Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month, is a self-challenge taken up by people all over the United States, to write 50,000 words of a novel. I never finish anything, and I wanted to have this personal goal to prove that I can write a novel. Thus, to smooth over any potential bumps in the road, I wrote with these following guidelines:
- love story between a Korean pop star and a songwriter
- no avoidance of cliches (such as the disapproving mother, dead parents)
- not in chronological order
- narrated in stream of consciousness
Essentially, there is no coherent plot, so, this novel was a snap to write. Hell yes, I wrote 90+ pages, no spacing, Times New Roman 12 point, margins one inch. I will be posting it continuously on Fictionpress.
I thought the following passage was particularly beautiful:
Those moments, those accidental moments of surprise, of pleasure, filled his thoughts. Those small moments, fleeting in a day, became vibrant and impressionistic– he didn’t daydream, he was trapped in this continuous haze of memory and torture. He stretched his fingers, the fingers that had touched her fingers, the hand that held hers briefly.
His fingers would curl, and his eyes were unseeing, and he tried not to think, not to think of touch, of sense, of feeling. He was so tired. He came home, and he slept and still, he couldn’t avoid these light thoughts, these thoughts that comforted and poisoned him. These thoughts that reached out to him, so close and so far away.
He tried to fulfill his desires by other means, he tried earnestly, he tried. He never compared the other girls to her, but when he touched them, and when he looked at them, he couldn’t feel the same thing, he couldn’t experience that magnetism, that automatic warmth and smile, he couldn’t feel this and he knew it was wrong.
He learned and he worked, and he loved, but it was so empty and full at times that he was so confused, and so tired.
He cried at night when he was alone for a few hours, a few hours before the others would come back. He always made sure no one else was around, and the tears would come, and he would go to sleep, and he would cry. It didn’t feel like a release. It felt right in a way that looking at others could not.
He told himself that he was a curse, that he had never taken upon the responsibility. He had just looked on while her heart bounded free, and his heart stood, transfixed, palpitating. She was a curse, too. She was the reminder of his curse, and she cursed him. She left, and he was left behind.
He would think about meeting her again, and what he would do. He would think about seeing her braid again, touching her hands again, looking into her eyes again. Feeling her warmth again, pressing his body against hers on a windy day, listening to her steady, even breath as she slept, kissing her wrists, smelling the nape of her neck. He was so lost, so he tried to sleep. He tried to work and sleep.
She still came in his dreams, unheralded, a soft, shy presence. Someone who would hold his hand, who smiled at him, someone who never spoke.
He opened his eyes, and it would still be dark, and the morning would bring no light.