#nanowrimo2023

[hezzabeth]

There was someone singing in the greenhouse, someone with a pitch-perfect deep voice. Revati closed her eyes, pressing her ear against the glass door.

In a field where the paper daisies grow,

Underneath the sun's harsh glow,

I wander through, light and free.

Paper daisies, pink and white,

Your petals so bright.

I sing to you as the world beyond burns.

The smoke coils in the sky far above,

But your petals still dance around me.

Don’t be afraid; soon the rains will come.

Everything lost will grow again.

Paper daisies, pink and white,

Your petals so bright.

I sing to you as the world beyond burns.

The stars begin to rise,

My hands scooping your seeds.

Soon you will take flight

Towards the soft moonlight.

There was an old, prop piano in the abandoned Holly Bush Tavern. The only person who could play it properly was Mr. Gupta. During holiday festivals, he would coax melodies out of the sticky keys while Mrs. Gupta sang in a nasal voice. This was different. The singer’s voice filled Revati in a place she didn’t know was empty. The singing stopped abruptly as Revati’s weight caused the door to creak. Of course, the door creaked. The greenhouse was a wobbling claptrap box made out of welded-together old windows. Miss Grassroots, a tourist who had been dead for almost six years, had built it. Inside lay the heart of Baker Street. The heart had begun as a rose garden. Nanni was the one who began picking up the fallen red petals, drying them, and turning them into tea.

Revati only had vague memories of the first day of the invasion. Mrs. Grasston and Dusk had invaded the kitchens and gift shops. Together they managed to pool together seeds and cuttings in order to grow a small food supply. There was a wall of tomato vines, grown from several seeds found in old slices left in the bin. There were the garden beds where the potatoes and carrots grew. In fact, the potatoes were what kept Baker Street from starving to death. Next to one of the largest windows, the herb and weed boxes grew. Revati’s father was the one who ripped open gourmet tea bags in their home, discovering dried seeds inside. Bridgadeiro Bun was sitting under the lemon tree. “You’re a pretty good singer,” Revati said gruffly. “I was just trying to cheer up Deshia; she’s been feeling a bit depressed lately,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree's trunk. “Who’s Deshia?” Revati asked, faintly confused. “The lemon tree, of course! She said nobody's chatted with her for years,” Bridgadeiro said. Suddenly, the tree shook its branches, causing a fresh lemon to fall into Bridgadeiro’s lap. “Thank you for the gift, sweetheart,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree again. Revati stared at the lemon tree, not quite sure what to think. Could a tree really be depressed? It would explain why the lemons were so withered and small.

“All Buns speak plant; it's the same gene that causes our pink hair," he said. Revati glanced around, her eyes briefly falling on the giant pumpkin vine near the door.

"Are the plants talking right now?" Revati asked curiously.

"Most of them fell asleep hours ago. When they were awake, they just kept jabbering on about a golden lady," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"So, the lemon tree is depressed? I could get Aurora to come in here and read to her," Revati conceded.

"It's more than that. She misses the lady who planted her; she doesn't understand why she vanished and never came back," Bridgadeiro remarked. Revati found her hands stroking the book of fairy tales nervously.

"If she's talking about Mrs. Grassroots, she died," Revati replied flatly. Six years ago. Six years ago, there were over a hundred tourists living on Baker Street. Nanni, who had spent years living with mother, insisted on moving into an abandoned hat shop near the edge of the park.

The day the tornado hit was the same day Nanni decided to tell Revati all about her family history.

"I always carry the death stone in my handbag, along with everything else I'd ever need in an invasion," Nanni pointed out. Technically that was true; Nanni's giant handbag was filled with almost anything.

Outside, Revati could hear her father trying to roll down metal shutters. There was the sudden horrible roar, and Nanni's wall exploded in a cloud of rubble.

"A lot of people died," Revati finished, her voice trailing off. First came the tornado that caused a gap in the mirror walls. Then the trickle of automatic vegetable cleaners who decided to exploit the crack. Finally, the battle on Mansfield Park between the cleaners and a group of tourists.

"The lady that planted this tree was actually a member of the Lost Princess rebel army; she convinced a bunch of tourists to fight with her," Revati remarked, shaking her head. Then she firmly opened the book of fairy tales.

"It looks like some people survived," Bridgadeiro replied.

"I don't want to talk about it; I just want to read! Here, you can read with me; you might like this story," Revati replied.

Once long ago, in a lost village near the foot of Mount Raya, there lived a special little girl. She was known for her kindness and her deep love for nature. Everyone in the village called her Naisha. Naisha had a special gift; she could talk to plants. The villagers often saw her whispering to the flowers; they adored her magical gift.

One day, Naisha learned about a legendary tree called the Kalpavriksha. The old ladies in the village whispered that it had the ability to grant any wish. Drought, fearsome and terrible, had swept through the land. Flowers withered, no longer able to whisper. Trees forgot their songs. Naisha decided she must seek out the tree and wish for one thing alone: rain.

"Wake up," a voice screeched, and Revati's eyes snapped open, the book of fairy tales tumbling onto the ground. Aurora was standing above her, the bright morning sunlight making her hair glow.

"Morning," Revati yawned and then jumped when she realized Bridgadeiro was asleep next to her.

Bridgadeiro slowly awoke, smacking his lips together.

"Juniper said you were in here; she never mentioned the boy," Aurora remarked coldly as Revati slowly stood up.

"Anna made him sleep in here; I must have passed out while reading," Revati said.

