Black Syndicate – Part One

Part one, because I don’t do chapters. Somewhat mature content follows, maybe? I don’t know. Anyway, it’s been a while since I posted an excerpt on my blog. Over two years even . . . So, since it’s NaNoWriMo, here’s something that may or may not be a garbage beginning to my novel. Enjoy! Or don’t . . . Your call.

~*~*~*~

There are certain perks that come with being Katania Morningstar, Thirteenth Princess of Hell. Having servants to tend to my every whim; getting preferential treatment from the other demons; being able to do whatever I want. So, to find myself standing before Father’s throne, on what can hardly be described as a trial, for the most absurd of reasons, there isn’t enough havoc in the world for me to wreak.

“Obscene and disgraceful behaviour,” they had said. “Actions unfit for a demonic princess,” they had said. I am a goddamn succubus! What purpose do I have in life besides being obscene?

“This is insanity!” My voice bounces off the dark walls of the throne room.

Black ropes bind my hands. If all they did were cut off the circulation, that would be irritating enough, but they tame my flood of magic from crashing down on each and every being in this chamber. I take some pride in knowing they do not snuff it out completely. But with guards lining the circular wall of the room, their Earth-inspired, but vastly superior rifles locking dead on to me, surrounding me in an execution waiting to happen, I wonder if it would take much of my magic to eradicate them all, and still have some left over to burn this palace to the ground.

There is an unmistakable kissing of teeth to my side. If I try hard enough, I can feel the chilling gaze of my eldest sister boring into the side of my head. I would sink my claws into her, and destroy her too, if not for these cursed restraints. But I hold back the urge to snarl at Vasilisa. I hold back to the urge to glimpse out the corner of my eye at any of my twelve sisters, looking on from the balcony around the back half of the room. They are spread out across it, and in the very corner of my vision, it’s impossible for me to block out the vague shape of Vasilisa, to my left. But I dare not look away from father, and break my unmoving, fettering glare.

At my outburst, Father merely droops his head some, red eyes barely open. With him slumped back against the blood red throne, his legs hanging over the ornate golden arm of it, the boredom practically exuding off him, I can only hope that this is some kind of sick and twisted joke. Something simply to infuriate me for a little while, and then care little about before the day is done. I wouldn’t even put it past the damned demon.

“What do you say I just banish you to the Earth realm for a little while, and we call it a day?” Father, Lucifer, the Devil, and the Lord of Hell says.

If not for his red eyes, and cracked, ashen grey skin, he could pass off as an angel. He has the large feathery wings to mark him as one of  God’s most loyal soldiers, but the inky black of them marks him as one of God’s strongest adversaries. He would look at least vaguely intimidating, if he wasn’t wearing one of those suits the humans like to wear, to appear important. It makes him look about as threatening as a common fiend who snatches babies out of cots.

“For what?” Father just opens his eyes slightly more, at my screech that would certainly put a banshee to shame. “As long as I continue to corrupt the souls of man, who cares how I choose to do it?”

“Your family cares,” Vasilisa says, her haughty voice surprisingly not making my ears bleed. “And when how you choose to conduct yourself brings shame to the royal family, banishment is far too tame a punishment.”

I dig my claws into my charcoal black palms, the black blood dripping on to the obsidian tiles. I focus on the sharp stinging in my palms, so as to keep my eyes forward, and not look up at the balcony and bring down my words of wrath. I don’t need to see the disappointment on the sisters I actually like.

“Dearest sister,” I hiss the words, pushing them out through grit teeth, “I suggest you silence yourself before I come up there and truly bring shame to you.”

It is no empty threat, but it could have far more weight without all of the precautions preventing my imminent rampage, and the ensuing grovelling and begging for my forgiveness.

The war hammer at my back is a mere deadweight.

The magic screaming in me to be released is but a caged animal.

My claws, always at their sharpest and ready to rend and shred, lack all lethality, bound in front of me.

Unless I want to get up close and personal, my venomous tail, and ram-like horns are completely useless, too. My sisters all have far more years of training on me, anyway; my father is just unfairly powerful; and there’s still the trivial issue of the guards.

