The movers left Grandma’s house full of boxes. Tommy raced his RC car through the maze in the living room. The boxes became a track and bleachers of cheering fans. He jumped, startled when Mother swatted his shoulder. “Stop tearing up the floor with that thing. Go up to your room and unpack.” She stood with her arms crossed, staring at him. Tommy sighed and turned to go. “Your toy, Tommy. Put it away.”

photo by Monica McGivern

The mound of boxes in his room made Tommy yearn to race his car again. He looked toward the door. Mother wasn’t there, but she might as well be. Tommy’s shoulders slumped and he put the car and controller on a shelf. He ripped open a box. “Aw man!” It was full of clothes. Nice ones, the kind that hang in the closet. With another glance over his shoulder, Tommy set that box aside. The next one was clothes, too, but these went into the dresser. Feeling very grown up, he stuffed underwear into the top drawer.

The third box was toys. Tommy grinned and lugged it over to his toybox. With mighty strength and grunts, he lifted the box so it could dump the blocks, cars and action figures. He didn’t hear Mother pounding up the stairs and into his room. “Stop that right now!” she screeched as she swatted his shoulder. He dropped the box. It landed on his foot. Tears sprang into his eyes. “I didn’t hit you that hard, quit crying,” Mother told him.

“My foot hurts,” Tommy snuffled.

“It’s not broken, so hush.” Dutifully, Tommy gulped a few breaths and settled. His foot still hurt, though. “Good. Use your hands to put your toys away.” As Tommy followed directions, Mother took the box of nice clothes into the big closet. “It’s cold in here!” he heard her complain. “Oh, I think your dad’s old toybox is in here.” He heard the whine of an old hinge. “Lots of cars and stuff. Bet your dad will be happy to see it. Wow, it’s really frigid in here!” She went back to hanging up clothes, so he went back to his toys, placing each one in the toybox quietly.

Dad brought McDonald’s home for dinner. It was strange eating it at the big table where they always had meals with Grandma. Memories of turkeys, hams and yummy pies raced through his head. They were happy thoughts, full of Grandma and her bright smile. Her hugs were the best, even better than the pies. “I miss Grandma,” he said quietly.

Dad put a hand on his hair and stroked his head. “We all do, buddy. It’ll be okay.” Dad’s smile made Tommy feel a little warmer inside. “Hey, your mom said my old toybox is in your closet. After dinner, I’ll take a look, maybe pick out a couple things. The rest is yours, okay?”

“Yeah, thanks!” Tommy grinned. New toys!

After his bath in Grandma’s huge tub, he got into his pajamas. Tommy went into the closet to see what Dad left him. Cool, Dad liked action figures when he was a kid, too! Tommy recognized some from those old Star Wars movies. He couldn’t remember their names, but he knew they were good guys. Even the little green dude with funny ears.

“Tommy, get out of that closet! It’s freezing in there and your hair is wet!” Mother called from the hallway. He didn’t know what she was talking about. He was warm, but he knew better than to argue. He held onto the little green dude and left the closet. “It’s been a long day. Bedtime. Your father fell asleep in his chair, so no story tonight. Night, Tommy.” She reached in and flipped the light switch as he pulled up the covers. No story? That sucked. He carefully settled himself in the middle of the bed. Hanging over the edge tempted the monster underneath the bed. In the story-less silence, he was asleep quickly, action figure clutched in his hand.

“Turn over, Tommy.” The gentle words carried love to him as he lay sprawled across the bed. He turned, unaware he dropped the little green dude over the side of the bed while he drew his hand back. He dreamed a soft kiss on his cheek to go with the loving voice. When he woke, he frowned at discovering the action figure sitting on his bedside table.

Tommy snuck into the big closet to play each day. At first it was because of Dad’s toys. Later, he took some of his action figures in. Wolverine did battle against evil mutants alongside the little green dude. Every night, he dreamed of being tucked in and kissed on the cheek.