It was then that Revati realized Aurora was holding a tray filled with fresh strawberries.

"Hmph," Aurora said, shooting Bridgadeiro a suspicious look as he also stood up, patting the tree trunk.

"Let me guess, Queen Victoria sent these with an apology?" Revati asked.

"Yes, and a request to fill her vodka order," Aurora said, placing the tray on the ground.

"If she was really sorry, she'd give us a strawberry plant," Revati pointed out.

"Oh, you don't need one of those! You have the fruit," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"You can't just shove a strawberry in the ground and hope for the best; it rots," Revati replied. Bridgadeiro merely leaned down, examining the strawberries. After a few moments of careful examination, he picked up the biggest, brightest berry.

"You can; you just need the right formula," he said. He vaguely walked towards one of the empty garden beds that was going to be turned into an onion patch. Carefully, he dug a small hole and placed the strawberry inside before covering it in earth. Then, he reached into his massive jumpsuit pocket and this time pulled out a small vial of portable perfume.

"One pump should do it," Bridgadeiro remarked before pumping a cloud of perfume onto the soil. The earth began to twitch and vibrate, and Revati gasped as greenery sprouted from the soil. The plants quivered and then twisted as white flowers bloomed. The petals then shriveled and fell off as the center of the flowers grew into green berries. A few seconds later, the berries blossomed into a deep red.

"They shouldn't be doing that! Strawberries take two weeks to grow," Aurora gasped.

"I suppose they would in the wild, but I just gave them a pump of my Gene Grow fusion serum!" Bridgadeiro said, leaning down to examine the strawberries.

"They should produce fruit every day, but only if you talk to them nicely," Bridgadeiro added as he picked a strawberry and handed it to Revati.

Revati sniffed it suspiciously before taking a tiny bite. It tasted just like a strawberry.

"Does that stuff work on all plants?" Revati asked curiously.

"It tends to go a bit haywire when you spray it on legumes; you end up with giant beans that have no nutrients," Bridgadeiro said.

"I saved your life; think it's only fair you spray all the plants in here," Revati said firmly.

"It would be better if I planted their seeds outside and created new crops; otherwise, the rapidly growing plants could burst outside the walls," Bridgadeiro replied. Revati nodded crisply.

"I'll be sending someone to check on your efforts later today; I'll be far too busy working," Revati replied with as much dignity as she could muster in a sleep shirt before marching out of the greenhouse. The book of fairy tales lay abandoned on the ground.

Revati carefully changed into her work uniform. When she was a child, her wardrobe consisted of souvenir t-shirts from the gift shop fashioned into dresses. Now that she was almost an adult, Revati had to get creative.

Most of the gift shop sweatshirts had been swiped long ago. Instead, Revati put on the top half of the cafe's old uniform. It consisted of a magenta and purple striped waistcoat with a navy blue blouse covered in tiny clocks. The bottom half should have been a matching bustle skirt. Revati switched it with the men's purple trousers. Revati then carefully redid her braid and applied some more soot lipstick. Aurora, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, was waiting for her in the kitchen.

"You're wearing your second best outfit," Aurora remarked.

"I suppose I am," Revati replied as she grabbed her coat.

"I thought you said you were done with romance after that whole mess with Little Hardi last summer," Aurora said, and Revati stopped walking.

"I am!" she protested, and Aurora pressed her thin lips into a disapproving frown.

"You were sleeping with him."

"God forbid I fall asleep next to another human being," Revati said as she marched through the cafe past Nanni, who was sewing something.

"You kept him! You gave him a job," Aurora added knowingly.

"I didn't keep him! He's not a feral child; he can leave whenever he wants," Revati snapped as they stepped outside, and she put on her sunglasses. Olde Landon was always at its worst in the morning. Like all major tourist attractions and cities, Old Landon had an atmospheric blanket high above the park's surface. It meant that nobody in the park froze to death at night, but it also meant the morning light was far too bright.

"Is that Little Hardi and Queen Victoria standing next to the fountain?" Revati sighed wearily.

"They both arrived at sunrise; I told them you were busy, so your mother made them breakfast," Aurora remarked.

"Sunrise; of course, they sacrificed sleep so they could get here first," Revati remarked, marching towards the two other leaders. Queen Victoria was wearing one of the park's costumes, a stained white lace wedding dress. Little Hardi, on the other hand, was wearing a deep blue doublet with a ruff collar and matching tights.

"Little Hardi, is your brother still unconscious?" Revati greeted him.

"We took a vote last night, and he played Macduff," Little Hardi replied.

Revati, who knew fully well what that meant, had to stop herself from flinching.

"You killed him? That's a little harsh," Revati pointed out.

"It was for the best; we need a strong leader during a time of invasion," Little Hardi remarked practically.

"Time of invasion? Isn't that a little dramatic?" Revati had to ask.

"There must be another crack in the wall; thank Jane, it's probably not too big! You two would be far too young to remember the vegetable cleaner invasion," remarked Queen Victoria.

"I was twelve," Revati said dryly.

"I was fourteen; the tornado destroyed the Hamlet's haunted castle ride, and the appliances killed the actor playing Ophelia," Little Hardi pointed out.

"You're both still tiny children as far as I'm concerned; I can't believe this is who I have to work with," Queen Victoria replied, and Revati brushed past her with annoyance, heading to the dress shop across the street.

