Anyone sign up? www.nanowrimo.org
SIGN UP, WRITE YOUR NOVEL. WE CAN FORM SUPPORT GROUPS. My story so far, please critique.
A cigarette dripping sloppy embers into the glass ashtray, the slight hum of the air-conditioner envisioned and brought to reality on my desktop, locked in my drab bare-boned bedroom, as I clutch at tufts of my hair, biting my lower lip, looking at the empty page in front of me, my other hand on my knees. My veins itch when I get upset. Lifting my head slowly, I rest my heavy fingers on the lead typewriter, my legs wrapped around the small wooden chair I live in.
HEY WHATCHA WRITING? The paper queried of me, its paper hands slowly pulling itself out of the golden typewriter.
Itís the paper! A banshee wail escapes my lips as I look at the paper, two small pencil-eyes drawn around the radii, and a tongue hanging limply out of the corner. I sob and slam my hand into the table. The paper was 11Ē, with a small bejeweled earring on itís side, two hands, and feets like big white mouse gloves.
Nothing, paper. Nothing at all. I choke out, my whole body trembling. I havenít slept in days, and my body burns with frustration. Will you help me?
I look down at my sleeves, wrapped around my elbows, small red scratches up my sinewy veins from the impatience.
A stoic look drapes onto the paperís face, his tree-claw grasping my wrist as his bottom lip quivers, pulling a box out from his paper-ass.
I want Ö I want to show you something. Do you want to see it?