One night was bad, though. He had a scary dream. His foot was trapped, his ankle wrapped by a tentacle. The monster under the bed tugged on him and he slid across the sheets, grappling and screaming. Grandma rushed from the closet. She wore Jedi robes and swung a light saber. Slash! The tentacle’s end went limp on Tommy’s ankle and slid off with a splat. Grandma bent and poked under the bed with the light saber. Tommy heard a strange gurgle and jumped to look over the side of the bed. The severed end of the tentacle vanished.

“You’re safe now, Tommy. Turn over, I’ll tuck you in,” murmured Grandma. Stunned but sleepy, he nestled in. She bent to kiss his cheek. He peeked as she disappeared into the closet.

Dad burst into his bedroom. “Nightmares, buddy?” He ruffled his son’s hair.

“Everything’s okay, Dad,” Tommy yawned. “Grandma’s a Jedi now.”

What genre is this story to you? Slice of life? Paranormal? Would love to hear your take on it.

photo by Glass_House on flickr.com

Knowing it was useless, he ran toward the smoking, glassy space they occupied before the blast. “No, Tosc,” Babor pulled on his arm. “No, you cannot! The hoomanz are upon us. You must think of the village. What do we do?”

Mournfully, Tosc turned his thoughts to safety. The caverns offered their only chance. “There is a weapons cache near the caves. We go there, arm ourselves and defend from that point, Babor. Spread the word. Have the children moved there immediately. The non-fighters can supervise.”

“As you say, Tosc.” Babor’s hoofs rang as he hurried away.

With one lingering gaze behind, he raised a paw and waved it in a circle. It was the signal to gather for instructions. Doing so, he ran toward the forest. Babor helped him pass the word to the deputies. Those fighters who survived the onslaught growled acceptance. In small groups, they sped through the forest, knowing it offered little cover in this season.

The deputies supervised moving the weapons into the caverns and distributing them. Nearly each fighter was issued two weapons, a sad testament to how many perished in the attack. Dutifully, they did as trained, taking apart the weapons and inspecting them, making sure they were full of crystal charges. Whether motivated by fear, vengeance or some mixture, they growled their readiness in eager voices which echoed into the darkness beyond. The sounds of the children whimpering in fear, little hooves scuffling on the rock floor, were strange counterpoint to their fearsome noises.

They were as ready as possible. Tosc knew, as likely each fighter did, this was hardly the best vantage point. The mountain above the caverns wouldn’t withstand constant bombardment by the hoomanz’s flying thunders. If the enemy landed and approached with their projectile missiles, there was only so much the villagers could do in defense. Acknowledging these points, Tosc forced himself to focus on the battle at hand. They were in the best source of cover available. It would do.

In the eerie near-silence, he allowed himself a moment to grieve. He braced himself with arms outstretched against the wall and hung his head, trying to remember the happy family they were. Abruptly, he stopped. The cavern walls pulsed beneath his paws. Tosc finally realized what his grandparents meant by “the heartbeat of the planet.”

Flying thunders pierced the quiet, announcing the return of the hoomanz. This time, the cavern rumbled. In a low-pitched roar from the ground toward the top of the cavern and beyond, energy burst forth from the mountain in a stream of white light. No few of Tosc’s people dropped to their knees at the fury, many of the children screaming in fright. The hoomanz’s fliers exploded and crashed to the ground in terrifying whines. Tosc’s deputies ran out at his order to dispatch any of the enemy who survived the planet’s shocking defense. The deputies stumbled back, shaking their heads. None of the hoomanz remained.

Instinctively, Tosc lay down his weapons. Placing both paws against the side of the cave, he leaned forward until his forehead touched the wall. Still it pulsed. He poured gratitude into the mountain, into the planet, speaking the sacred words his grandparents taught him. Dimly, he heard others join in, voices strong in harmony as each, male and female, repeated the words with him.

The planet’s pulse altered to mimic the triple beat of its children’s hearts. As one, they relaxed and savored the nurturing acceptance of the world around them. When the walls returned to the planet’s own quiet pulse, Tosc knew the danger was past. While each fighter lost someone, family or neighbor, the relief was palpable as they clapped one another on backs and bumped foreheads in triumph.

Children came forward and the cavern emptied. Tosc held back, not eager to return to the remnants of his life. Snuffles in the darkness indicated he was not alone. He found Parkop, a middling child, in the rear of the cavern. Parkop looked up at the sound of hooves, his eyes wide with fright. Tosc bent and held out a paw, waiting. The child hesitated before grasping it. He didn’t let go the entire way back to the village.

A neighbor brought Parkop’s things to Tosc’s home after confirming the boy’s parents had been killed. It was three days before Parkop spoke, five before he quietly asked what happened. Tosc told him the stories he remembered hearing at Parkop’s age. “You must remember these histories in your heart. Can you do that?” The boy nodded slowly, small paws in tight fists on his lap.

“Why did the hoomanz fight us?” came Parkop’s forever-quiet voice.

“They want Terrah. Terrah protects its children, though.”

Inspired by a #storystarters by Clifford Fryman.

Sif had one of her shopping trips in mind. A weekend in their city, soaking up the ambiance of their strange customs. She talked Aphrodite into going, so Ares was single for the weekend just as Thor was Sif-less. “Par-tay, bud,” Thor high fived Ares.

photo by Edgar Zuniga Jr.

A small one, they decided. Word would spread through the gossip channels anyway. Few at Heaven’s Veil kept to their own pantheon. Those who did weren’t much fun anyway. Ares’ stays gave him a chance to put down weapons, take off armor and be a casual god, just as Thor did.

“We’ll have the party at my place,” Thor decided.

“That works. Everyone will fit through your door. Even me!” Ares joked.

“Being on the ground floor will let us hear if Dionysus or Loki enter the building. Time to break up the party before they crash it.” Thor nodded at his plan.

“What if they come back early?” asked Ares.

“They’re off causing havoc on the mainland,” sighed Thor. “At least it means they’ll get back late.” Ares gritted his teeth. Havoc on the mainland was grounds to throw them out, but the committee was concerned with what Dionysus and Loki would do in retribution.

“The food, Thor. I will bring the food,” Ares said. “No offense meant, but last time your food didn’t go over well.”

“I noticed. Plenty of lutefisk and sheep’s heads left at the end of the night.” Thor agreed. “The mead was popular. Perhaps I should stay with drinks. Aquavit is powerful and the Swedish pear cider is light. Something for everyone.”

“Excellent. I’ll supplement the drinks with ouzo. Naturally, I’ll have some ambrosia and nectar on hand, but I’ll have baklava and stuffed grape leaves along with hummus. Relatively new, but Greek and delicious,” Ares thought aloud.

Thor was in charge of music. Despite his stature and huge feet, he had a remarkable sense of rhythm. His mix CD’s were always a hit, so his oversized porch was used as a dance floor. Baldr brought Nanna along and they seemed happy while they danced. Even Tyr showed up followed by Dellingr, who brightened the room.

The Greeks were well represented. The twins, Apollo and Artemis, arrived early. Apollo clapped Thor on the back, approving of the music, high praise indeed. Artemis brought a small, snowy owl. Even during casual time at the Veil, she couldn’t be parted from her owls. Demeter and Hestia showed up as well. They may be retiring creatures on Mount Olympus, but they partied with the best down here. Hermes couldn’t be budged. “I’m exhausted, leave me to sleep,” he yelled at the knock on his door. Heracles and Isis were fashionably late, a cheer greeting them.  Isis might be a deified human, but she was always a hit, creating rainbows which lit up the patio while she danced.