The shelves of the dress shop had long ago been stripped bare. All that remained were the three Penny Farthing Bicycles that had been part of the shop's window display. Revati wheeled her Penny Farthing outside only to see Queen Victoria having a heated discussion with Aurora.

"What do you mean she's going to ride to the wall by herself? All representatives from all towns should go!" Queen Victoria was screeching, slapping Aurora's shoulder with her fan.

Revati parked her bicycle and marched towards Queen Victoria, grabbing her hand.

"Slap my assistant again, and I'll break your fingers; you know I can do it," Revati growled.

Little Hardi, who was now sitting by the fountain, laughed.

"I was just speaking the truth! We have a treaty; during times of crisis, we unify," Queen Victoria said, her voice tight and a little frightened.

"I don't see Lady Morganna here," Revati pointed out, referring to the ruler of Medieval faire.

"You know perfectly well Medieval faire cut us all off after the tornado hit! They probably all died off years ago," Queen Victoria snapped back. Queen Victoria was right. Medieval faire was located in the center of a massive fake castle complete with a drawbridge. After the invasion, Lady Morganna had yanked up the bridge and refused to speak to anyone. Anna and Nanni had tried to visit several times with baskets of dried lemons. They were horrified when someone from above threw the contents of their toilets onto the streets.

"My new friend said he saw naked people in the wilderness dancing around a murdered television! Sounds like Lady Morganna to me," Revati merely replied, pointing to Bridgadeiro. Bridgadeiro, who was in the middle of taking several pumpkins out of the greenhouse, waved.

"Could be a coincidence; regardless, you are not going to the wall! We need to have a proper group committee meeting first! Then a vote," Queen Victoria's.

Revati just rolled her eyes and released Queen Victoria's hand, causing her to stumble and fall onto the floor. Revati then reached into her jacket, pulling out her stun gun, shoving it into the queen's stomach. The Queen made a faint whimpering sound as her eyes rolled backward, and she collapsed again. Revati then aimed the gun at Little Hardi, who held his hands up, protesting.

"I'm not going to stop you! I came here to propose marriage," Little Hardi insisted.

"Marriage? To me?" Revati asked dubiously.

"All kings need a consort, and I'm not interested in Big Hardi's husband," Little Hardi said, slowly getting down on one knee.

Revati stared at him and shook her head.

"I'm seventeen," Revati pointed out.

"Well, the wedding wouldn't be for another couple of years," Little Hardi replied.

"I thought we agreed to keep our relationship professional after the handkerchief incident," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi held a hand to his heart.

"I told you dozens of times I had nothing to do with my brother's plot," Little Hardi insisted.

"He accused me of cheating on you using an old prop handkerchief as evidence, and you believed him despite it being the exact same plot of the play Othello," Revati pointed out. The entire incident occurred over a year ago and ended with Revati kidnapped and tied up on the stage in a white fluffy nightgown.

"I'm a very insecure person," Little Hardi pleaded. Dating while trapped in a fun park during the apocalypse was difficult. Before the feral children came along, Revati was the youngest person on Baker Street. All the teenagers in Whistleton were raised to be incredibly prissy. Most of them refused to do anything more than dance or hold hands. Little Hardi had been a fun, age-appropriate choice. Little Hardi was happy to do far more than hold hands.

"No," Revati said firmly.

"No? Really?" he asked, sounding faintly surprised.

"First of all, your legal system involves killing criminals on stage in the middle of plays, which is horrifying," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi shrugged.

"Secondly, I'm not an idiot! You just want to marry me so you can take over our greenhouse," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi gasped as if looking deeply insulted.

"That's not true! If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, but no such roses see I in her cheeks," Little Hardi pleaded as Revati climbed onto the penny farthing.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Soft Cuddles

Today is my wedding day, yes, really.

Whatever, here is today's Novemberstory because I am nothing if not obsessive <3

Characters: Glorfindel and a whole lot of other people

Words: 1 655

Warnings: many cuddles, little sad, cultural differences

Glorfindel had learned a good many things that others could never even imagine—he had wrestled a Balrog, he had known death and re-embodiment, and he had met the mighty Valar after the Great Sundering of the Doom of the Ñoldor.

Dark and terrible were many of his experiences and haunted his wisdom, but—on some days—he considered them a welcome price to pay for the immeasurably beautiful pieces of knowledge that were his own.

“Come here,” he whispered and slung his arms around Erestor who was in a particularly foul mood on this misty morning.

As soon as the solid warmth of his strong body seeped into the tender flesh and delicate bones of his lover, Glorfindel felt him relax against his chest and released a shivering, relieved sigh of his own.

“How did you—” Erestor murmured, ashamed now of a need he did not share with most of his peers.

“I once had the honour of watching over Eärendil,” the golden-haired revenant explained in soothing accents. “I myself was raised in a gaggle of elflings—kin and friends—and we grew too fast and were too carefree in our blessed serenity to ever cling to our parents overmuch.”

Picking his temperamental colleague up, Glorfindel carried him over to a window to cradle him on his lap while whispering his most precious confessions into his perfectly shaped ear.

“Eärendil was the first child I had seen in a long time, and he was different. He yearned to be held, carried, hugged, and Eru knows, I was eager and happy to comply. I seem to recall now that there must have been days when I did not set the boy down for a single moment—I’d even hide from his parents just so they could not snatch him away from me.” He gave a heavy sigh of regret and longing at the bittersweet memory of the soft hair and pealing laughter of his little protégé.

