And we’re off…
It’s Day 6 of Camp NaNoWriMo and I’m a bit behind. That’s to be expected since I spent a good chunk of Day 1 staring at my laptop. My tentative foray into the world of Plotterdom (beat sheets, outlines, character Q&As) practically guaranteed I’d be more ready than ever, but something wasn’t right.
I’m so used to just diving in, writerly limbs flailing all the way down, that I didn’t know what to do with all that preparation. So on Day 2, I pretended none of it existed. I intended for those tools to be guideposts as the drafting poured forth, not precise directions. If I found myself feeling lost, I could refer to the literary landmarks I created, but I also have the freedom of choosing a different route if necessary.
That’s settled. I’m a plotser–a hybrid of plotter and pantser–and I’m perfectly happy with that.
So far, the story’s shaping up into…something. Ha! It’s tentatively titled TOUCHED and my synopsis is thus: So far there’s a 17 year old girl, psychometry, a frustrating ex, an identity crisis, and an author wondering what’s going to happen next.
And an (completely unedited and unrevised) excerpt:
“Nice to meet you,” Jason says, extending his hand. It seems like such a simple thing, a small gesture really, but it means so much more. Sometimes I just want the senses that everyone’s allotted to tell the story.
My eyes see he’s just under six feet tall, with shaggy, brown hair, light blue eyes, and a big dimple in his right cheek. They admire his red-and-white striped polo, faded jeans, and well-loved tan deck shoes. My ears pick up a slight Southern accent. My nose detects he followed up his teeth-brushing with a swig of minty mouthwash and a splash of cologne so woodsy and warm and decidedly boy my taste kicks in, drool threatening to dribble from the corner of my mouth. That just leaves touch, the one that’s always a surprise.
Before I can shake his hand, a rough shove slams me hard into his chest. A slideshow of images flickers through my head: a cute red-haired girl holding a gift-wrapped box, Jason accepting the shirt with a kiss to her cheek, him wearing it when they have that final, terrible fight.
“Dash, are you okay? God, rude much!” Crystal yells at someone long gone. Jason smiles, not the slightest bit disturbed by the complete stranger with a deathgrip on his shirt. I smooth the fabric and slide into a chair, face tingling as regretful words echo in my ears.
And the playlist getting me through today’s writing: