After a month of writing I finished the first draft with just over 50,000 words. My winner’s certificate:

Very happy with the book. It’ll be fun to edit. This evening with one more hour of writing ahead of me I flipped a coin. Heads: a happy ending. Tails: a not happy ending. Fate said tails. Here are the final lines, a conversation between the narrator Geanie as she talks with Rodrigo who has just been released from prison and has to leave the country. I feel I must remind you this is a rough draft and will most likely be subject to strong edits to increase emotion and deepen the verbiage. Thanks for following me in this project.

I reached out my hand as I took a few steps toward him. His eyes widen, he seem startled. His fear melted to a soft grin as he grasped my hand and gently gave me a kiss on the cheek.

His voice, low and hoarse, whispered, “Thank you.”

I bowed my head and then said, “For what?” I laughed a little.

“Thank you for coming,” he started. In the past he would have laughed and shared my joke. Now he just smiled, his eyes remained sad. “I am glad you came,” he added.

“I am glad I came too,” I affirmed. I kicked the dirt unsure what to say next.

Rodrigo saved me. “Do remember our trip to Uyuni?”

I looked up at his face with a beaming smile, “Of course I do.”

“We drove out to the volcano and then we took a hike on that rainy day, remember?”

“Yes.”

“The man told us that the mummies had died because they lived by the light of the moon and then when the sun was born it was too bright and they had to hide from it.”

“Yes, I remember the story.”

“I am like the mummies.”

“How so?”

“I am a person of the darkness. I live and work in the night. It’s enough for me the dimness of the moonlight. My ways are dark. I have to keep running from the sun. I can’t live with the light of goodness in my life. It will burn me alive. Every time I tried to make a stand for what I thought was right I was trampled, beat, and imprisoned. My homeland pushed me away with tragedy. Now I go to find another land as the injustice drives me out.”

He grabbed my arms with his hands and kissed the tears on both my cheeks. The uniformed men came close and he yanked himself from their proximity, and mine.

 

THE END

This bit comes directly after the first excerpt.

Not wanting to know what now seeped through my fingers I squeezed my eyes shut tight. I made sure all my limbs made it behind the metal gate and then turned my head in the direction of my hand. It had stayed frozen in its spot as I maneuvered my body around my arm. It felt like a blindfolded game of some extreme version of Twister. I never did like that game. After listing off in my mind every single idea of grossness that might be under my hand I slowly opened one eyelid. The other popped open fast as I saw the substance pooling under my palm was blood.

The noise throbbing in my head from the never ending flood of protesters filling the streets echoed louder off the tin walls of the small lot. Scanning the premises I saw a shack in the back corner. The attendant had abandoned the one dusty car with a flat, the only vehicle in sight. To my right a dirty canvas tarp shivered. The blood streamed out from under the cloth. The sheer size told me this could not be a dog or a cat. The creature must be human. The mob behind me, an injured human before me, I had to make a choice. Whatever, rather whoever, was under there must be scared and severely hurt. They did not cry out. They only shook. Why they had not sought help I did not understand. Perhaps they were hiding from a crime or an attacker.

Our main character, Geanie, has been assigned to work in flood relief by the volunteer organization in Bolivia. The 2nd excerpt of the novel “Immigrant Juggler”:

The surrounding devastation put us in a somber mood. Flat-bed trucks with wheels large enough to not get sucked down into the muck held all the supplies. There we found yellow rubber boots which came up to our knees. We put on florescent orange vests and hard hats. The stench of rotting garbage, swamp like sludge, and decaying flesh made me grateful for the bandana I had tied around my neck. I slipped the purple paisley patterned cloth over my nose and grabbed a shovel.

After a couple hours of shoveling gook out of houses and stores I wished for some gloves. I headed back over to the truck to see if anyone had turned in any. They had run out before. I concentrated on the oversized boots as they threatened to stay behind with every step I took. On my way over I felt a tap on my thigh. I turned and looked down expecting to see a child.

Instead a leathery face looked up at me. The wrinkles carved lines of worry and lines of joy. Her lips curved up in a permanent smile yet the corners of her eyes pulled down giving the sense of a person who smiled out of force of habit to hide her true feelings. The cataract eyes clouded under a squint. She craned her neck to look up at me. A brimmed hat, painted white, with a black accent ribbon tied on it, sat pinned on her head. Two long, salt and pepper braids hung down her back fastened together at the ends with a brown piece of yarn. She wore a layered skirt and a button up, capped sleeve, shirt. Her legs matched the color of the mud so I couldn’t tell where she started and the sucking dirt ended.