“Those were different times, and the safety of the Hidden Kingdom was a fraught, ever-threatened dream,” he went on in a voice that grew increasingly hollow with pain.

“Later, oh so much later, I came here to find that Elrond—my very own darling prince’s son—harboured much the same needs and desires as his father, and so did his children in turn.”

“Glorfindel,” Erestor gasped. “Are you telling me that you sneak around hugging not only children but grown Elves? Our Lord? His formidable sons? His noble daughter?”

Shrugging sheepishly, Glorfindel adjusted his hold on Erestor’s frame and settled his chin against the crown of his dark-haired head tenderly.

“I have the arms for that,” he said, a hint of insecurity and guilt sneaking into his tone. “You cannot imagine the relief and the joy I’ve drawn from the knowledge that the strong build that makes me an excellent fighter also allows me to offer comforting embraces. We all need redemption sometimes.”

“You are indeed very good at this,” Erestor mumbled sleepily. “I feel unafraid and soothed by the way you hold me tight. Maybe, we should make this a generally accepted behaviour, so you don’t have to do it in secret, and I don’t have to feel so embarrassed about enjoying hugs so much?”

“That is a stellar idea,” Glorfindel replied and smiled blissfully at the empty room.

“Safe travels!” Elladan and Elrohir stood at the gates, smiling brightly at Glorfindel as he led his horse by the reins.

“Erestor will be insufferable,” Arwen groaned, her beautiful face puckered with dread. “He always is when you’re away.”

Leaning closer to her until his cheek touched hers ever so lightly, Glorfindel whispered into her ear that she should try hugging him every now and then.

“Does he not smell like dust and death?” Elrohir joked but regained his composure immediately when a hard, unamused glare hit him.

Smiling wickedly, Arwen seemed to consider that new-found piece of information for a moment and then nodded slowly.

“Yes,” she said, “that, I can do. I remember quite well how you used to rock me in your arms, singing songs that were highly inappropriate but eminently entertaining for an elfling such as I was.”

“Don’t let your father hear you,” Glorfindel squeaked, and—sweeping the tall, graceful lady into his arms—he threw her into the air until she was breathless with laughter.

“You,” she wheezed, “are one of my best childhood memories.”

“And ours,” the twins added; they were checking Glorfindel’s pack and saddle like they always had, and he gave them the same serious, grateful smile they remembered from the time when he still had had to hold them aloft so they could tug at various straps and nod ponderously.

“Your childhood,” he replied as he hoisted himself onto the back of his trusty steed, “is one of my most cherished recollections as well. Be kind to Erestor, and I shall be back before you even have time to miss me.”

As he looked back at the proud descendants of his dearly missed Eärendil, his heart was full, and he whistled a wistful song as he rode out to honour a promise he had once given.

“Welcome to our—my father’s realm,” Legolas laughed, scratching his head sheepishly.

“Have you been back long?” Glorfindel asked, interested, and beamed when a burly, stout frame moved into view.

“The Lord of the Glittering Caves,” he exclaimed, genuinely happy to find Gimli in good health; they had conversed but very briefly before the Council in Imladris, but Glorfindel had listened to his tales with rapt interest.

At that time, he had also been invited to visit the Greenwood Realm—after the threatening shadow had been vanquished—and Glorfindel had ever been one to honour the word he had given.

The trees were different here, he thought, dark, old, and—if he was not very much mistaken—as ill-tempered as his very own lover could be at times.

“I shall have a small repast brought up,” Legolas cheered, excited to share the much-doubted and abnegated hospitality of his native kingdom with honoured guests.

Waiting in relaxed expectation, Glorfindel soon found out that Lord Gimli had as many questions about the Elven folk—he apparently only believed half of what Legolas told him on pure principle—as Glorfindel had about the elusive Khâzad.

“Are you all as stuffy as his father?” Gimli asked, jabbing a well-spiced drumstick forcefully into the quiet, fragrant night air. “I know my friend here is quite a jokester, but is the average Elf more like King Thranduil or more like Legolas?”

Glorfindel’s eyes grew round with surprise, and he cocked his head—making the small, festive bells braided into his hair jingle—and gave the matter some thought before answering.

“As you can clearly see,” he said, giving his hair another merry toss, “not all of us are very stern and dignified. As for the average elf—”

He fell silent and shuddered. “There—thankfully—is no such thing. I would say that King Thranduil can, at times, be the most formal and pompous of those who remain, but, then again, most of the High Lords and Ladies are undoubtedly very impressive.”

“Legolas—”

“Has time to become all that,” Glorfindel interrupted kindly. “At the same time, I’ve lived a very long time, and it has never happened for me, so don’t take my word for it.”

As the evening progressed, and the wine flowed, Glorfindel was soon overcome by a flood of longing when he thought of his loved ones in Imladris.

“Is he sad? Will he die now?” Gimli asked Legolas in a slightly alarmed tone.

“No,” Legolas laughed. “I dare say Lord Glorfindel is homesick.”

“Aren’t you pointy-eared tree-huggers always melancholy and yearning for some lost place?” Gimli commented dryly, scratching his beard and setting aside the wetting stone he had been passing over his axe in practised, regular movements.

“Can we help, Lord Glorfindel?” Legolas then inquired politely, ready to sneak into his father’s private reserve to fetch some of the rarer and more precious treats this Kingdom had to offer.

Startled by his words, Glorfindel was quick to wave aside their touching concerns.

