NaNoWriMo. So far the program has been a lot of work, yet very riveting. I have been so motivated and inspired! Writing every day has not only been relaxing, but I have gotten to spend so much time at one of my very favorite places -
THE LIBRARY! ^_^
Seriously. My poor mom has been driving Anna and I back and forth several times a week for the past two weeks...she likes it though, she really does. ;) Oh, and FYI, no, I do not have my licence yet. *ahem* Anyhow, (move on Michaela, move on!) I just love sitting in the "quiet" computer room, way in the back near the window. The only sound is that of typing fingers and the music swirling from my headphones. Unless someone with a nasty cough decides to invade the peace, which tends to be often. Isn't there something in the rules about that? And what about turning up the music volume so loudly everyone else has to listen along? Argh. hehe
Right now we are currently over 30,000 words in our novel, and the story isn't even half finished! o.O Obviously NaNo isn't done for us at the end of the month, though I don't doubt we'll complete the program. :)
Now ladies and gents, presenting the prolog to the thus far
Un-Named book ~ don't forget to leave your feedback and suggestions!
'The door was hard, peeling in places where the paint was coming away from the wood, leaving long yellow-brown strips peeking through and rubbing against his shoulder. He leaned heavily on the handle, ignoring the splinter jabbing into his side.
The rain continued to come down, torrents of water that soaked his hair, hit his face like tiny fistfuls of pebbles. He hunkered lower under the large cloak covering his shoulders, feeling the liquid pebbles hit his back before slipping down the black folds of fabric.
At least his clothes were protected; his last good waistcoat, and the pocket watch from grandfather, tucked safely away in his trousers. He grinned absently to himself, thinking that he would have laughed had he the strength. If his father could only see him now; he must look like a human waterfall.
A chuckle brushed his lips, pushing past in the freezing night air before dropping into a hoarse cough almost too weak to be heard. Without warning his head dropped with a soft thud against the door, and the long gold-brown lashes closed over the pale cheeks. Breathing was becoming more and more difficult.
It was so simple. All he must do was turn the knob, ask for a room, he could have a warm bed and a fire; even a young child with enough will-power could reach, push the old door open. But his head was spinning and an odd buzzing sound echoed in his ears, even louder then the rushing cry of the storm.
Just a turn of the door knob. Suddenly his fingers were curling around the brass handle, twisting it slowly, slowly.'