That’s the hope of National Novel Writing Month. It takes place in November, where millions of us will be working diligently on our novels, desperately trying to complete them by the month’s end. I’m sick of talking about it. It’s time to hunker down and make some progress.
It’s a lofty notion. It requires a lot of patience and diligence. At 35,000 words into my novel, I am wondering if I focus on it and work late into the evenings in the manner I grew accustomed to years ago when I was pursuing my MFA, can I do it? I won’t know unless I try. I’ve been hacking away at it a little bit at a time, and I’m looking at NaNoWriMo in this fashion: at the very least it will push me.
Here’s an excerpt from the novel I am presently writing–its working title right now “Baseball Girl.”
He sat down across from her and looked her in the eyes. Then he reached for both her hands and held them on top of the table. His hands were large and coarse.
“I know what’s going on. You have a professional reputation you need to uphold, and you’re worried that if you’re with a ballplayer, it could affect your status. I get it.”
She was dumbfounded. She couldn’t even say anything, especially since her head felt heavy, and her stomach was still doing the same flip-flops it was doing the night before.
“And,” he continued, “you’re afraid—afraid to get into something with me. We could have a good thing here. Can’t you see it? We’ve been flirts and have bantered about for years. Last night, I just thought I’d do something about it, so I made the first move, but you shot me down.”
“I didn’t shoot you down.”
“Yes. You did,” he said.
“Okay, maybe a little. But I didn’t know—”
He cut her off. “Maybe don’t say anything, and just give it a try.”
She could hear Isabelle’s words haunting her brain. Don’t date players. Don’t date players. Don’t get emotionally tied up with them. You have a job to do.
He got up and took the bowl of soup out of the microwave, opened the drawer, found a spoon, and brought it over to her at the table. There was that ease again. There was his effortless style moving around her kitchen. Why did she find a man in command of the kitchen sexy? Clearly there was something wrong with her head, and Francesca wasn’t sure she could blame it on the virus or exhaustion.
“Eat up,” he said. “I don’t like seeing you this way.”
“This is nuts, you know that, right?” she said.
“Maybe, Frankie. But I think I might be nuts about you.”
*** Copyright Stephanie Verni, 2013