“What pretty blue eyes you have,” the aged woman said with a strained voice and a Spanish accent I did not recognize.

One of her thin hands clenched a walking stick, also connected to the grime below. The other hand she used to touch my thigh. Because of her crooked back the raised hand, cupped to the sky, reached no higher than her chest.

The stoic eyes spoke, matching the begging words coming from her pale lips, “Give me a coin. With eyes as kind and blue as yours you cannot say no to me. Give me a coin.” She again tapped my thigh with her stick like fingers.

I rested the shovel against my shoulder. Painfully I put my hands with the pink, broken flesh into my pocket searching for some money. My spoiled fingers touched on some cool, smooth coins. I pulled a few out and placed them into the cup shaped hand.

She bobbled her head in thanks and began the trudge to the next worker. I grasped the shovel once again as pain shot through the open wounds. I flinched yet held tight.

In the interest of getting the story on the screen they recommend no edits for the whole month. Rough as sandpaper the first 5 paragraphs of my book:

The pop, pop rang in my ears as reflex instincts drove me to my knees. The hiss warned of another explosion. I pressed my hands against the sides of my head. Questions screamed through my mind. Firecrakers? Gun shots? Smoke bombs? People rushed into their little shops along the crowed down town street. Only a few cars parked haphazardly near the curbs seemed odd on market day. Though, almost everything seemed odd in this new city. From behind I heard Spanish chanting mixing in with what I decided were fireworks. Soon the droves spilled around the corner explaining the desertion of buses, taxis and motorcycles.

Their yells and fists pumping in the air communicated more than the words, which I could not distinguish. Even the graphic illustrations and iconic, blown up photographs on the ends of their rough sticks meant nothing to me. Far from a victory parade the demonstrators swarmed like a mass of angry bees. Smoke swirls around in the air gave the feel of a cyclone threatening to tear apart the buildings. I scooted over close to the scrawny trunk of a tree still on my knees.

I completely forgot about the little point and shoot camera, my faithful companion, tucked safely in my new Bolivia bag. Glancing down to make sure I still had my things I regretted the souvenir purchase. The bright colored weaves and boxy design stood out like a neon sign flashing, “Look at me!” It drew too much attention. And now, caught in the middle of angry mob, I worried about the famed pickpockets they had told us about in orientation. Sure, they tell us to watch our purses but they completely forget to mention survival techniques in the case you meet with rioting in the streets. Thank you very much.

My eyes darted around looking for a safer spot. The irony of the bright sky and midday sun against the discontented population reminded me of my own restlessness before I came to Bolivia. I started out from the tree towards the open gate of a gravel parking lot behind me. I had left the gravel roads of Nebraska, sick and tired of the same old thing. Was I mistaken to leave the good life for an adventure of rescuing poverty stricken people in the middle of a foreign country? The chipper little recruiter at my high school career fair sure did a great job selling the dream. No sooner had I tossed my mortar board graduation cap in the air did I jump on plane to get as far away from the boring, old, security-ridden routine as I could.

I became an adult the day I landed in Cochabamba on my eighteenth birthday. What were they thinking letting a kid go off to save the world? I thought for sure my year commitment would be cut short in the first week. Either they would find my body splayed on the pavement, trampled and crushed, barely alive and send me home only after I spent weeks in the hospital recovering from near death injuries. Or I would be proclaimed unfit for service because this experience would drive me crazy. Not the crazy you get over. No. The crazy of the old lady who pushed her shopping cart around my little hometown as she sang old hymns at the top of her lungs. My uncle told me once that the homeless shelter he volunteered at tried to help that lady. She told them she was perfectly content. Well, rustle up a shopping cart for me old lady, because I’m about to join you. This business can only be called crazy.

Event: National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo)

Year: 2011

Objective: Write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days

Novel Title: ‘Immigrant Juggler’

Synopsis:

Geanie, restless from small town life in the U.S.A., signs up on an exasperated whim to volunteer with a relief aid program. The people she meets in the year she spends in Bolivia challenge her ideals and redirect the course of her life. By befriending a migrant street juggler she gets tossed into some potentially compromising situations. Can she rely on her creativity and plucky nature to keep it together in her attempts to make a difference? Or will she drop the ball with time and inexperience against her? Upon returning to the States mixed emotions overtake her. An unlikely encounter with a man of similar unquiet passions sparks afresh her missionary desires.

