1 month. 30 days. 50,000 words.
NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.
The ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It’s all about quantity, not quality. This approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.
Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that’s a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.
Let’s write laughably awful yet lengthy prose together.
Ahhh! Write like the wind.
I’m so proud of this (not because it’s particularly good), because I made it on my iPad!
I was like, “Wow, iPad. That’s pretty swell. Good job, girl.”
I’ll probably make a better cover later on PhotoShop, but I’m still proud of the little iPad that could.
Both Samael and Lilith are marked with a “brand” of Samael’s sigil. Samael’s is located at the juncture between his collar bone and the juncture to his throat, while Lilith’s rests above her hipbone, closer to her side.
They’re a sort of tag only administered to those that venture off world, in order to quickly establish chain of command and identity.
Okay, so let’s just start with “we are not alone” and work our way from there.
We are not alone.
There are many worlds, and many civilizations have traveled the cosmos to ours. Gods. It would appear (to the inquisitive physicist) they are from worlds parallel (yet much more advanced) to our own, because aliens simply “step between planes” to travel from their planet to ours (without traversing any distance whatsoever), but they’re not. No. This “stepping between worlds” is due to a new form of space travel discovered on “progressive” worlds which allows travel to “points of interest,” points where space has a tendency to bunch up and fold in on itself. Earth is one such point.
(w/e I’m calling Hell in my story) Demunda
Dare: Have one of your characters go missing for a chapter.
Lilith sighed in relief as the warmth hit her. That was one thing the meat suits got right. She and her like, they liked it toasty.
Fuck, she hated The Planes. It was too busy and too bright and there were all these rules. And there was no end to her frustrations.
And Samael. Lately, he was the worst of them.
Every Alastor (as in the bloodline) has a talisman similar to this. While Nikita wears hers as a pendant on a thin chain, Dustin’s is depicted above and worn on his wrist.
It helps control their abilities (well mostly suppress) and keeps those abilities from driving them mad. Sort of important.
Is it weird that my favorite character for my upcoming novel isn’t even a secondary character?
He’s a fucking tertiary character!
He isn’t only irrelevant. He is also more difficult to include in the story than to completely do without. Like: Chase, stop being a fucking bitch and take a proactive role in this process.
Chase’s room in Samael’s appartment.
Chase, while not a great artist, has walls covered in monochromatic sketches and charcoles of his psychic visions.
He also has lots of books, as there is no television, and very little furniture. His window overlooks that new bubble tea shop on Ponce de Leon Ave in Atlanta, GA.
"The world sucks," Someone once said. "The world sucks, you get old, then you die, and no one will even remember your name."
But you know what? I’m sick of doing what Someone says. Someone out there is an asshole, telling us both who we’re suppose to be and what we’re suppose to wear and where we’re allowed to go.
Fuck them! I’m done with this shit.
We’ll go out tonight and paint the world red and hear them scream with our semiautomatics and psychotic dreams of immortality. We’ll show Someone we’re worth a damn. Our names will be murmured on street corners and highlighted in textbooks for decades to come. We’ll be the worst examples of society, and we’ll show Someone we’re worth remembering.
"This is our world now," Tyler says, "and those ancient people are dead."
Ponce de Leon Avenue, Atlanta, Georgia