Is Nanowrimo my favorite time of the year? It certainly is my most focused & consistently productive. Not that I’m not writing everyday but I am not writing 2500+ words a day every day. I like the feeling of being productive, I like it even more when I don’t worry about monetizing the result. You can’t imagine the weight that takes off creativity’s shoulders.
I’m doing what has worked well for me in the past – structure & idea pushing me along. I don’t aim to finish the plot in a month, or two. It took me three Nano’s the finish my last nano project. When I start I just can’t stop. Well I can stop but I didn’t stop thinking about things.
My usual pattern has been to write about 500+ words in the morning. God for a long walk, let those words bubble boil & make trouble for my characters then get back to it and push out another 1500+ words in the after, add more after supper, if I have time. Many days I pass 3000. Once I hit 60,000 I do slow down some & by 75,000 I’ve about had it – so maybe this year I’ll push it to 90,000. Last year I topped off at around 75,000 by Nov 25.
Isle St Nuit is something I started many years ago – I have some of my note from that first start but it got bogged down with the need to keep the plot going in a logical direction. You know what – fuck logic – let’s just tell a great stupid story & let the readers discover their own logic. If people will watch Sharknado why should I worry, as long as my logical remains consistent with the world I’ll be building.
Don’t let ‘world building’ throw you. It is set on this planet, I places you know, with people who are human, semi-rational & possibly relatable. But of course the things that happen to them are a little on the fantastic side. I’ll be dealing with the supernatural in a subtle energy sort of way. Trust me, you’ll like it (or think what’s the big fuss about).
Note: Assoupir is the b’n’b Mike is staying at)
“How is Assoupir?’
“Very comfortable. Hot guy runs it. Simon Piquer. If he could make it a nudist guest house he would.”
The patio was in a quiet courtyard behind a cafe. Cool, damp.
“How was the train?”
“Flying is faster and cheaper.”
“So you tell me, but I’m not in such a rush.”
“Right, I forget you’ve had the whole summer to yourself. I’m lucky to squeeze in this one week and I’m working at the same time.”
“Who is he?” Mike saw no reason for more small talk.
“You had a vision?”
“I saw you. Under the oak.”
Patrick reddened. “I’m sorry.”
“We knew this might happen.”
“I wasn’t looking for someone. Really. You know that.”
“Jay Fisher. We met one night. At Big E’s. We started talking and …”
“One thing lead to another. He know?”
“About us? Yes. He doesn’t mind.”
“No one wants their honeymoon shared. Do they?”
“This is your first trip together?”
“Ah, right, the Queer Film Fest. How was it?”
“I told you all about it.”
“First I’ve heard of Jay.”
“Mike …. nothing’s changed.”
“So what was going to be? Me in the afternoon? Him at night?”
“I … I don’t know. I couldn’t tell you not to come. We’ve been planning this since Christmas. How would you have felt?”
“No worse than I feel now.”
Patrick reached out to him. Mike pulled back. He didn’t want a vision of Patrick and Jay in bed.
“Don’t pull away from me.”
Mike got up. The table grated against the brick floor. “I haven’t unpacked yet. Now I won’t have to.”
He could jump back on the train. Go to the airport. Catch any flight out of here. Out of this. Patrick had allowed him not to worry about being alone. Now he had that to face. His life. His future.
“Nothing has to change.”
“Too late Patrick. It has already changed.’
“Do you want to meet him?”
“Please, Mike. You’ll …”
“I’ve got to go.”
Montreal was a big city. He would stay. Lots of men and now he was on the loose he could dive into that pond and come up with something. Easy as fucking pie.
“I’ll see you at the brunch tomorrow.”
He had a pass to all the Film Festival events. Openings, press conferences, brunches, anything he wanted to see.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll get by tonight.”
A small change of plan, that’s all. No furious pumping away and glorious nut throbbing ejaculations with Patrick tonight. The scent of which had taunted him for the last few weeks. His anticipation of Patrick’s belly, thighs. Such a waste of of time. Years of wasted time.
The search continues. He wasn’t spared. Fuck. Why wasn’t he spared?
“See tomorrow. You know where?”
“I got my map.”
Too bad this detour wasn’t on it.
Mike wanted the hot sun to burn his frustration away. His legs were numb but not the emotional numb he wanted to feel. The hill up to the Old Port was steeper than it look. The sun was unclouded and there was no shady side of the street for protection.
His shoes were too heavy. Why had he picked these useless, thick, hot, hot shoes. Heavier with each step. Ugly shoes, ugly black socks, all wrong. No wonder he was unhappy. Who’d look twice at this hairy, squat man limp up the steps if only to laugh at him.
Fool. He was such a fool. He should go back to Assoupir and get out of the city. Leave it all behind. Get back to the safety of his house in Halifax, the cool dry house. He could play his favorite music, take his hot, hot, hot shoes off and just sit in the living room, sit on the back porch and let the air cool his feet.
He plodded up the hill, each step took him closer to something and away from something.
Not that there would be anything there for him. He’d made his plans before he left. Names and locations of the movies he would see with Patrick, the receptions he would be go to around the city. A useless list things that would never happen.
Like always, it was a mistake for him to live in the future. Plans always caught him and bit him on the ass, kicked him in the head. Dreams would turn around to mock him for even dreaming them.
He stopped to catch his breath. A group of teens crowded past him. In matching T-shirts and shorts. Laughing and elbowing each other as they made their way past him. Boys and girls. He caught sight of a badge on one of them;
‘Teen Congress for Hope.’ with a dove hovering over a name.
Great. Just what he needed now a bunch of fresh faced, happy religious freaks.
“Sorry, sir.” One of them stopped beside him.
“It’s okay. I’m in no hurry.” He looked the boy in the face. Not a boy after all. Must be one of the chaperones.
“You going to the Old Port?”
The man’s smile was brilliant, like the sun, his perfect skin almost glowed as he spoke to Mike.
“Here.” The man trust a tract into Mike’s hand.
“Stop the Film Festival.” was printed on the cover.
Their hands brushed. Mike had a brief vision of the man eating ice-cream, laughing.
“The Light shines on all regardless of how they look my friend.” The man darted to catch up with the rest of his crowd.
Too bad it looks reflects better on you. Mike headed back to the b’n’b. The Old Port could wait.
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