“If you can manage that in this state,” Vasilisa says, in a tone that is far too close to one she would use on a peasant who disgusts her, “I might just show a small bit of pride for you. Anything to wash your shameful behaviour from my mind.”

Father’s gaze flicks up to Vasilisa for a moment, before returning to me, with his previous, ambivalence and boredom. I know he doesn’t care about me, and the feeling is mutual, but a lump still forms in my throat. The only thing keeping the tears from falling from my silver, irisless eyes is knowing how much more harm it would do, than good.

So we stare at each other. Vasilisa’s stupid comment hanging in the air, as neither Father nor I speak. I don’t mask my feelings, at all. I know I can get away with throwing my dirtiest snarl at him, like the filth he is, and I know I would be a pile of ashes, were I anyone else.

“You would banish your daughter to the realm of man, where halfbreed nephilim dwell, and vindictive angels oversee, for the mere fact that I like to play with my food?” I narrow my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. I fully expect someone to shout that this is all just a ruse, and a stupid jest. But my heart thunders in my ears, and as no one meets my expectation, I wouldn’t doubt that it’s the loudest thing in the room. “Have you grown senile after such a long existence?”

“If all you did was play with your food—” Vasilisa starts.

With all that Vasilisa has to say, it’s clear to me that she’s the only one with any real problem. She’s the only one who can’t grasp the simple fact that I, as a succubus need to feed off humans. She’s the only one who disapproves of how I choose to have fun, during the process.

Well, I don’t care, and I’ve had enough of her shrill, infuriating voice. Instinct strikes, and not even the inconvenience of my bindings can contain the pulse of death that I send out, enveloping every being in the room. All the ropes can do is dull the effects. Instead of eradicating every last one of the lesser demons Father passes of as elite guards, they merely collapse onto the cold obsidian. Most are unmoving. Some try and fail at rising to all fours, like the worthless beings they are. To his credit, Father at least lifts his brow, in acknowledgement of my power.

Good. Let him know what I can do to him.

“Dearest sister,” my voice is quiet, my tone is poison, “unless you wish for me to tear this palace apart, whilst we fight to the death, then I suggest you shut your harlot, scum-hole of a mouth.”

Only now do I look up to the side, at my eldest sister shaking, as she holds on to the golden railings, her wide-eyed fury just as evident as mine.

“You little—!” She has the audacity to even open her mouth?

I delve deep into my infinite abyss of magic, feeling the unnatural resistance, trying to push me back. But I push on, and dig deep, and with far too large an amount for the task at hand, summon a flaming bow to levitate in the air in front of me. But just as the string of it pulls itself back, and a flaming arrow materialises, the form of the weapon falls to pieces, as it goes up in a small plume, and vanishes in black smoke.

Watching my needlessly proper sister duck behind the glass barrier of the banister would make me cry with laughter, any other time. If I actually managed to strike her, I may very have laughed, despite the situation. Around me, my other sisters look equally rattled, some on one knee, others using the railing as support. Once I get through this, I’ll make sure to apologise. But now, with the unconscious ‘guards’ no longer a hindrance, I turn back to my father, my back straight, head held high.

I delve into my pool once more, but not as deep, aware of the few recovering guards, and I send out one final, concentrated pulse of death. This time, focused on the guards, finishing them off. None of them struggle, as they become lifeless husks on the ground. If nothing else, they’ll have the privilege of being the first beings to survive one of my magical attacks, laced in absolute lethality. Even if they were dulled.

The corner of Father’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly. This is all just entertainment to him, isn’t it? He doesn’t bat an eye at my two attacks. I even managed to affect my sisters, even though I am the youngest . . . But then I am the strongest.

I take a deep breath in, through my nose, and race through all the scrambled thoughts in my head. I’ve talked myself out of worse situations before, I could talk myself out of this, too.

“Father . . . Majesty,” I force out, almost choking on the word, “think this through.” The thought of begging and grovelling before Father makes my stomach churn, but I am out of options at this point. “How would it look to banish a princess— your daughter, no less— over something so trivial? Demons would think of you not as an overseer who leads them, but a tyrant who . . .”