Ares kept an eye on the food. As usual, the ambrosia and nectar were hardly touched. Greek gods got their fill of them on the Mount. Only the curious Norse gods gave it a try. Too sweet for their tastes, they was rarely tried more than once. The baklava and hummus were in need of refilling. Thor checked on the drinks. Predictably, all were running low. Snagging new bottles of everything and a stack of fresh cups, he restocked the bar.

At nearly 2:30am, Thor heard the unmistakable sound of Dionysus’ return. There were enthralled human girls giggling around him. Thor waved to the party to quiet down, snapping his fingers to stop the music. He peeked out the door and saw Loki’s narrow face turn in their direction. A bad sign, very bad.

“They’re back. Small females and males out first followed by the less strong of the larger. NO ARGUING over amount of power, just get out the door before they come in.” Thor said as calmly as possible.

Ares took over, helping to line people up without letting squabbles break out. He used his “god of war” voice when necessary once or twice.

“Let me stay on the pretext of helping you clean up,” Heracles offered. Ares thought it over a moment and nodded.

Ares told him, “Grab a garbage bag from under the kitchen sink. Start on the patio. Just dump the half empties over the railing.”

As though on cue, Loki and Dionysus burst through the door. “A party,” pouted Loki. “And we weren’t invited.”

“You were on the mainland,” responded Thor smoothly. “It was rather spontaneous.”

“Funny how things broke up as soon as we returned,” sneered Dionysus

“You seem to have brought your party with you,” Ares pointedly looked at the girls surrounding Dionysus.

“You would wound me were you incorrect. Time to start our own party. Oh, is that ouzo? I’ll just help myself to a bottle and we’ll be on our way.” Dionysus pranced out the wide door with the girls hanging all over him.

Loki found himself alone with Thor and Ares, Heracles glancing in from the porch. Loki hesitated but put on his game face. “I’m not sure what that is, but I’ll take a plate to the party.” He lifted a plate of baklava.

“Help yourself, there’s more,” called Ares.

The door slammed behind Loki.

Thor and Ares grinned. “Great party, bud,” pronounced Thor. Ares nodded. Another high five.

Heracles came in, laughing. “Glad you didn’t need to armor up this time.”

Photo by tmorkemo on flickr.com

The tree is decorated by the twins, carefully balancing the ornaments so it looks just right. They still speak the strange language they invented in childhood, the one no one can understand. When someone offers compliments, they nod and continue. Trying to help only gets you a slapped hand.

Dad is watching the game on the television. He sits in His Chair, the recliner molded to his body, the chair no one dares sit in. The Packers, nearly undefeated, are headed for Super bowl greatness, he’s sure of it. Shush, don’t bother him, dammit. He’s watching the game.

Aunt Grace and Uncle Darren are on the outs again. Every time he speaks, her mouth twists, making her ugly. When he reaches out to her, she shies away. “Not here,” she hisses. “Not now.”

Aunt Grace goes to the kitchen. “How can I help?” “No,” says Mother. “Out out, shoo, Grace. I have everything under control. No, don’t touch that, just get out.” Mother’s voice is firm. She never lets anyone into the kitchen. Grace knows that, but storms out.

Aunt Grace plops onto the sofa to watch the game. She hates football. I always wonder what Mother is doing in the kitchen which she doesn’t want people to see. Uncle Darren tries to sit next to Aunt Grace. Grace gets up and sits in Mother’s chair.

The only sound in the room is from the twins, their odd language spoken softly. Silent Night. Silent Day here. The only disease that runs in our family is secrets.

Inspired by a #storystarters, the last line, by Clifford Fryman

photo by "Solo, with others" on flickr.com

Lila headed to the cashier, grocery shopping done. It was so wearing, doing these things herself. And in a small town, no less. She missed the city. Any city! Here, though, insincerity was the key to appearing friendly. “How are you today?” the cashier asked. “It’s good to see you,” she said automatically. All pathetic, but necessary.

