Don’t ask me exactly why I’m doing CampNaNoWriMo, the more flexible, July version of November NaNo, especially when I was away for over half of the time I was meant to be writing.
And, yet, this is exactly my advantage. No phone, no TV, no internet. Lots of hours travelling. Sure, I didn’t write as much as I could have, conditional, but I think I have written a lot more than I would have done with a blog and various internet accounts to look after as well.
For instance, today I did some concentrated writing n the morning, but I still didn’t manage to hit my target of finishing the chapter I was writing. This afternoon, I’ve been in a poetry mood, and I’m still catching up, so my speed has not gone to plan – but I intend to press that chapter’s curled edges today!
The thing is: I’ve got this far, and I’d like to finish the first draft of WTCB’s sequel before I start uni or get distracted by more edits (or get distracted by posting, too!). That gives me about a month for intense writing. I’m no good at the intense, but it’s fitting that I should be devising WTCB2 during a WriMo, since WTCB itself (herself?) was born during NaNoWriMo 2010. The only one in which I have participated.
I miss my old header. It explained that through a single picture.
So, anyway, that’s why this week is going to be still light on posts. Oddly, I’m not working on a Uganda one – since I don’t know quite what to say – but I am working on working on it!
Here’s an extract of the work-in-progress with which I’m particularly happy. It’s from Chapter Seven: The Room Behind the Wall, and Main Character, Zara, better-known as the SC of WTCB, has just been confronted by the antagonist, so she takes to hiding in a concealed ‘relaxation’ room. However, the room has more secrets than she bargains for… Yeah, I know: it’s a little clichéd, but it works in the grander scheme of the whole trilogy, and I think it felt good to write.
Unsurprisingly, the bookcase clutched pages of science and manuals about the world. On the top shelf a much-thumbed hardback lay. Zara tilted her head; on the dirty spine, faint letters read ‘History of Genetic Sterilisation’. What did that remind her of? The author-name had peeled too much to be clearly identified. Zara reached for it, but, inches before her fingers had plucked away the book, a shinier tone caught her eyes.
Literally shiny. Two ledges below, and one book to the right, the outline glimmered like silver powder had been dusted from cover to cover.
“Take me!” cried the book, and, on impulse, Zara threw her fingers onto its sleek binding.
A clunk echoed from the innards of the bookcase. A platform was emerging as more clunks joined their fellow into the steady rhythm of train over tracks. Strands tickled her fringe and Zara gasped, leaping back. Instead of vicious, eight-legged beasts, a shower of fine, grey powder fell from her hair. Dust. Maybe plaster.
When she looked up again, the bookcase had slid two metres to the right. From within more midnight-dark, a curving stairwell beckoned.
Winston hadn’t returned. That was his loss. Slamming her palms straight against the sides of the darkness, Zara edged forward. The minute her feet had halted against the first step, she changed positions – from the wall to the ascent.
Indeed, the higher she climbed, the lighter the air around the stone staircase became. Driven dizzy by the endless spiral, Zara rolled her eyes to the ceiling, where a faint course of sunlight descended to meet her. Whilst the rest of The Institute lived with a flat roof, the top of the staircase bore a crescent cap upon its head.