Packing for Camp

Camp NaNoWriMo begins on Monday - another month of writing with reckless abandon as I try once again to finish a 50,000 word novel.

Because I am insane.

I do NaNoWriMo every November, and as of this year I can boast that I've "won" five out of seven NaNo's that I have participated in. I consider myself sort of an expert on writing a book in 30 days, and yes, you can completely disregard the fact that I've never published any of them. I didn't sign up for Camp EditOWriMo, though that should be created and I should join it.

Camp NaNo runs during April and July, so that people who have no lives like myself can shut themselves indoors and alone and write write write! pretty much non-stop for three months per year. I wanted to do April's camp, but I went on vacation that month so I didn't sign up because I knew I would be away and busy and my priority would not be writing. Next month, it sure will be.

After winning last November on day 26, coming in with 56K words and four days to spare, I thought immediately that I wanted to do a workshop for NaNo next year. There are so many writers in New London and Waterford, and yet I never hear of any of them getting riled up enough to win.

I want to rile people up to win - because if I can do it five times, I know most people can do it at least once. You just have to have some tricks up your sleeve to get the job done, and I am going to use July's camp to get all of my tricks in a row and start preparing for what I imagine will be an epic presentation slash workshop in October.

Do any of you have local writing groups that you write with during NaNo's, or other times throughout the year?

Before the Thaw

"Aim right for the center," he whispered in my ear, "Aim right for the heart."

I held the bow steady and pulled back the arrow, breathing slow and deep and even, willing myself to be one with the weapon.

"You want to aim at the middle of him, see. You want to aim at the widest part so you'll have the best chance of bringing him down."

I lowered the bow and turned, and my father frowned deeply.

"Papa," I said, "I know that if I want to kill 'em I've gotta get 'em in the brains."

"Right," he agreed, face softening. "But a good hit to the chest will slow them down every time."

I turned before I sighed, so Papa wouldn’t see me rolling my eyes at him. I got back into position and aimed like he told me, at the center of the target that was hanging around the neck of a dummy I had made to practice with. I breathed in and out, concentrating hard, and then let the arrow go.

It sailed into its target - not the center like Papa had told me, but into the forehead of the dummy instead. I could see the arrow from here. I had pierced clean through where the brain would have been, the point of my arrow sticking out the other side of the dummy’s lumpy head.

“Marissa,” Papa said, his voice behind me filled with disappointment. I turned to meet his gaze, then let my eyes fall to the ground. 

“Don’t you understand that it’s my job to protect you? That everything I do, it’s for you? Why won’t you just listen to me? Why won’t you respect me?”

There wasn’t a hint of anger in his voice. I looked up to see his sad, tired eyes, his wiggling lip. Would my father actually cry? 

I was filled with shame. I dropped my bow and ran to him, feeling his shock and slight resistance as I threw my arms around him and cried. 

“It’s okay, little heart, it’s okay.” 

Papa rubbed my back while I cried, just like Mama used to do before they got her. 

“You just need to listen to me,” he whispered as I trembled. “The thaw is coming and you are a big girl now. Eight years old! If you listen, I can teach you to protect yourself.”

“In case anything happens to you, right?”

“That’s right, little heart, that’s right.”

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Grace O'Malley gave me this prompt: Aim right for the center.. I gave kgwaite this prompt: Write about the birth of something.

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I stewed over this prompt, and then finally wrote the first thing that came to mind just before the link up deadline. Who the hell knows who these people are? Sometimes writing things is a complete mystery to me, and this mystery is part of what I love so much about it.

Thoughts on Judgement

I have been writing a lot of poems lately, scribbling in my notebook, clickety clacketing my day away at the keyboard, just spilling words. I get that now, the term 'spilled ink' that is used on the internet for words and poems that are given away like these little gifts. My spilled ink comes whether I want it to, whenever it wants to now.

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There are some memories that I am scared of losing, ones that I want to preserve. I am afraid that if I don't write about them when they are clear in my head, though the moments are already years in the past, they will be lost to me forever. Not just muddled and faded and uncertain, but completely gone, and I do not find that acceptable. So the words come and I write them down because I have to, and this is the first time that I have ever felt like I have to do it. I have to get these things out, I don't want to keep them inside any longer. 

Coincidentally, I have to keep reminding myself that my thoughts matter. These memories matter to me, these words matter to me. I have to keep reminding myself that whether the words matter to others is of no consequence and should not - cannot - dictate what I do with them. 

I try so hard to tell myself that I don't care what other people think of me.

But of course I do.

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I want to be one of those people who just doesn't give a fuck. It seems like it must be so easy, life, for people who let negativity roll away off their backs. And not just negativity, because negativity is negotiable. I can take your negativity and compartmentalize it and explain it away that it's your problem, no matter how annoying it is. 

It's judgement that is the problem. 

I want to show up and open my mouth and be known, and not give a fuck if you reject me. 

Who can do that, though? Can you?