I can’t finish the rest. Not when a lazy grin works its way on to Father’s face. Not when he sits up, and leans forward, eating up my words, but I know it is not in the way I had intended.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Father drawls, in a way that sets my skin crawling. “A tyrant who what? Rules with an iron fist, and cares not what the scum of Hell think of me?” Father rises to his feet, and I curse my body for shivering. He starts down the dais, arms spread wide, as if showing me the scope of his reign, his control. “Let them call me tyrannical.” Another step down. “Let them curse my name for everything that goes wrong in their pitiful lives.”

His feet reaches my level, and with every step across the floor, the closer he gets to me, the urge to run grows stronger, deeper, and more unbearable. But I refuse to show it. I meet his smug grin, with my deadly calm, if only because a temper tantrum at this point has ‘exile’ written all over it. A good seven feet away Father stops, and raises his right hand; with a simple, echoing click, the guards I made sure I killed rise up once more, like clockwork, and point their rifles straight at me, like good little puppets.

“Father—”

“With the greatest of sincerity, I care not how you choose to please yourself in your own time.” I doubt he’s ever been sincere for a second in all his many days in Hell, but I dare not move a muscle. “But I am always welcome to the opportunity to teach my kin some respect.”

And then it hits me. My very core freezes. I’m positive my heart stops, if even for a second. The flames in my blood go out, and in a swift wave of panic, I no longer care about keeping up my bravado.

“It breaks my heart that my own daughter truly despises me, with her every waking breath.”

This is not a hearing.

“I dream of the day you will hang on to my every word, like a good little girl.”

This is not a trial.

“Perhaps some time away from me will teach you just how much of a loving, caring father I am.”

This is an excuse.

“Father,” I breath out, the breath stolen from me, “you can’t be serious.”

A circle of fire surrounds me, the edge of it just before Father’s feet. Within it, a five-pointed star, with me dead in its centre. This is his answer. And despite the flames, I have never felt colder.

I’m frozen in place, and not just out of the real, genuine, foreign fear coursing through my veins. My eyes bug wide, my mouth remains slightly ajar, and I can’t keep my bottom lip from quivering. A flood of thoughts invade my mind, and I can’t think straight. My heart feels like it will burst out of my chest, and I feel like I’m falling through Hell, to some place, even further down. And then I blink, and my father comes into my vision again.

No.

No!

“I’m sorry!” It pains me. “I’m truly deeply sorry!” Father’s face lights up in delight. “I’ll be loyal!” I want to kill myself. “I’ll be respectful!” I want to throw up the contents of my stomach. “I’ll be a good girl and do everything you tell me!” I didn’t realise I was crying, but as my voice cracks, the blurry vision and the wetness riding down my cheeks make sense. I’m crying. I’m crying in front of my father, and my sisters, but it doesn’t matter to me anymore. Nothing matters except staying here. “I’ll beg! I’ll get down on my knees and beg!” Dignity is a small price to pay.

“Oh, darling,” Father says, his eyebrows arched as he stands at the edge of the flaming pentagram, “you’re making me want to change my mind.” He shoots me an apologetic smile and for the briefest of moments, I allow myself to hope. “Well, okay.”

Through the wall of tears and shame, my lips start to pull up at the corners.

“Beg.”

I know I suggested it, but even so, where my blood was ice moments before, it now burns hotter than the fiery pits of Hell. I clench my jaw tight, keeping the words locked behind my fangs. Father’s grin, though . . . Those perfect white teeth just begging me to rip them out . . . The bastard is enjoying this. Making his daughter suffer. I know I can be difficult, but this is just wrong. Even to a demonic level.

But I have to. Damn it all, I do. I abandon the last tiny shred of pride I have, and slowly fall to my knees. I am only vaguely aware of my sisters watching this farce, from atop the balcony, but they don’t matter in the slightest right now. All there is is me, Father, and how low I have to go to appease his sick amusement.

A dark, soul-breaking chuckle escapes from him, and I can only look to the floor. Heartless, I can’t help but think. Heartless filth. But it would save me the trouble of ripping it out, myself, when I get my revenge. As if to prove the point, an invisible force pushes down on my shoulders, pushing me down to all fours, like a goddamned hellhound.

This is a lesson.

“I don’t hear begging.”

