur together in a mess of loud noises and unfamiliar sights. I know enough about legal proceedings to get by better than the average person, but to actually be down here, on trial? That’s another story entirely.

I arrive at the heart of the dome, known as the Arena of Justice. In the waist-high fence, there’s a gate with a card reader next to it. The bailiff uses his card to let us into the Arena, and the gate seals behind us. I am brought to the defendant stand, which is next to the judge’s extravagant bench on his right side. The stand is angled so that I can not only get a good view of the whole circle, but so that I also don’t have to strain my neck to look at the judge.

Standing here, staring at the massive crowd, I have two thoughts. The first is, These handcuffs are going to become really uncomfortable by the time this is over. The second?

I did not murder my girlfriend.

I got up and was led to one of the rooms in the visitation wing. Another guard waited there with the person who had wanted to chat with me. I didn’t recognize him. He had to have been more twig than man; I wondered how he hadn’t been blown away by a strong gust of wind yet. His skin was sickly pale, even in the room’s vibrant lighting. From his hair color and hairline, I could tell that he had to be in his forties.

He smiled, though something seemed off about it. “Blake Lawrence?”

I simply nodded.

“I’m Patrick Higgins, a lawyer at Freeman Law Offices.” We shook hands. I would’ve been better off shaking a dead fish. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the table and chairs.

I plopped down on mine while he gently lowered himself onto his, as though he was afraid his tailbone would shatter if he didn’t stick the landing. I decided to talk straight. “So you paid for the defense attorney ticket?”

He winced. “Not exactly.”

For a moment, I could do nothing but stare at him. “You mean the ticket agents came to you?”

“They did, yes.”

“What did they charge you?”

Now he squirmed in his chair. “They, uh . . . they just gave it to me. For free.”

I leaned back, the world around me muffled and cold. I had no words. Lawyers sometimes got discounts for tickets when no one was willing to pay the full price for them, due to the nature of the case. For free, though? Why hadn’t they come over and slapped me in the face while they were at it?

Alistair straightens his tie, even though it was already perfectly straight. “I call Detective Roscoe to the stand to give us the details of the murder.”

From the plaintiff lobby entrance walks the detective with one of the Dome’s many security guards. The bailiff opens the gate for them and takes Roscoe to the witness stand, directly across from McGrath.

“Your name and occupation, please,” Alistair says.

“Sir!” The man salutes, an unnecessary action, I think. Must’ve been engrained in him to respond to orders like that. “I am Detective Jacob Roscoe, sir! I work with the CSI in the New Darglia Police Department, and I specialize in murders such as this one.”

“Thank you, Detective. Can you please fill us in on what you’ve discovered?”

“That I can, sir!”

I wince. Who left his voice in permanent shout mode? What is he, an anime character?

This is going south faster than the coffee I drank this morning. At this rate, I’m going to remain behind bars for the rest of my life. Will anyone remember me? Anyone who actually cares, anyway? I doubt it. It’s obvious that my siblings and extended family haven’t thought about me. The few friends I have will move on. I’ll forever be an outcast.

The scariest part to me is the crowd itself. They represent the whole of New Darglia, gobbling up these trials as the best form of entertainment. To them, it’s all a game. Nothing is real. What happens in the Arena doesn’t affect anyone else. Even many of the judges, defense attorneys, and prosecutors are just a new breed of ditzy celebrities who don’t fully understand the ramifications of the Dome. How have we all become so calloused and uncaring?

I rub the back of my head, thankful that my hands are cuffed in front of me this time. That’s when an idea springs out of nowhere. It’s a desperate move, but I’m in dire circumstances. Besides, the people like some crazy twists and turns in their entertainment. I almost sneer at them all. You want drama? Then drama is what you’ll get.

“—no reason to carry on,” McGrath is saying. “I suppose I shall give my verdict.” He reaches for the button to freeze the bids and donations cycling through.

