A Little Discouraged

Day 8 of NaNoWriMo and I have written maybe 4 days. I guess I could be working on my novel instead of my blog post, but I’m at work, and it is a lot easier to jot down some thoughts about my day than focus on writing a story.

If you haven’t guessed by now, between this blog and my “everything” blog at wwdovestudio.com, I am not one to just vomit words onto a page. I might not be as eloquent as Tolkien, or as mysterious as Gaiman, but I don’t like to just write whatever comes to mind. I think about most sentences. So, that makes it difficult to write at work. Plus, I’m at work, duh. My boss is nice, but…

I love my job, don’t get me wrong, but we all have days where we wish we could be doing something else. I don’t know if I could survive as an author, even if I got signed with a publisher and had a series with a book a year. I’m not sure I could crank out a book in a year. Or maybe I would need more than 1 book a year to survive. Anyway, it’s a fantasy that I could just write, and do book tours, and do all the “fun” stuff we dream of when we think about being a successful author.

Of course, I would probably spend my day on twitter and get in trouble with my agent or editor.

I will share a little more of my story, since I left you hanging last time…

This time was different. The stench was unfamiliar. Half of my shirt was soaked with fresh blood and the bottoms of my jeans darkened from the liquid.

I never wore white anymore – blood doesn’t wash out. Jeans just look old and worn, but white is asking for trouble. That’s the last thing I need.

My head still throbbed, dragging me back to the present.

Looking around I realized I wasn’t far from the interstate. Keeping to the treeline, I oriented myself toward the motel and started walking. Maybe I would be lucky and no one would see me. Part of me wanted to know, but it was too risky. Somebody’s cow, or pet, the questions, accusations, leaving town. It’s better to just get back to my room.

Light mist refracted the headlights of the 18-wheelers as they barrelled down the interstate, creating an eerie glow in the fog. The motel sat on the side of the interstate, next to the only gas station and diner for 20 miles. The weather report had forecast snow, but somehow it was still 45 degrees at 1 am. Too warm for upstate Pennsylvania in January.

I made it back to the motel unseen. Careful not to drip on the concrete, I used my clean hand, fumbling the keys in the door.