I want to snarl at the floor. I want to let out  a growl so bestial that even Father would think twice about punishing me. Considering my position, I’m glad I hold my tongue. “Please Father,” I can barely croak out, “I beg of you; allow me to stand at your side, and serve you as your loyal daughter.” I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him, and feed his remains to the hellhounds!

“Damn. If only you had meant that, I just might have listened.”

“I do!” I shut my eyes tightly, trying not to curse his name, and everything else about him, even in my head.

Damn him!

“I pledge my life to you!”

Damn him! Damn him!

I clench my teeth. “I won’t ever question you again!” I scream at the top of my voice.

Damn you, Satan! Damn you, Lucifer! Damn you, Father of Lies!

I sob, tears falling on to the obsidian floor. As if tugged by the strings of a marionette, I’m pulled up straight, my heart jumping near out of my chest, as I find Father standing barely an arm’s length away from me, inside the pentagram with me. I only just reach his shoulders. I was always the smallest sibling, but I’ve never felt as small as I do now.

He looks down at me, fire flickering in his eyes. I can see how he wants to break me, destroy my ego, and replace it with a loyal hound, just for his amusement. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, I can only feel undiluted, unrestrained hate for him, with every fibre of my being.

He leans down, and whispers in my ear, “How does a thousand years sound, precious?”

Fear courses through me, making my black heart beat faster, and my voice catch in my throat. This is happening. This is really happening. He pulls back, ruffling my head of blood red hair, that falls to my chest, dancing with the flames. I’m just a child in his eyes. Maybe even in the eyes of my sisters, despite the many centuries I have lived, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe they have all been punished for absolutely nothing, in such a cruel way.

“Actually, we’ll make it two thousand,” he says. I don’t have the will or the energy to register the words. I don’t know what I am supposed to feel. “We’ll miss you.” With a wink, he steps through space again, reappearing just outside of the pentagram.

“Father,” I move my mouth, but I don’t even know if any sound comes out. It doesn’t matter, anymore.

The flaming lines of the pentagram erupt in flames, and the last thing I see is Father’s smug face, just beyond the wall of flames, waving to me, before my entire world is engulfed in a sea of orange, blazing hot hellfire.

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Mindless Rambling Crap

I’m totally not running out of ideas for titles. I’m just stating facts.

So… I think I’m at the point where I can be productive again.

Now wait. Before anyone rolls their eyes or laughs at the idea of me doing anything even remotely useful, where writing is concerned, I truly, honestly, 100% believe I am at a point where I can raise a big middle finger to the unproductive abyss in my mind, and actually write.

What’s so different now? Why, good question hypothetical reader. What’s different now, is the fact that I’m now working towards a Creative Writing degree. You know… That super useful degree that will open doors for me, whatever job I apply to… right? Whatever the case, now writing isn’t just a passion of mine that I don’t have the effort to actually do. Now it’s something that I’ll actually have to do, and I don’t think that will take too much fun out of it. But even if it does, trying to write is hell, anyway, as I’m sure you all know, so it’s hard to make hell any worse.

Speaking of Hell… I promise I’m not going somewhere weird with this… Well, not too weird.

But yes… Hell… It wouldn’t be a proper update post of mine if I didn’t tell you I’ve revamped my story like mad. I couldn’t tell you a finalised, or even simplified plot even if I wanted to, but now one of the main characters, and her family are all demons. The kin of Satan, to be specific. Because why wouldn’t they be? Why wouldn’t I just randomly decide to make them demons? I changed all of their names to be more… “fitting”, of course. Changed their personalities to be more fitting, of course. I’ve changed their characters to be… Alright. They’re pretty much not the same characters anymore. Not even spiritually, besides a few of them.

So there’s that. And since it’s October, I may as well not-so-subtly force in a little NaNoWriMo reminder. I’ve epically failed the past three years, but if nothing else, doing NaNoWriMo has pushed forward my story, and what I want to do with it… The only issue is trying to stop that idea ball from rolling, so I don’t find myself shoving things in that make no sense. So, this year I’ll be writing my super-villain/demon hybrid mess of a story, that will totally make sense, even without a plan, and we’ll see where that takes me. Probably back to the drawing board, but who knows? Maybe the next time I restart this story, I’ll inexplicably make everyone androids, or some such. I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past me.