“D’ya need a hug, Elf?” Gimli asked after having observed Glorfindel for a moment in contemplative silence. “I know your kind usually does not hold with that kind of physical affection—drastic, they’d call it, I am sure—but you look like you could do with one.”

To his surprise and delight, Glorfindel eagerly accepted that offer and extended his arms to welcome the strong, densely muscled arms that were slung around his midriff like ropes of braided steel.

“I…I find that I have been changed by the people around me,” he explained with an apologetic smile; even though he was not typically one to feel uncomfortable or even ashamed about the way he led his life, he felt nevertheless that he owed the prince of the realm an explanation for his highly unusual, nay even inappropriate, behaviour.

“Oh,” Legolas chuckled. “No need to justify this to me. After the tragic loss of my mother, my father would hug and cuddle me often, and I do not hesitate to admit that Gimli and I quite enjoy exchanging physical gestures of affection.”

“Skinny as a twig,” Gimli muttered good-humouredly. “All skin and bones.”

“Yes,” Legolas added, nodding wisely. “My dearest friend also insists on feeding me well—he is inordinately worried about my well-being.”

Eyebrows rising in bewilderment, Glorfindel wanted to object that—if anything—it was incumbent on Legolas to tend to the various vital needs of a being so woefully prone to illness and death, but his host almost imperceptibly shook his head.

“We all have our ways of expressing affection and support,” Legolas said and stretched out on the soft forest floor with a deep sigh. “And I, for one, think all of them are wonderful!”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

[ml-nolan]

*rips off shirt* WHO'S WITH ME?????

[secret-third-thing]

Really excited for my nanowrimo story ❤️❤️❤️

Anyone else doing it?

[calchexxis]

Hey, sorry to bother you... i just wanted to ask you if you are still writing on flashbangs and frag grenades. Anyway I hope you are doing good.

I am, yes. I am just taking a break to do National Novel Writing Month. I always take November off from my usual writing in order to work on an original novel! The last two years, I wrote Reflector and then its sequel, Dark Star. Now I'm writing a book called Sacred!

Depending on how things go, I'll pick up my usual posting either in December or January since the holiday season + my day job doesn't always allow me as much time as the rest of the year.

[inherhouseshewaitsdreaming]

Preptober 2023 - Snowflake Edition

Here in the Office we're going to be doing Preptober using the Snowflake method.

What is Preptober? During the month of October, people planning to do NaNoWriMo prepare for the month, getting their story and their lives ready to complete the challenge. The programme is actually 6 weeks long, so this room is going to be a little longer than a month.

What is NaNoWriMo? During the month of November, writers around the world attempt to write 50,000 words of a novel in one month - known as National Novel Writing Month.

What is the Snowflake Method? This is a fiction writing method where you follow 10 steps to get your novel ready to write. The steps all involve gradually expanding and branching your story (sort of like a snowflake). It is the brainchild of Randy Ingermanson.

I strongly recommend buying Ingermanson's book How to Write a Novel Using the Snowflake Method and reading along with it. Its a very engaging read. At first the unusual style in which it was written put me off a little, but after a while I realised I was actually hooked on the story he was telling too (following the journey of the book's protagonist quite closely, which I am guessing was the point). I often struggle to read 'examples' in fiction writing books and the way this book is written overcame that completely.

For this room, I will use the material Ingerman provides for free on his website. I will not add anything from the book, but I will suggest chapters to read if you are also reading.

How will this work? Throughout the 6 weeks of Preptober, I will post prompts to complete two things:

The steps of the Snowflake Method, spaced out according to their length.

The steps of the Preptober course outline from the NaNoWriMo website.

We’ll use the Snowflake Method to cover the first few weeks of Preptober. Because you move around between things like plot and character, we won’t be doing these in order. Below is the the full schedule of posts.

Week 1 (normally idea generation)

18 September: Step 1 (takes about 1 hour)

20 September: Step 2 (takes about 1 hour)

22 September: Step 3 (takes a few hours, depending how many characters you have)

Week 2 (normally characters)

25 September: Step 4 (takes a few hours)

28 September: Step 5 (takes a few days)

Week 3 (normally plot)

2 October: Step 6 (takes a week)

Week 4 (normally worldbuilding)

9 October: Step 7 (takes a week)

Week 5 (normally grow your writing community)

16 October: Step 8

Week 6 (normally find and manage your time)

23 October: Step 9

Step 10 is to write so that will start on 1 November. You can always skip over to Ingermanson's website and find the next steps if you need to arrange things on a different time scale.

[str8-up-lost-in-a-dream]

NaNoWriMo / Day 30

2,265 words

50,001 / 50k

I. Fucking. Did it.

And I can proudly say that I was confident through at least 98% of this that I'd make it. There was a little doubt when I was in a rut and started to fall behind, and then when I got sick it was a FIGHT.

But here we are. 50,000 words later.

What now? lol Kidding. I'm going to take a couple days away from my project completely and tend to things I neglected this month in favor of writing. And there's this other little side project I've been anxiously waiting to start putting together. The rest of December is going to be about:

sorting the chaos I have going on in Scrivener

assessing what I've written and what still needs to be covered

re-outlining

researching

sitting down one-on-one with each character and really flushing out their story and all the details that make up who they are

Hopefully, by January, I'll be in good shape to finish up the first draft 😬 🤞🏼 For now, I'm just going to be so fucking proud of myself for winning my first NaNoWriMo 🧡

[unforgivablyshy]

[arijensineink]

End of year writing reminders:

💖 Writing should bring you joy or fulfillment

💖 Writing is challenging—it’s okay to feel frustrated

💖 It’s okay to take breaks, whether that’s 2 days, 2 weeks, or 2 years!

