Posts tagged as “Dakota Frost”

So today I passed my all-time record (for as long as I’ve kept records) at Nano, completing 60,900 words at Nanowrimo. The key I think is not just taking this week off, not just keeping going, but daydreaming about my characters—then, whenever I get inspired, writing that scene. Almost all of the huge spurts you see below came out of that:

Today, it was pretty easy to write. I got about 500 words finishing up a few loose ends. Then I wrote a longer scene with Cinnamon and her fae mentor the Huntswoman, and almost a day’s worth of writing popped out of my keyboard. Then I decided to write another scene, one from ROOT USER (the third book in the trilogy, of the large manuscript I’m working on) and got 2000 words in about 30 minutes (!), all from choosing to write this:

But no matter how I tries to ignore it … I can’t ignore what they says next.

“And if they lose a hunt,” the jerkboy says, “guess what? They eat the loser—”

“You take that back!” I shouts, poppin’ to my feet. I hops over the nearest table and barrels down on the boy, who’s hoppin’ to his feet as well, his buddies standin’ to come to his aid, actin’ like I’m neither a girl he should play nice with nor a monster who could rip his throat out. “You take that back this instant!”

“What?” the boy says, eyes gleaming at me. “The part where they eat the loser—”

“We are not cannibals!” I screeches, snarlin,’ my whiskers comin’ in, my fur comin’ out.

“I bet she’s eaten her share,” one of the other boys says. “Like, weregazelles and shit—”

“The herbivores are our friends! We runs together! Nobody eats nobody on my hunt!”

“Your hunt,” he says. Everyone’s circled around us now, the boy standin’ out front. He’s big, so, I guesses, he guesses he can take me in a fight. Good fuckin’ luck. He grins with a nasty smile. “Like anyone would follow you—”

“I had twelve followin’ me on my last hunt,” I says. “Thirteen, actually—”

“I thought you could count,” he says. “What, you lose one? Eat one?”

I snarls and steps forward, and he leans back, fists up. I raises mine.

Then I turns away. “Not worth it,” I mutters, lookin’ at the huge crowd around us. He swings and clocks me behind the ear, and I kinda shrugs and shakes him off. “Not worth it at all,” I mutters, boltin’ through the crowd, walkin’ fast towards the exit. “At all—”

“Where are you going, Miss Frost,” says the proctor.

“The deans’s office,” I says. “I just picked a fight.”

“Wait just a minute,” he says, hand reachin’ for me, but I shrugs him off.

“Get off me, or I go to the safety cage,” I says, snarlin. “And call for my Mom.”

“Yeah, call your mother,” says the jerkboy, who followed me.

“Christopher, I see your mouth is open,” the proctor says coolly. “Close it.”

And the scene which follows, in which Cinnamon goes to see the Dean of the Claremont Academy, who’s more cool than even I anticipated — I mean, drill sergeant in a former life? Really? Makes sense. And helped me crack 60,000 words:

But the point is, never give up on Nano. It will continue to reward you, all the way to the end.

-the Centaur

At last, I’ve completed my 15th National Novel Writing Month challenge successfully! Victory, for the thirteenth time!

The graph says “HEX CODE”, but as I’ve said before, I discovered in July’s Nano that the manuscript I was working on was actually a trilogy - I already knew that Cinnamon appeared in a trilogy of books called HEX CODE, BOT NET and ROOT USER, but I was puzzled as to why the HEX CODE manuscript seemed both so cramped and so overstuffed. The reason? I was already writing the trilogy, with a discernible “hex code” appearing first, followed by a “bot net” then a “root user”. So I split the manuscript up … and just kept writing, until, earlier this month, I rolled over the end of HEX CODE.

Perhaps that’s why I was doing so well this year, or perhaps it’s because I’ve written almost seven hundred thousand words in National Novel Writing months at this point. But regardless, I had some real bursts of creativity in there. But even then, I have to tell you: it was always hard. The hardest words on this one were the last 8 … when I thought I was done. But you have to keep going! And the scene that popped out after that is beautiful.

Regardless, National Novel Writing Month is a joy to participate in, and I’m glad to have done it. The people and the connections I’ve made, the friendships I’ve built, the fantastic events like the Night of Writing Dangerously, the great writing programs that Nano supports, and the worldwide outbursts of creativity have made it all so worthwhile I plan to do it again and again.