Strategy: For the third year I don my writers cap along with thousands of authors around the world in literary abandon.  I set my daily word count goal at 2,300 for 22 days. This gives me eight days free. I work better with a little wiggle room. No re-reading. No editing. Just putting words on the screen.

Writing fuel: Iced tea.

Question for you: Last year I blogged weekly excerpts. Would you prefer me to do that again? Or would you prefer I vlogged about it; posting weekly videos of me reading a bit?

Cliches are to be avoided like the plague. Or so say the experts. The title just did such a great job summing up my thoughts I couldn’t resist.

From a number of sources recently a common critique has come my way. They urge me to, well, cut to the chase.

Get to the point quicker and with more drama. Bring us to the climax and don’t shrink from the emotion. You don’t need so much build up; I like the way you were so concise this time.

I second guess myself about how far I can push the emotion factor without losing credibility. I also worry about mistreating my listeners or readers through manipulation. Examining my process brings me to the truth behind my lack-luster communication. Pseudo people pleasing inhibits my creativity.

I say pseudo because really when I shirk from full expression of thought in order to avoid offending certain pockets of society I actually set up barriers that push others away. When I interact with the creation of another person (writing, speech, dance, movies, paintings, etc.) I yearn for stimulus that allows me to feel deeply the emotion of the creator. Why would I deny my audiences this same pleasure?

My analytical brain burns with the logical follow-up question: how? Instead of the boring old bullet points I opted for a more colorful conglomeration of thoughts. Behold the spider graph of how I might go from inhibition to activation.

image of my thoughts on how to go from inhibition to activation

Please feel free to share your thoughts about how one might trade in inhibition for activation.

*Bonus link for fiction writers: http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php Challenging yet extremely insightful information for ‘writing the perfect scene‘.

Kitchens and backyards of relatives fill the corners of my summer memories.  More than a dozen cousins played in the houses, banging doors and peeking through drawers. Aunts chatted and uncles prattled on while grandmas fiddled around with the food and grandpas smoked the pipe or sat in their stuffy chairs and watched the buzz with a proud grin. Sunsets of the hot days brought out jars for catching fireflies and sleeping bags thrown anywhere for the best slumber parties ever.

Then the cousins grew out of those overnight days and the aunts still yearned for family times. They let the young ones go to the boyfriends and ball games and all things ‘better’ than what was. They put their hands to work, busy stitching thread into fabric as they spoke of the fabrics of their lives all stitched together through time.

Those same hands I see at the ends of my arms. I see the creases of my Aunt Joyce and I remember brownies, chili and the voice of a patient teacher. I note the curve of the nails of my Aunt Kristy and I remember the rebellious hair stylist giving me my first perm. My Aunt Linda, the mother of my childhood best friend, was the wife of the sisters’ brother. Though her hands are not a part of me by blood I watch my hands care for children and I remember the summer she dug a bloody piece of glass out of my knee after a bicycle spill. Then I turn my hands over and around and see the smooth skin is never still and I remember my mom. She taught me to keep my hands moving, working on projects or puzzles. The dent on the ring finger of my left hand is nearly identical to the one she has. That dent that speaks of the heritage of marriage, a value worth more than gold passed on to me.

These woman watched their babies grow and a magic idea came about during one of those chatty spells. A cover would be fashioned for each cousin to be thrown over them as them stepped away. That cover would spread over the stretching out limbs of their little ones as they made new lives. Theses woman foresaw families being created under the care of these covers. With each meticulous stitch their hearts were sown into the life fabric of the cousins.

My day came. All excited and bold thinking I knew everything I pledged to marry my love. The cover was chosen and wrapped up for us. Wrapped with the pain that only the mothers of children who have outgrown the reach of their arms but not the reach of their hearts could know. Wrapped in the joy of a job well done mixed with the sorrow of a season ending. Wrapped up and released into the anticipated unknown of a starry-eyed bride and her beau.