I don’t know whether I find my lax attitude amusing and worrying, at this point. And if you clicked on this post, after reading that title, then I’m sorry. You were warned. This boring as hell rambling is all you get…

Well, I’ll be back soon, with some more super exciting updates! (I can’t promise any of that).

Till next time (hopefully not ten months down the line).

Laurence out.

Pitching Tents And Killing Trees

NaNoWriMo. Every year, during the cold month of November, writers from far and wide lock themselves in their homes and shut themselves off from the outside world, as they become lost in their own worlds, marking the start of their thirty-day struggle to reach 50000 words by the end of the month. Some may be driven to insanity, and become lost to their loved ones, and some may harbour this madness and use it as fuel for their novel. Some may burn through keyboards with their speedy typing, and some may take the challenge as a marathon, and keep to a steady pace.

But what if the challenge may be too much for some people, or what if some people need more than a month of madness to satisfy them? Is 50,000 words too much of a hassle, or could you write that much in your sleep? Well, during the months of April and July you’ll get the chance to sate your creative appetite, and tackle your own goals, finally conquering that unforgiving entity that is your novel. What is this foolish, masochistic nonsense that I’m promoting, I hear you cry?

Camp NaNoWriMo!

*Cue trumpets and horns and marching bands swarming the streets*

What do you say we stop with that now, huh? I kind of let that get away from me.

Anyway, yes. Tomorrow marks the first day of Camp NaNoWriMo, where writers can set their own word count goals for the month. If you plan on participating, then it would do you good to set yourself a realistic goal. In my last attempt at Camp NaNo, I set myself a goal of 75,000 words, even though I didn’t really have any intention of writing 2500 words a day. When it comes to Camp NaNo, I don’t have that great of a track record. I should also mention that I have no intention of participating this year, since I don’t want to end up relying on writing events to write my novel. I only just started writing frequently . . . somewhat frequently again, and I don’t want to mess with my pace so much.

But, if you’re participating in Camp NaNoWriMo this year, then good luck, happy writing, and keep a tight hold of your sanity.

Better have all your caffeine ready.

Laurence out.

Professional Procrastination (And National Noveling in November)

Oh, how I would love this to be a post on how not to procrastinate. Unfortunately, it’s going to be a post about my inability to get things done. So, I hope you’re all prepared, because it’s time for another of my gripping and thrilling updates on my non-existent writing endeavours.

That tagline up there is getting more and more accurate as time goes on. Being unproductive is basically a defining feature of me now. But, as it will be far too easy to be self-deprecating for the rest of this post, let’s try not do that.

First up: My writing.

I’m actually laughing to myself right now. The main reason I’ve had almost my longest break from this blog is because there was virtually nothing to update you guys on. Unless you all wanted to read weekly posts of me saying “I’ve got nothing.” “Still got nothing.” “Another week of nothing.” “Guess what, guys! Yeah! I’ve got nothing!” then there was really no reason to post. I mean, I could have put effort into something. Maybe write an actual informative post. Give a little advice here. Do a little rant there. But if I wasn’t even making much progress in writing my novel, what chance would I have had updating my blog? So, reason two for my absence. My monstrous lack of effort.

Well, that paragraph turned out to be more about my lack of writing, so let’s make this one about where I’m at now. At the time of my last post, I had an extensive plan for my . . . characters. Let’s not call it something it wasn’t. I had almost no outline for my plot other than what was in my head. Now . . . well, not much has changed, other than the fact that I’ve gone back on myself, once again, to a previous version of the story that I once discarded, but now think I should actually go with, making a lot of that plan much less useful. But here’s the thing, what I’m working on now has a far more detailed, existing outline of events throughout the series, that if I end up not writing a thing I can’t blame it on a lack of an outline. All I need to do now, which, bizarrely enough, I’m actually doing, is fill in the blank spots in that outline.

With going back to a previous version I did have some issues . . . the biggest of which being I had new characters I didn’t essentially want to erase off the face of the planet, and so now I have thirty plus characters to make multidimensional in the space of . . . Well, let’s first focus on writing this book, before I think about how many of books in the series I’ll write. I know I have “too many” characters, and truth be told, I’m probably overestimating my abilities to make it work, but what’s life without a little challenge? As if writing wasn’t hard enough . . .