💖 Your story is worth telling

💖 Your voice as a writer and creator is unique

💖 Your value as a writer is not based in how productive you are

💖 You’re still a writer, even if you only wrote one sentence this year.

[justyourcaffinedrivenwriterat3am]

NaNoWriMo? More like NoNo NoNo

(I'm at 13,532k, need to get up to 15k by the end of the day)

[captainadwen]

Today marks the first day that I did not add anything to my nano2023 project

On the other hand I did finish hashing out the details of the plot of a separate nano2023 idea, which now clocks in at 2k rough outline

In contrast my og nano2023 idea has no finished rough outline just waypoints

[hezzabeth]

"For the last time, that poem isn't romantic! It's insulting," Revati yelled over her shoulder as she began to pedal.

The layout of Olde Landon had been deliberately designed to keep tourists inside for as long as possible. There was only one way to access the front gates, and that involved defeating the Queen of Hearts' hedge maze. When the park was still open, tourists would be forced to spend at least an hour in the maze, stumbling upon tiny toy shops and food stands around every corner. The same thing occurred when they left, resulting in a very rich park and bankrupt guests. Now the maze was overgrown and easy enough to navigate.

Revati pedaled past the cart that once sold her heart-shaped sunglasses. Then she turned left, almost crashing into the wall of roses. The wall of roses stared back at her, their red blooms heavy and suspicious. Thanks to Bridgadeiro, she knew they were probably secretly insulting her.

The next turn consisted of an old stardust popcorn stand. Revati skidded to a stop and inspected the inside tray, where a few ancient kernels lay. Carefully, she picked up several of them and placed them in her jacket pocket. As far as she could tell, the kernels were seeds. Someone was shifting around the corner, causing the branches to shake.

"Aurora, is that you? Did you go ahead of me?" Revati yelled.

"While conferring in the labyrinth where false preachers reeked of death, the monster began to growl," a voice called from around the corner. An unfamiliar, flat female voice. Raiders. Raiders were, of course, an occupational hazard in any post-apocalyptic settlement. Normally, they never made it further than the broken glass pit at the park's gates. Sometimes Dityaa would bring one in, insisting they were "lovely," which always led to awkward dinners.

Revati slowly walked around the maze corner. There was a screeching metallic sound, and the weapon fell from Revati's hand. An android was slumped over on the ground. Once it would have been golden, but now it was rusty and covered in mud. Someone had ripped its legs off, leaving nothing but wires and tubes spitting bright blue fluid. Instead of a torso, there was a black empty hole with a concave door swinging on its bent hinges.

"And in the forgotten twists, footsteps quicken, hearts beat, and teeth are bared," the android chirped, its voice still distorted and far away. The android's face was a beautiful mask. Still-carved eyes. Unmoving sweet lips.

Revati powered up her solar gun and slowly walked forward, aiming it at the android. The android's metal eyes scraped in their sockets, turning towards her.

“Is that you? My darling Perdita?” The android’s voice whispered, the lips unmoving. The whispering voice had a posh lilt to its accent. Revati refused to answer. It was best to never engage with AI.

“Perdita, I clawed my way in! They know about you; the spider knows,” the android whispered before collapsing completely.

Revati slowly walked forward, still holding her weapon. With one foot, she kicked the android. It didn’t move. Its power had definitely died.

“Spider? Is that some sort of gang?” Revati whispered to herself. Gangs were always given stupid names.

“The spider is us; the spider is legion,” a flat robotic voice called out, and Revati spun around.

Queen Victoria was standing behind her, scorch marks all over her dress. A faint blue glow was erupting from beneath the skin of Queen Victoria’s chest.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Thanksgiving

Thank you, anon, for this prompt. I would never have thought of that one myself.

To all my friends who celebrate: Happy Thanksgiving. I certainly am very grateful for y'all!

Characters: Fingolfin and a slew of others...(and Finrod)

Words: 1 850

Warnings: resentment, regrets, reproaches, a lukewarm bird, and a lot of love (it's not that serious, don't get mad!)

Fingolfin stared at the ominously glistening carving knife in open dismay.

“You can’t tear the bird apart with your bare hands,” Anairë cautioned under her breath. “Please, do not make a scene about blades. Not today. Not with all of them here.”

He nodded ponderously and turned to the assembly, entirely made up of his blessedly numerous descendants.

“Good evening, I welcome you warmly at this unprecedented feast of profound gratitude for the invaluable blessings we have received. Let's rejoice rather than elegize morosely. Anyway, my name is…”

“Eru bless, he’s forgotten his own name,” Aredhel stage-whispered, which earned her a punitive glare from Turgon and a hard jab in the ribs from Fingon.

“Ñolofinwë,” Fingolfin finished his sentence slowly. “Fingolfin? Golfin?”

He sighed deeply. “Call me whatever you want—some of you I have had the honour of meeting, and others I am looking forward to getting to know.”

“The food is getting cold!” Argon complained—he had died young and had not sired any children, so his stomach’s yearnings were of more importance to him than the painfully awkward introductions at their first annual family reunion.

He was not even sure that one could call this a “reunion” when they had never been gathered in this constellation before.

“I agree,” Aredhel piped up, much to the chagrin of her surly, overly quiet son who just gave her a pleading look. Maeglin suffered still under the repercussions of his betrayal, and he felt supremely uncomfortable, sitting motionlessly at the same table as his uncle and cousin.