Scrapbook page of Wedding Shower

I hugged that cover knowing little what it meant. Now it has laid over my love and me for almost a decade and a half. The fabric of the cover displays the frays of a life fully lived. The tears tell of tears both happy and sad. The broken threads tell of relationships come and gone. The colors fading tell of youth left lingering yet soon to give way to the soft pale years to come.

Their cover making season drew to a close and now the care of the cousins rests in the hands of my sisters and me. With what shall we cover this branch of the tree sprouting out in about a dozen directions? What shall our hands fashion to throw over our children as they begin to step away? I wonder if my aunts would suggest the quilts. I wonder if the other cousins love their covers as much as we love ours. Like the much desired final chapter of a book you don’t really want to ever stop reading we are turning the page. I wonder what happens next.

Stargazer to the left and Ivy to the right of her Calla Lily trusted the two wise ones. She learned new things as they walked the path. The two roads that little Calla Lily had walked before swirled as eerie misty memories in the twilight as she slept. All glistened bright and new as they showed her how to walk as one of the wise.

Her tongue formed the spells of the wise confounding the occasional passersby of the old paths. They listened to who they once knew as Amaryllis and confirmed that a great change had taken place. Calla Lily simply beamed in confidence of her skills. Stargazer and Ivy knew that the good spell they had spoken over her had indeed started the changes but that they had to be vigilant to ward off the creeping up of the wandering spell they had broken.

Every day the evil villain came slithering up close to the journeyers. Stargazer and Ivy knew they needed to keep Calla Lily safe and at the same time make her strong to fight.

“Calla Lily, say this,” Ivy began one day. Calla Lily mumbled out a few unintelligible syllables. Over and over Calla Lily repeated Ivy’s phrases. “Now, Calla Lily, say the words like this,” Ivy would boom the words out indicating she wanted Calla Lily to speak the words loud. Conquering her nerves the small one mustered up enough volume to please her instructor. Ivy encouraged her pupil to use the incantations often to build familiarity and ability.

Stargazer worked with the old manuscripts. He chuckled when he heard Calla Lily playing with her toys. She had given them each voices and they were speaking some of the very spells that he had given her. He noticed her keen ability for mimicking. This made him smile to see she was learning so quickly. It also gave him cause for concern.

“Ivy, Calla Lily is adept as mimicking,” he began.

“Yes, I have seen how she is almost chameleon like with the people she is with,” Ivy said.

“This is good when she is being trained in the safety of our care, but she will also need the skills of strategy so that she might use the spells when we are not with her.” Stargazer furrowed his brow.

“She is still very young so much of the copying may be due to her age. I do agree however that she will need to acquire ingenuity to not fall prey to the deceivers who would seek to destroy her.”

They both sat in silence for a moment. Suddenly Ivy’s face brightened.

“The puzzlers chest! That’s the answer! My ancestors fashioned a set of puzzles and took them to the Willow Wizard to enchant them. All who solved the puzzles would be endowed with the creative powers of strategy and ingenuity.”

Ivy, so sure about her plan, started off in a quick jaunt into the woods. Stargazer knew she was headed to the ancient troves. He placed Calla Lily on his shoulders and followed.

The three found the intricately carved chest and requested permission from the keepers to let Calla Lily do the puzzles. The wrinkled keepers tested Calla Lily’s capacity for bearing the responsibility of the enchanted puzzles. Then the large key was handed to the two wise ones. One precaution came as they all held the iron ring.

“A patient hand to open the chest with this aged key.

Patient the heart of the leaner, yes, but patient first the teachers must be.”

Ivy carried Calla Lily so that Stargazer could haul the chest. Oftentimes over the coming weeks and months that phrase would rise in the hearts of the two wise ones. As she manipulated the pieces of the puzzles Calla Lily became infused with the magic powers of strategy and ingenuity. Stargazer and Ivy became confident that their little girl would be able to join them in the struggle against the evil lurking near.

Calla Lily never lost her trust in those around her. All who she met immediately let their guard down. Through the enchantments of the puzzle chest she was able to discern between harmful and helpful influences. Her pure intentions to uphold unity gave her a good name throughout the land, brought her great success and a caused her to live a long life.

This is a continuation of the story: “Amaryllis”

As the rains wane and the climate settles back into the eternal spring here in the Cochabamba valley city I remember the triple rainbow we saw from our porch and I smile.

As the full moon rises laser lining the clouds with steely white against ominous gray I pull my hoodie around my body and shiver, happy that I stepped out to fill my lungs with cold.

