NaNiWriMo, Emotional Creatures, and an impassioned few paragraphs
Oh good, you found it. Yes, well, it was only a curious corner of the website that no-one’s seen yet, so count yourself among the first to set your eyes upon the first settlement, the Abode, of the Emotional Creatures, Creatures indeed that haunt every story ever told (well, certainly every interesting story but I digress), and when you think about it, every creature that has a capacity for emotion, for outrage, for shock, for joy, for absolute love and devotion to the pursuits of the heart is a creature of feeling; of emotion. And every of those creatures, or perhaps not, or perhaps so, is a human. Mankind sees itself as being the first creatures to recognize, with all 10 billion neurons in our mind, that we are creatures of observation and evaluation, of free will, and of emotion.
I ramble. I do so ramble, rambling so much, that careful observation will reveal a spoiler.
Never fear reader, because these unnecessary paragraphs and observations have been spared from this ‘book’.
Terminated, I’m afraid, with extreme prejudice.
I dreamt up this story for NaNiWriMo, a nati–no–GLOBAL writing activity where writers conspire in front of their laptops and keyboards to do what they want to do, spurning their social life; and they write. And so I did, renouncing school. I am at that age where a decision like that has consequences, unfortunate ones, and so on advice I abandoned it. It is now in a folder on my computer, 100-or-so pages of text and counting. It is not finished. Nor will it be anytime soon.
I was only able to write as I had because I had nothing to stop me, nothing to pull me out of the current, out of the bungee-jump, of writing. But when you do, when you are ripped out, I suffer whiplash, disorientation. Someone has taken a leaf blower to my mind and has wreaked havoc. The demon who crawled up from Hell, who likes Coen films, is gone. Melone, the young and extraordinarily pink hit-woman, is lost. The characters who moved and whirred as they began to move across the tabletop of my imagination departed, with no hope of retaining their original essence. I knew what they were once, and I do, but not when people keep pulling me out of the ocean. With school, with friends, with the social life that writers of novels must deprive themselves of to focus, I can’t recall them. So I’ll sit down, maybe not this November as planned, not this year, but next year. January is a free month, the start of a new year with my fabulous friends. I still find myself writing shorts in anticipation. Every little story I write for Clarkesworld or Voiceworks has a character from this in it, has a tiny piece of Jordan’s pure angelic soul, or Pro(methesus)’s kindness and warmth, of the Headmaster’s inability to connect to the lives of those he surveys.
I hope you like these. This one (for now) chapter and other such chapters like it were the ones that I look back on, not because they are examples of my writing, they are examples of what could be my writing, if you see what I mean. What could be done, what could happen, who could leave the School, who could encounter A, who could dive down to the deepest pits of Hell and find out who they are, truly are, and who could love so passionately a girl who only ever stroked a horrid cat and ignored him.