There’s not much else I can think to say about my writing. I mean, I only ever write when I’m supposed to be busy doing other things, which made the whole of the summer my worst enemy. Now, with important work I should be doing, that makes this the perfect time to work on the outline (which I promise I won’t just get lost in and never end up writing the actual story) and then actually start writing it in November . . .

Which brings me onto my next topic.

It shouldn’t take a writing event for me to actually get writing, and that may very well be a valid argument for many of those against writing events. I, for one, am not against writing events, but I don’t want to rely on them.

What, I hear you all eagerly asking, am I talking about?

It is, of course, National Novel Writing Month. Fourteen more days to go until the month that computer keyboards all across the world are dreading. Fifty-thousand words. Thirty days. Yes, I am going to participate, and yes, it probably goes without saying that I’ll be writing the damn novel that has been the bane of my life for the past few years. I know that even some big name, best selling authors having taken so many years to write books, but that doesn’t make it any easier to say, “Oh yeah, I’ve been working on the same book for the past three years. Um . . . Haven’t even got my first draft yet.” Although, without NaNoWriMo, I wouldn’t have even written that first (disturbingly bad) story that has been morphed so drastically now, to get me to what I’m writing now.

You would think that since I frequent the NaNoWriMo forums all year round I would have writing on the mind and get things done.

Well, that’s a procrastinator for you.

I’m not going to say see you soon, because I may be unproductive, but I’m not a liar.

Till next time.

Laurence out.

NaNoWriMo. Take 3.

Yes, yes. It’s that time of the year again, when writers from all around the world block out the outside world, glue themselves to their computer screens and attempt to write a 50000 word novel in a month. I know you’re all just absolutely dying to know what my plans for NaNoWriMo 2013 are, but just bear with me. We’ll have plenty of time to drone on about my failures later.

First thing’s first; how goes the writing? Welp, thanks to a little unknown game by the name of Pokemon X, all the time I had intended to outline my novel for NaNoWriMo mysteriously disappeared. Funny how that happens when you spend over 100 hours glued to your 3DS. So, what’s going on with my novel, that, at this point, seems as if it’s never going to get written? Welp, let’s just say that right now, I am not writing a single word into it until I’ve got a full outline done. I’m not even going to talk about that novel right now. Of all the times I’ve started it again, you guys already know what the deal with it is.  So . . . what does that mean for NaNo 2013? Does that mean I’m not doing it this year? I mean, it only makes sense not to. I’ve got a bunch of work to do, it’s already 4 days in, and I don’t really have a solid plan for anything else. Only a crazy lunatic would think doing NaNoWriMo in such a state would be a good idea.

Yeah . . .

It’s my third year doing NaNoWriMo, and I am no stranger to going in blind with not even the tiniest plan to speak of. So, here are my options; I could either use my English coursework task as an excuse to write a full crime novel, with little to no research and planning; I could write a story which I have a fairly developed concept for, but have got almost nothing in a written down plan, and absolutely squat in the way of a developed plot; or I could write a story in which there really isn’t actually a linear plot and I could improvise pretty much the entirety of it without it looking like absolute ass . . . Funny, seeing as how the characters for the latter were originally going to be in my first NaNo, before I realised how awful I was at writing romance at the time.

So . . . I guess it’s decided then. My A cast is going to take a rest this month, and make way for my B cast as I attempt to write a romance novel . . . A genre in which I have a . . . uh, let’s say a “history” in. Oh, yay . . . I already hate where this is going. There’s only one person I don’t want knowing that I’m writing a romance again, and I couldn’t be happier that he doesn’t follow this blog.

So! I’m gonna go and probably not start the novel. I’m probably going to do nothing constructive for the next few hours and then go to sleep, and probably put off writing tomorrow, too. Productivity!

Till I’ve actually finished my outline and stop torturing myself with this WIP,

Laurence out.

Day 7: A Novel Is Born

Hello again. It’s been less than a week and I’m posting again. What it this madness?