Marge squinted at the computer screen. The background check came back. It confirmed everything the Petersons told her about their history. She looked at the application to live in the duplex. It was all arranged through email, what with them moving here from Springfield. Everything checked out. Just too perfect. She called Louise. “Those people are into something, I just know it,” she told Louise, who clucked her tongue with Marge. Marge was back at the window, watching for them.

“I hope they’re not making drugs in there,” Louise responded, fascination in her voice. She called Olive about the drug dealing couple living with Marge immediately.

Lila pulled in at the duplex. A duplex, for god’s sake! As close to a brownstone as she was likely to get again. “It could be worse,” Don kept telling her. At least her husband went out and worked. Not that she wanted to work! Hell no. Being trapped in this place, having to clean it herself, not being able to call her friends and hit the boutiques? It was all driving Lila nuts. Nosy old Marge Woodly was at the window as usual. Lila waved up to her and forced a smile. The witch. Marge was as bad as the paparazzi. Lila had a moment of missing the photographers. Pathetic. Now she was reduced to carrying the groceries in herself.

While she was putting eggs in the refrigerator, her cell rang. It showed the number as UNAVAILABLE. She knew what that meant. “What now?” she snapped.

Marshall Evers said calmly, “Someone is digging into your new background. We’re moving you again. Time to pack. Your husband is on his way home.”

“Okay, okay, so Don’s coming home.”

“Ralph is coming home, Ellie,” Evers interrupted.

“Right, sorry, Ralph,” she emphasized the name impatiently. “So we’re moving again. New names and no one can find us, right? All I have to do is testify?”

“You already know the drill. It’s not safe to talk on this phone. Tell Ralph to destroy them both and dispose of them in a dumpster while you pack,” Evers instructed. She thought she noted a hint of annoyance in the always composed voice. That was worth a genuine smile.

“Sounds good. Look forward to seeing you as always,” she said in perfect small town tone before hanging up. There wasn’t much time, but she didn’t need it. Finally, some fun! She was back and packing when Don arrived. Evers wasn’t long behind. “Bags are packed and in the bedroom,” she announced cheerfully. She walked out, leaving the cramped duplex forever.

It took only two days for Louise to call Olive. “It’s not like Marge. She didn’t call and she’s not answering her phone. I haven’t even seen her at her window.” They agreed Louise should call Sherriff Barlowe, who was none too pleased to be bothered about it. Louise never did like the Sherriff. She sure didn’t vote for her.

“I know something’s wrong, Sherriff. If she’s sick, she’s horribly sick and needs help. In any case, I’m formally requesting you send someone to check on her,” Louise told her stiffly.

Barlowe sighed. “Mickey’s on a call. Guess you’re stuck with me. I’ll go over and let you know what I find.”

“We’ll meet you there.” Louise’s excitement level suddenly raced.

When Barlowe pulled up, she found Louise and her gossipy friend, Olive, waiting. Louise waved around a key. “I found it. It was in a fake rock near the front door.”

“Stay here, ladies,” the Sherriff ordered as she entered. She was glad she did. She didn’t take five steps before the scent of decomp was in the air. Never did get used to that smell. She clicked on her radio. “Adele, call Delbert over at the funeral home. Tell him it’s a medical examiner call.”

© 2011 JC Rosen

Incorporating two #storystarters by Clifford Fryman (aka @CliffordFryman).

Photo by ArightDoom

He reached as he woke, as he always did as he woke, as he still did as he woke. Cold pillow. Half asleep, vulnerable, he drew in a breath on a gasp. Must drag myself into the shower, he thought. He did. He didn’t accidentally grab her girlie shampoo anymore. Wrapped in his towel, he opened the closet. Now her things were gone, he spread his own on the rod. It looked a paltry collection of suits and dress shirts. He chose and dressed. He chose a likely tie. He fiddled with it dumbly as he went downstairs. Leaving it untied, he grabbed a mug and turned to the counter. He choked on a sob. Was there anything sadder than an unmade pot of coffee?