“’Rissë,” Anairë intervened sharply. “I, for one, am delighted and grateful to see so many generations congregated here.”

“Turno is the best,” Fingon jeered, but his voice was warm and infused with benevolent humour. “He has single-handedly secured a legacy for our family. You’ve won that one, I think--isn't that another thing to be thankful for?”

“You forget my wife,” Elrond reminded him suavely but fell silent instantly as the memory of his brother and daughter welled up like acid in his weary heart. “She begs you to forgive her absence, but her mother…”

“Is absolutely right to wish for her only daughter to be by her side,” Anairë mediated once more with impeccable grace. “As the mother of a wayward daughter myself, I understand that only too well.” “As far as I can see, I sit here with my son as well. Why don’t you hound Fingon, your golden child, or Argon, your precious baby, about their abject failure to produce valiant heirs to join our merry round of traitors and murderers?”

“’Rissë!” Fingolfin thundered with much less parental indulgence than his wife had shown. “Can we please just share a meal and exchange some pleasant stories? I would very much like to hear about the lives of my descendants.”

“You could have been there,” Fingon muttered, “but you had to go and get yourself killed.”

“Says the one who went to the exact same place to save his ginger menace of a…friend?” Turgon commented dryly.

“He could well have been there; he would not have found you anywhere though, would he?” Fingon shot back, fire flaring in his eyes.

“And that’s why I didn’t want any weapons,” Fingolfin sighed, clutching the carving knife to his chest and casting dark looks at his progeny.

“Children,” Anairë cried. “Children! What shall the young ones think of us if we squabble and argue like fishmongers?”

“I’m used to it,” Elenwë declared calmly.

“So am I,” Idril laughed. “Sorry, I have known my very own father for too long not to be used to his sharp tongue,” she added when the others stared at her in shock.

“Grandfather has ever been kind,” Eärendil—who had been dispensed of his duties for the evening—remarked generously, patting his son’s hand. “Worry not, dear, it’s normal.”

Elrond merely shrugged. “I have spent large parts of my life with Lady Galadriel, Gil-Galad, and Celebrimbor, besides the Dwarves, the Hobbits, the meddling wizards, and the many Men who have come and gone. Thus far, I’ve heard nothing that could even scratch the surface of my equanimity!”

Fingolfin rubbed a weary hand over his eyes—when Anairë had announced, an unimaginably long time ago, that she was carrying Fingon, he could never have imagined what profound joy and heartbreaking misery was to follow.

Looking over now at the beautiful, sensible creature he had desperately loved and despicably deserted, he felt his throat tighten with overwhelming emotion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Anairë laughed. “I can safely claim that this wilful, wicked streak is entirely passed down from your side.”

“Mother has disavowed us, and there is no food,” Argon exclaimed dramatically.

“How do you know?” Maeglin asked in a cautious tone; he was ever eager to see others shift blame because it made him feel less wretched about his own shortcomings.

“I’ve spent a long time in close conference with both Nerdanel and Eärwen,” Anairë explained as she plucked the lethal knife from her husband’s hand and started cutting the festive offering of meat and fruit into thick slices. “We have come to the conclusion that the alarmingly wild and reckless streak in all of our beloved children must surely come from the same source.”

“Again, my mother-in-law and wife are nothing if not measured and wise in their words, actions, and decisions,” Elrond opined calmly.

“So you say,” Aredhel mocked. “I could tell you stories about your cherished mother-in-law that would make your blood curdle.”

“Ha!” Fingolfin cried. “Surely, ‘Rissë’s savagery cannot be laid at my poor father’s feet!” He sought his wife’s sparkling gaze once more.

With a chortle, Anairë strode over and pressed a tender kiss onto his high, chiselled cheek. “They are very much yours,” she hummed. “Taking off in a huff on a petulant, vexed whim, riding into lethal danger with a song and a prayer and doing exactly what they were told not to do seem to be constants in your family. Did not two of three of your father’s sons die in ludicrously brazen and irrational feats of unparalleled heroism?”

Fingolfin grimaced. Anairë, smiling still, meanwhile made the platters of steaming food go around the table—much to the delight of Argon and Aredhel—so their spell-bound guests could at least feast while witnessing the epic showdown between long-estranged spouses.

“Resentful words from you, wife,” Fingolfin muttered dejectedly.

“Oh, but love,” Anairë chuckled soothingly. “They are also faithful, hopeful, and laughably stubborn thanks to your blood. I shall grant you this: I have doubted your sanity but never your love. So, I always knew that this alone would be enough to make sure that you’d be returned to me in time. Nothing can detain your line where it no longer wants to abide, and nobody will ever be able to keep you from pursuing what you earnestly desire.”

“They have your patience,” Fingolfin replied, mollified and touched by her understated confession of enduring love and imperishable admiration. “No doubt, the ability to remain—hidden and watchful—despite their yearnings and duties comes from you. Though I am less rash than my half-brother, I admit that I have never managed to emulate your graceful talent of lying in wait, ready to pounce at the first good opportunity.”

As one, they turned back to gaze lovingly upon the faces of those who had sprung from the source of their long-forgotten, innocent hopefulness.

Discreet munching was halted as the heavy, noble regard of their patriarch fell upon each one, and more than one positively squirmed under the benevolent scrutiny of one so old and allegedly wise.

“I’ve died too early,” Argon then said flippantly. “Maybe Turno wants to tell us about his hidden city?”