“Wait, Your Honor!” I cry.

Thousands of pairs of eyes flick over to me. Patrick seems unsure of what to do, and Alistair’s smug grin is looking a little less victorious. McGrath retracts his hand. “Yes, Mr. Lawrence? What is it that you would like to say?”

It’s now or never. “Your Honor . . .” I straighten my stance and say as boldly as I can, “I call upon Lillian’s memory bank as proof of my innocence!”

The door to the defendant lobby swings open, and Alistair strides inside. I can’t help but wonder, if we were the only two people in the room, would he exact personal vengeance for supposedly murdering his daughter?

“Blake,” Alistair growls, “you are a fool. What do you hope to gain from this cheeky maneuver? Are you trying to embarrass my daughter by exposing her private life to the world?”

“Embarrassment is the furthest thing from my mind, Alistair.” I sit up a little taller, wishing that I could stand right about now. At the moment, the prosecutor is looking down on me, but if I were on my feet, my height would turn that around. However, the guards would probably interpret that as threatening, so I let Alistair have the small win here.

“Then what is it you’re after?”

That’s easy. “The truth.”

He scowls, ruining the perfect vestige of control that he normally wears on his face. “The truth is that you choked my precious daughter to death.”

“When you met me, what did you see?” I ask. “A guy who would cherish Lillian with everything in him, or a guy who would, without any apparent reason, decide to snuff out her life?”

Alistair is quiet for a moment. Then: “People hide many dark secrets, Blake. You are not the first, and you are certainly not the last.” He hesitates, though for what, I’m not sure. He whirls around and marches out, not saying another word.

And there [Lillian and I] sat in silence. I drank in the moment, gazing into her eyes. I didn’t know what I did to deserve her, or how I got so lucky, but I was eternally grateful. Deep inside, I just felt like she was a piece of my life that I couldn’t afford to lose, either. She meant the world to me. What better way to show her than to propose?

My free hand reached for my pocket when a ringtone broke through our reverie. Lillian winced and grabbed her phone from her purse. “Sorry, I should’ve—” She froze. “I have to take this.” She answered the call with, “Hello?”

Something crossed over her face. Never before had I seen someone look so . . . horrified. And if I looked closer, I could spot a hint of terror creeping into her expression like a parasite. Eventually, she said, “Okay,” and hung up.

I furrowed my brow. “What’s the matter?”

“One of my key sources for my secret article . . . he’s dead. Someone snapped his neck.” She gathered her stuff together. “I need to go. I am so very sorry, Blake. I’ll try to make it up to you.” With that, she dashed out of the restaurant.

I sat there, stunned and unable to move. It was only when the waiter brought me the bill that I robotically stood, paid for the meal, and left. The ring mocked me from within my pocket. As I got into my car and headed home, Lillian’s words became an all-consuming thought:

I can’t lose you.

Freedom isn’t supposed to feel this empty. It does, though, and it’s because I played in a game show in order to prove that I was actually innocent. To the viewers, what does it matter either way? It’s not them on the defendant stand, so it’s nothing on their conscience. What a shame it is. You deserved better, Lillian.

“Stay safe and pursue the truth.”

That’s what she’d wanted me to do. That’s what she still wants me to do. If no one else is going to care about the truth, I will. I pull out the e-credit card, my prize for winning. Not thinking twice, I snap it in half. I would not take their money. As far as I am concerned, it’s the symbol of low the justice system has stooped.

I get into my car and start the drive home. Going after truth with such a passionate determination would continue to ensure that I’m an outcast. I don’t care. I’m beyond caring about that. This is about more people than just me.

As I navigate the busy streets, I say what will no doubt change my life forever:

“Lillian, I swear on your grave that no one else will suffer the same fate as you and me.”

I think that's all I will share for now, since I don't want to spoil everything from the first story. What'd you think of the snippets? If you participated in NaNo, how'd it go? Did you accomplish what you set out to do?