As the door bangs announcing the arrival my love my heart jumps anticipating his hands on my hips and kiss on my head thrilling every fiber of my being like the first time and every time following.

As the shrieks and laughs of tickle play from the papa chasing his pajama covered kids around our wood floors so that they may all lay down in their beds still gasping for breath pierce my grumbling I sigh for joy at the close of a rough day.

As the smell of coffee and scented candles mix around in my head with last minute angst about the room to room preparations for a friend and her young boys to come to our home I stop to clap my hands with my own son who is exited to be hosting.

As the tears well and spill on the face of my new born teenager my arms ache to grab her and tell her that this too shall pass, bidding her to step off the roller coaster ride of emotions and rest for a moment.

As my fuzzy sock feet soak in the warmth of the tiles hot from the midday sun I turn my squinted eyes to the sky and let my face feel majesty, sovereignty and goodness in the rays from on high.

P.S. this 777th post at ‘the @’ is dedicated to letting wonder fill the soul even when other stuff would try to crowd. I would love to hear of the wonderfulness in your life if you care to share.

Young Phlox met Zinnia on the road one day. Struck by her beauty he asked, “May we walk together my dear?” Fluttering her eyelashes she agreed.

From that day forward the two never parted. Zinnia carried within her children. They were born and all walked the road as well. How odd, then, that when she grew large she worried about the next baby. She spoke with Phlox.

“Dear Phlox,” she started.

“Yes my love?”

“We have been walking this road together for a while now.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Now our children walk it too.”

“Yes, my love.”

“This child in me now has a fight I have never known.”

Phlox thought on the words of the mother. His solution was simple.

“We shall call her Amaryllis and hope that with this very special name she will know she is special,” the father said.

The birth was long and wild. The premonitions of the mother came to pass. Amaryllis meandered only a short while with them on the road before she could stand it no longer. She broke free and ran far, far away. Phlox and Zinnia missed their special daughter so very much.

Some years passed and once again the mother found she had a child growing in her belly. The baby swished around inside of her. Phlox became curious about the thoughts of the mother.

“Dear Zinnia,” he started.

“Yes, my love?”

“We have been walking this road together for a while now.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Some of our children now walk it too. The one has found her own way.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Is this child in you now also a fighter?”

Zinnia looked down and saw a little bump move across her skin. The pregnancy had been calm and pleasant.

“We shall call her Amaryllis and hope that with this very special name she will know she is special,” the mother said.

The two locked eyes, communicating though not speaking. Their reasons and agreements passed all understanding of any outsiders. The decision had been made with an unshakable firmness.

The little one came effortlessly from the body of her mother. They held the child and whispered, “Amaryllis.”

Not much time passed and the road became difficult to traverse for these two and the ones they had brought into this world. One especially difficult day they fell into hands of authorities. The officials, entranced by the mysterious power of the special name, caught up Amaryllis in their arms. She, as her sister before, would have to find her own way.

Once again Phlox and Zinnia were left without an Amaryllis to hold. The fight had left them when the first special daughter left. Phlox comforted Zinnia saying, “The same magic of the name that has taken our little one away will protect her on her road.”

Amaryllis walked a new road now. The magic of the name did indeed protect her. She was found by ones who loved her. Still the magic name had the power to take her away. Again the officials took her from those she walked with to yet a third road. Upon that road her magic name drove her to two wise ones.

The wise ones looked upon her captured by her magic. The little one did not know that these two wise ones had a magic higher than hers.

“What is your name little girl?” they asked in eerie unison.

“I am Amaryllis. I was walking one road and then another and this one I am on is a new one.”

“Would you like to know what it is to walk this road for a very long time?”

“Yes, this is a nice road. I think I would like to stay. Yet this name of mine will drive me away once again.”

“Ah, well it is a good thing we know the magic to prevent that.”

“You have a special magic too?” Amaryllis smiled at the thought of a magic greater than hers.

The two wise ones scooped up the small wanderer in their arms. Enveloped in their embrace the small child heard them whisper the spell which broke the magic of her name and at the same time gave her a new one. They leaned in close and said, “Calla Lily.”

She wriggled down planting her feet firmly in the path and set her gaze to the road ahead. Lifting up both her hands she grasped theirs and they walked along; from that day forward they never parted.