Alright. So, finally, seven days in, I’ve finished my plan for my series . . . Except I really actually haven’t. Sure, I still need to finish the plan for book number five, but that’s set years after the other four, so won’t need to be so tightly connected with the other four.

Anyway, it’s day seven and now I’m finally ready to shut up and actually write. I guess that means a novel isn’t really born. I haven’t even written a word into the first draft. So at best, I would say that my novel at the stage of conception . . . What the heck am I talking about?

So, now that I have a plan/rough-ish outline, I should be able to actually finish it. Should. If I don’t . . . Well, I don’t know. I can’t imagine that will happen, because now I know what’s happening. Now I know virtually everything important (and some not important) that happens (except for how to start this thing, which is the part that I really should have planned first, seeing as how that’s the part I always have trouble with).

I guess now I can participate in Camp NaNoWriMo without banging my head on my laptop with the knowledge that I would never be able to salvage the monstrosity that I wrote. And even though I said I wasn’t aiming to write 50000 words by the end of it, I still set my personal goal to 75000 words, because that’s how many words I estimate it would take me to finish book number one (which I’ve named Syndicate, and named the series Vital Strike. You know. Because all of you were just dying to know).

To conclude, when I hit the “Publish Post” button on this blog post, the first thing I’m going to do is go into my word document and stare at the blank page while I try to figure out just how to get this train rolling. I’m going to attempt to write 75000 words for the novel, even though I said I wasn’t even aiming for 50000 words (because that totally makes sense). And I’m . . . well, I guess that’s it. I’m going to go attempt to finally conquer this damn novel and laugh maniacally when it likely drives me further into insanity and makes me tear this laptop to pieces with my teeth and never think about writing again.

Don’t expect an update. See you all when I’m done with this thing.

Laurence out.

Camp NaNo . . . Again.

Yes, yes. It’s April and it’s Camp NaNo again (just ignore the fact that I’ve been gone for however long it’s been. Let’s pretend I’ve been posting the whole time). So, putting aside the fact that I’ve done very little writing these past few months, I have been making good progress with my series. How? Well, let’s go on a little, huge deviation from the original topic, shall we?

I have found out something about myself. I write much better and quicker when I actually plan what I want to write. Go figure, huh? So, as always happens when I go into a story without a written plan is that I either hit a wall, just end up writing absolute crap, or I work in extremely convoluted plot points to get around the solid brick wall I hit. So, as I kind of expected, my last attempt at writing what is becoming the bane of my existence was not exactly a success. Again. Ignore the fact that in one of my past blog posts I said that I knew exactly what I wanted to write, or some crap like that. I didn’t write it down, I have no idea what my ideas for my series were back then. At the end of the day, if I don’t write down a plan or an outline, I will not write anything of quality. I’ll just keep making up random stuff that either keeps the story from progressing or contradicts everything I mentally planned about a character. So, yes. As you’ve all probably guessed by now (surprise, surprise!) I’ve started yet again.

Now. I am planning on participating in Camp NaNo. Yes, it’s already three days in. No, I have not even written a single word yet. Why? Because I haven’t finished my plan for my entire series yet. Yes. I said my entire series. I really do think I have something here and I’m not just going to rush into Camp NaNo without a solid idea of what the hell is going on in my world and end up writing mindless crap. Again.

I think I’ve reached the point where I love my characters to bits, I really, really do, but I just hate the idea that if I totally screw this up, I’ll have to start it over for the billionth time (to be honest, I can’t imagine anyone enjoys doing that). It’s not that I hate writing, because if I did hate it, I wouldn’t do it. I’ve got other things I can waste my time doing.

So, I’m not dead yet, even though I’ve been gone for months. I am participating in Camp NaNo. I’m not planning on ‘winning’ and writing 50000 words. My next attempt at writing this bloody novel will manage to get to the second draft. And I probably won’t be back soon . . . Well, there’s no point in lying, is there. At least I’m honest about it. I reckon that should keep you all satisfied. Here’s a smiley to artificially force that to sound playful and not at all like an asinine comment. 🙂

See you all in however many months it will be till I can be bothered to post here again . . . (wow, I sound like such an arse).

Laurence out.