Greetings, fellow poets and novelists!
It is that time of year, a time where all sanity may be thrown out the window and coffee (except I don’t like coffee) is your main source of staying alive. Yep, you guessed it–it’s NaNoWriMo time. This is my first year of NaNo, having learned of it far later than I should have last year. I know, I’ve been living under a rock all this time, unbeknown to me that a whole other world of crazy writers existed during my favorite month, November.
I’m currently at the 3,000 mark, just a little under 3400. I’ve got two goals to reach: one is for my English II class NaNo group, in which everyone agreed on 17K. My main goal is, of course, 50K, so my primary goal of 17K has got to be totally doable. I’m very excited and just want to write all 24 hours every day until Nov 30–but school, and life, and life, and school, have all be obstructions to this. Nevertheless, if any of you are NaNoing, do let me know so we can word war to our hearts content! 😛 Also, if you would like to add me as a buddy, shoot me a message or comment below so I know.
Moving on to the novel itself: it’s a thriller novel with a rather long title.
The Nebulous History of Agnes C. Jincher
The short, brief summary:
A young child can only remember the abuse of her mother by her stepmother. The family falls apart and must be sent away to an all-girls school for the rest of her teenage life. She must learn to fit in with the others, but along the way is sidetracked by a significant robbery that pieces together her family’s history. Questions are answered and memories become clear.
Eh, my longer summary is a bit more concrete, but nevertheless, that’s the least of my troubles. And now, a lovely excerpt for you all!
Turning on the light that started to buzz from faulty electrical wiring, Agnes stared at herself in the mirror. The glass had been cleaned while the girls slept, so she could distinctly make out every flaw in her roundish face. She had a small face, no doubt, but it wasn’t too small for all the blemishes she disdained. Grumbling, she reached for the foundation, the one makeup she was allowed to use, to cover them. Agnes knew the philosophy that one should love themselves with all of the faults they possessed. Having just read Sonnet 130 by Shakespeare in English last week, the idea had been reinforced.
Of course, Agnes knew, isn’t easier to love yourself if your breath didn’t smell worse than perfume? But it was harder for her to “love” herself, because she didn’t feel like she knew who she even was. Dropped off at this building five years ago, Agnes had been the butt of every joke, the topic of every gossip.
“She has no family,” they would say with a giggle, brushing past her to reach their next class. Meal times were hardly any better, except for the fact there was food. It was then she witnessed the play made by surrounding girls, glancing at her quickly before she saw, whispering in front of her face, and then looking away. Agnes found it awfully ludicrous, for she already knew what they were saying. Why be so discreet about it?
It was true, or so Agnes believed it—she had no family. The orphan (as she concluded this year) could only remember a sleek limousine, her in the far back seat, the streak of green from the trees on either side of the vehicle through the window. And then, a sudden lurch signaling a stop. She was escorted out by a man she did not recognize, with dark glass and a cold stale smile. Stepping in front of the building, she noted the sign on the front: The Little Flower Preparatory Academy for Girls. There was a coat of arms underneath the grand title.
In front, her eyes laid upon a beautiful marble statue of a young woman, her eyes casted upward to the skies, her arms enveloping a cross with a rosary and lilies. She was told later on that the woman’s name was St. Therese of Lisieux, a “role model for all young girls,” as lectured by Sr. Martha, the leading nun. Agnes didn’t like her stern voice at first, but she came to understand why it was so. Discipline was important for excellence, after all. Her small mind recollected another stern voice, like a wave that faded out across the ocean but surged back to shore clear, but receding yet again. She couldn’t put a finger on who it belonged to, but she knew that there was such a stern voice before Little Flower.
All in all, she had no distinct memory of having parents whatsoever.
As you’ve probably guessed, I’m cringing at every word, trying so hard to restrain myself from editing it all. Man this will be tough.
Anyway, are you participating? What’s your word count goal? What’s your word count right now? Let me know! ❤