So, for now, I leave you with one last excerpt, from BOT NET … containing something I learned about my world of werekindred tonight, when I had to write … and let my creativity take over. As always, excerpts from Nano are first draft material, so, consider yourself advised … but I love what I discovered about Cinnamon’s warehouse tonight.

I looks down at them. All their eyes are glowin. The moon’s gotten into them. It will be up soon. I gots to go take them runnin’ now, or they’ll go crazy. I stands before them, rearin’ up a little, puffin’ my tiger cheeks, lookin’ down at them, and they gets the hint, and steps back from the wall, towards me, towards me, the tiger.

“Alrright,” I snarls. “None of ya get killed, or, as Mom would say, you’re grrrounded. ”

They all laughs, and I grins and stamps a paw.

“You feel the moon?” I says.

“We feel the moon!” they all shouts back. Whoa. Better response then I expected.

“I said, do you feel the moon!” I roars.

“We feel the moon!” the hunt screams.

“Then show me your beasts!” I snarls.

The lawyer strips off his jacket, his shirt, snarling, his head poppin’ out wolf so fast even Tully would have been proud of it. Hanser is a lynx before I’ve gotten a chance to look over at her, and the rest are poppin’ and changing. One buck is havin’ trouble, horns comin’ out of his head, fur crawlin’ over his body, but still no quad form, and I nods to Hanser, who pads over and licks at him playfully as he falls to the ground, crosseyed, eyes half pulled back like a buck’s.

But Willard, man, Willard’s havin’ real trouble. He’s bulked up, six and a half feet tall now, a black fur rug rippling out of his back, and oh-my-bod, what delicious muscles. But the shag carpet, it’s as far as he goes. He grunts, strains, then shakes his head.

He ain’t even taken his shorts off. He knows this is as far as he can go. Personally, I’m glad to have a half-human in the pack—easier to get feedback. He’s obviously got control, or they wouldn’t have given him to me, but is also obviously new to the Life. He needs help.

I prowls up to him.

“This your limit?” I asks, starin’ him in the eye. He nods, embarrassed, and looks away, but I raises a paw and catches him under the chin with the curved side of one of my claws, lookin’ at his head. “Listen to me: there’s no shame in our affliction. Repeat it.”

“Therrre’s no shame in ourrr aff—affl—affliction,” he says.

“Only prrride in our powerrr,” I says. “All of ya. Repeat it.”

“There’s no shame in our affliction,” the lawyer says, like, real articulate, even though he’s on all fours now, and his head’s all wolf. When’s this lack of concentration supposed to kick in? He shakes that wolf head back and forth, then howls, “Only prrride in our powerrrr!”

“Therrre’s no shame in ourrr affliction,” I roars, “only prrride in our powerrr!”

I prowls back and forth in front of them, listenin’ to them repeat it, those that can. The rest yip and yap and bark … except for the buck, who’s sittin’ there, dazed. His eyes are stuck halfway between human and stag, and he looks winded and dazed.

“But never rushin’ the hardest job any human ever has to do: controllin’ their own beast,” I says, steppin’ up to him. “You ain’t ready. There’s no shame; there’s always next moon. But this one, you ain’t ready. You relax, let the elders care for ya.”

The buck nods, still crosseyed, lickin’ his lips.

“Yyyouw waaant meeee,” Hanser yips, then goes quiet.

I looks back to see Fischer, standin’ there, under his broadbrimmed hat. He’s got the doc with him, black bag under his arm, I mean, seriously, cliché! But he nods to us, and they goes and sits with the buck as the rest of my hunt firms up before me.

“Four in front of you, Willard,” I snarls. “Or anyone else wanna sit this moon out?”

The pack howls and yips and brays, crowdin’ forward.

“Nnnever!” Willard says, beatin’ his chest.

“Yall wanna run?” I snarls.

The pack makes a yippin’. Weak.

“Eye said, y’all wanna run?” I roars.

And my whole hunt howls at the top of their lungs.

“Then let’s rrrun,” I roars, and Hanser at my side, bolts off into the forest.

Enjoy. And onward!

-the Centaur