I am nailing Nanowrimo like a boss. Actually, no I’m not. I’m pantsing it like I always do and freaking out the entire time but I am getting my words into some kind of semi-coherent form.
I need to learn how to plan my writing because that seems dare I say easier than just sitting at the computer and hoping for the best. I probably need a new journal or something. Surely buying stationery will help.
I am proud of what I have achieved this year. We are usually taught to avoid saying that we’re proud of ourselves and that’s really sad, but I am proud that I made the time to sit down to write almost every day since last March (2017).
As we climb ever higher towards another new year, as we go about our day, doing the things we do, the challenge is to ask ourselves
“Will this bring me more of what I want?”
…and really listen to the answer.
a little bit of my Nano project…
Shelagh stalked through the foyer of the building with her Hermes briefcase in one hand and the other shoved deep into her pocket. She had left her gloves in the car. It was very unlike her, to leave anything behind, let alone her gloves on a freezing cold day. The receptionist saw her coming and swiped his card to open the door for her. Dr. Barton looked like she was in the mood for firing people and he was determined not to get in her way. He dashed over to press the up button for the elevator and smiled what he hoped was not a nervous, but apologetic smile.
“My swipe card didn’t work. For the garage. Have someone take a look at it, please. It’s not really good enough,” she said. She had a way of looking at people that made them feel scared but empowered, like she wanted them to do the thing and not make a mistake, to have a little personal victory and make her day easier at the same time.
“Right away, Dr. Barton.”
“I heard Julie quit while I was away,” Shelagh said, staring at the silver lift doors. Another one bites the dust, she thought.
“Yes, ma’am. Yes, she did. You have…err, a lot of applicants upstairs.”
“Talk about kick a woman while she’s down. I went to my Grannie’s funeral and I come back to a shit fight. You know that selfish cow was my fifteenth assistant this year?”
The doorman had moved so quickly away from Shelagh and returned to his desk that she almost laughed. She hadn’t really expected a response from him.
Relieved to see an empty elevator, Shelagh checked her hair in the mirrors wall and prepared for the onslaught of eager graduates, acting students, and wannabe film-makers who were all desperate to make their mark. They will all tell her that she is their idol, the reason they wanted to get into television/anthropology/restoration of antique bird cages. They’ll blether about how hard they will work, but they will all bail as soon as the going gets a little tough.
The elevator slowed as it reached the 20th floor and the doors slid back. The entry to the offices was so crammed with gorgeous young things it looked like an Oscars selfie. Shelagh took a deep breath and stepped into the foyer. The entire group seemed to surge forward en masse. She raised her hand and said what she always said to the large groups of people that gather for one of her castings or if she was hiring someone;
“Whoever has my coffee has the job.”
Shelagh walked through the crowded foyer like Moses parting the Red Sea. She could hear the scurrying as the horde made for the lifts and by the time she reached her office door silence had returned to the offices. She turned to the two hardy souls who remained.
“Whaddya got for me?” she said.
“Flat white, full cream milk, triple shot. Extra Hot.” The girl dressed head to toe in white leather held aloft a re-usable insulated cup.
“I’ve got one too,” the young man with the 20s mustache said, holding his trophy high. He got up and headed for the lift, taking a swig of the coffee. Shelagh was confused.
“It’s not extra hot. I’ll show myself out,” he said.