© 2011 JC Rosen

The last line was the prompt by @toasted_cheese on Twitter.

photo by Cristina Valencia (Cristina V on flickr.com)

Her father’s car zoomed off. She felt abandoned. Sure, Shannon thought, this is my school. I know it all too well. She decided to let the day’s sunshine brighten her spirit. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad. Shannon walked to her locker with a smile she nearly felt.

“Look, girls,” came the hated voice, “it’s Shannon the Loose Cannon with a smile. Wonder who dressed her today. A blind nanny?” The girls around Carole laughed appropriately.

“Good morning, Cow, I mean Carole. Still having trouble with those spots on your face? You should see a doctor about them,” Shannon said with mock concern. Carole’s grip on popularity never wavered despite developing acne. No one mentioned it where the uber-twit could hear. No one but Shannon.

The minions gasped. Carole turned red. “You’ll pay, Loose Cannon. Believe it.” She tossed her long, blonde hair over her shoulder and strode away with her coterie. Shannon was pleased she kept control of her anger.

An older boy stopped at her locker. Shannon was changing out books. “That was great. I never saw anyone call Carole on her pimples. And calling her ‘Cow?’ Inspired.”

“You look familiar, but I don’t think I know you.”

“Oh, sorry. Bobby Milton. You might know me from football games,” he responded, ducking his head.

“Never been to one, but I’ve been forced to pep rallies with the rest of the school. I probably saw you there,” Shannon said.

Bobby paused, pulling on his earlobe. “Want to go to Saturday’s game? I can get you in free, even get you a hot pretzel. We could go to Carmen’s afterward.”

Shocked, Shannon blinked at him several times. “Uh… sure, yeah. Sounds fun,” she lied. Football? “When do you want to pick me up?” she asked.

Bobby made a face.”Coach makes us show up way ahead of the games. We do stuff to get ready. Would be boring for you, so can you meet me here around 2:00? We have a little break before the game to cool down. I’ll look for you in the stands, okay?” Shannon nodded, fiddling with a notebook.

Bobby brushed her hand with his fingertip and leaned close. “You were great this morning with Cow. Oh, I mean Carole. Really,” he told her and walked away. The warning bell rang, so Shannon ran to her first class. French II.

Sacré bleu! What a crazy thing to have happen. Bobby Milton, an upperclassman on the football team, asking her for a date. She laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Aware of the sudden silence, she sunk in her chair. “Finis, Mademoiselle?” asked Madame Caron.

“Oui, Madame, merci,” she responded.

Naturally, someone curried favor later by telling Carole what happened. “Just warming up, Loose Cannon?” asked Carole nastily.

“Just enjoying the day,” Shannon smiled, doubling the lie. Don’t give in, don’t react. The constant mantra.

She tried to focus through the rest of her day. Trig, IT, Western Civ, and study period went by safely. She was especially proud of study period. She sometimes went a little nuts over a detail in the book she was reading there. It was like looking into the abyss of crazitude if she really got going.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t get out of the school and avoid English Lit. The delightful Carole and two of her minions were in the class, too. “Still enjoying the day, Loose Cannon? Will you treat us with some of your nutso interruptions again?” The minions giggled.

Shannon took her seat and smoothed her hair, pointedly ignoring the uber-twit. That brought a few sniggers from hidden supporters. It was nearly the end of the day. Her dad was picking her up, a rare treat. She survived the Cow, didn’t have to resort to harsher methods. And Bobby Milton asked her for a date. “Bobby Milton,” she breathed.

“What was that, Shannon?” Mr. Snyder asked. “Milton? No, do you have the correct text? It’s Shakespeare’s sonnets today.”