“I do not,” Turgon barked around a scalding hot potato—a staple in every household since the arrival of the Hobbits—and glared at his youngest brother. “I built a city, people came, people left, people died. Then Gondolin and my humble self fell. Let’s skip that part.”

Catching Aredhel’s grateful look, he nodded imperceptibly and even tried to smile at Maeglin; what was meant as a gesture of goodwill and forgiveness was marred by the potato grotesquely distending his cheek still, though, and—as was his wont—Turgon simply shrugged it off.

“How about you, my darling?” Elenwë said, addressing Idril. “How have you fared?”

With a small sigh of fatigue—for she had told the story many times before—Idril launched into a tastefully abbreviated recounting of her life after the fall of Gondolin.

When her narration came to an end, Eärendil, eager to speak to others again, took the tale up where his mother had left off.

Soon, all eyes turned on Elrond who had lived a long time and had been a key player in a conflict all of them had missed on account of being detained in Mandos or mending in the gardens of Lórien at that time.

“Well…” Elrond mumbled, unsure where to start and how to explain the circumstances of his youth without reopening old wounds and reawakening grievances and family feuds. “After—”

He fell silent. His father sat right beside him, and he did not seek to make him or his mother feel strange or guilty about the unfortunate incident with the Silmaril at the Havens of Sirion.

Was it even recommendable to bring up the unfortunate stone? How about the ring of Sauron? Did they call him Sauron, or would they know him under another of his many aliases?

He groaned quietly.

“Káno and Russo took you, yes?” Fingon said encouragingly, his eyes feverishly bright, and his lips pale with tension as if he was forcefully holding back a flood of questions.

Elrond exhaled audibly and steepled his fingers against his chin in a bid for more time to find an appropriate answer that would not kick off another slew of recriminations and fighting words.

“AH! We have arrived just in time to listen to our dear cousins being disparaged!” A bright, chiming voice resounded from the doorway, and Finrod strolled in, accompanied by his sister and his niece. “I have taken the liberty of escorting darling Artanis,” he explained.

“You’ve come for the gossip,” Turgon commented dryly, but his eyes lit up at the sight of his old, much-beloved friend. “Have a seat; you are indeed right, and we are about to hear about the parental talents of our Fëanorian kin.”

“Does that make me the worst of all?” Elrond asked dolefully. “Am I the compounded result of all the noxious strains of which Lady Anairë has just spoken?”

“Of course not, my dear,” Galadriel declared decisively. “Whatever good was in any of us, I am certain that you young ones must have harnessed it.”

Her warm, proud gaze shifted to her daughter who merely rolled her eyes at her and went to kiss her husband tenderly.

“Go ahead,” she whispered under her breath. “Tell them about the many people you’ve known and loved. Who knows? You might plant the seeds of forgiveness and renewal on this very night.”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

[mauvelvr]

nanowrimo 2023 tips

from the first two days!

don't start writing until you've finished everything else for the day, because once you start, it's impossible to get out of the headspace of your story.

slow and steady wins the race! don't even think about the 50k - think about things one week or day at a time. break it all down into small chunks and reward yourself for these chunks!

i've found that i've been rushing what im writing and then getting distracted by how... rushed... the words are so i've switched to handwriting to force myself to slow down and i've found that it really helps!

[ahiddenpath]

Nanowrimo Win 2023

I won Nanowrimo 2023! Details beneath the cut, plus writing news for my digimon fanfiction (AO3 and FFN)!

This was my easiest/smoothest Nanowrimo ever, and also the second time (out of like 14) that I finished before November 30th in my time zone, lol! As you might know, I've been struggling a ton with my mental health and energy levels lately, so I was shocked things went so well. I owe a lot to my friends on the Camp Digimonth discord server for sprinting with me and keeping that hype alive.

I'm going to continue writing every day for the rest of November, but I won't worry about word count, now that I've hit my goal. I'll update on the final word count at the end of the month.

But! Some fun extras! I actually wrote an additional 10k words in the last 10 days of October, as a trial run for if I could handle Nanowrimo this year. To be clear, those words were not counted in my Nanowrimo word count, so currently I have a little over 60k words drafted.

What I wrote

10k words in October

A new NSFW story that will probably end up about 20k words long. This story is extremely playful and sexy, but also explores various sexualities and lifestyles.

50k+ words in November

I worked on Infinite Possibilities. I almost finished a first draft of phase 1 of 3. I definitely need to go back and add some scenes, so it's not totally ready, but I covered a lot!

When will I share it?

You might know that recently, I've been in a weird place when it comes to sharing my work online. I have yet to resolve how I feel about this. However, I plan to spend December and January editing what I wrote in November, plus whatever else I want to work on. I'm guessing that you won't see updates until February (unless I change my mind, of course, these things are fluid).

What about Camp Digimonth?

Camp Digimonth is a digimon co-creation event with a discord of digimon creatives. I haven't decided if I have the time/energy/mental health to host it and potentially open it to new members, and I have no idea what the interest levels would be. I might make an interest check on the Camp Digimonth blog?

And that's all I have for now! Thank you so much for your interest <3 If you're working on Nanowrimo, best of luck with the final push! I believe in you!

[calchexxis]

Sacred Update!

The first five chapters of Sacred are currently up on my Patreon at the Bookshelf tier, with many, many more to come! It's only a few dollars if you want to support me during NaNo and get to read a book of mine as I finish the chapters!