Mortified, Shannon waved the book of sonnets in the air for him to see. He nodded and told a kid to continue reciting. “It’s just the Loose Cannon’s imagination going crazy as usual,” stage whispered Carole. Mr. Snyder peered at her, accustomed to her interruptions. He ignored her rather than give her attention. “Wonder what the nutty little bitch has in store for the final show,” continued Carole.

Little bitch? Over the line, even for the Cow. Shannon’s anger spilled over and she stood, knocking some of her stuff to the ground. She began the chant, opening her arms as the wind flooded her, racing through her hair. Ignoring Mr. Snyder and the kids who ran in from nearby classrooms, she completed the invocation.

With an invisible crack like a tree splitting from lightning, he appeared. Not much taller than Shannon, but chartreuse in color. He dressed nicely in smoking jacket and cravat. “Shannon, lovely to see you. How may I serve?”

Shannon merely pointed at Carole. “May I introduce you to the Cow?”

Sheolan waved his hand and spoke a few words which echoed through the classroom. There were gasps, a few screams, and many running footsteps. Carole now sported small horns and a pimply snout pierced with a ring. “Pleasure to meet you, Cow,” he said pleasantly.

He turned to Shannon. “Thank you,” she told him.

“Always fun to visit, Shannon.” He faded into nothing.

She noticed Bobby hanging back. He stood there in shock. Shannon asked, “How do you like me now?”

© 2011 JC Rosen

Dedicated to a young lady who has her own brand of magic.

photo by o5com on flickr.com

Donations this year did not cover the year’s operating costs. Without meeting those costs, they’ll have to cut some of the programs they run. It would leave many writers without the learning and experience they crave. What if it’s one of your programs?

I don’t have much. I usually give myself a little present each holiday season as my family is strapped. This year, my gift to myself was another donation to OLL. Please, even $10 makes a difference. (Although $50 makes one, too!)

And just think: you get one of those cool halos on your profile photo.

https://store.lettersandlight.org/donations

Thank you.

Buh-bye NaNo 2011!

Wow, it was a crazy month. Witness the comments on Twitter the last month and you’ll see people trudging through, including people who normally don’t have to trudge. Our heroine would be one of those people, dear Reader. Up until the last day or so, I was sure I wouldn’t make it.

Then I found the Holy Grail of this novel: an outline so beautifully detailed which I thought long lost. Using it and pounding out an absurd number of words overnight, I managed to get over the 50k. Hallahoolah!

I don’t think I’d have been able to do it without having accepted my own advice and recognized that 50k or no, I was a winner. Yes, I really believe it. If a participant tries to write whenever writing is possible, whether they’re in the mood or not, even if he or she just gets a handful of thousand words… or fewer! …there’s a winner. That’s the true spirit of NaNo: just writing! Turn off that inner editor and find out what you really can do if you try. (Mind you, you have to let that editor out at some point. Do NOT submit your novel until it is no longer a NaNo, but rather a polished novel.)

I could write about the lessons I learned along the way.  Eric Zawadzki of @FourMoonsPress wrote a super article titled “Lessons Learned, Lessons Reinforced.” I highly recommend giving that article a good look if you participated in NaNo, no matter how well you did. Eric also hit some mighty big obstacles along the way. His gung-ho spirit in his Twitter posts near the end inspired me so much! I actually began to think I could do it. And with the luck of finding that long-lost outline, I did. I don’t think I’d have even gone looking (again) for that outline had he not spurred me on with his own strength. He wasn’t looking to be an inspiration. He got stuck with it.

Maybe that’s the best sort of inspiration.

It is without sorrow I see NaNoWriMo 2011 finish. Yes, I made it and for that I am only grateful, not particularly triumphant. I am grateful to all my friends, word buddies and those commenting on my posts. You helped me accept the likelihood of not making the 50k. You also cheered when I did. Thank you all.

Photo by jinterwas on flicker.com; Hat by Pierre Balmain (1958).

This year, the NaNo Curse holds me firmly in its fetid jaws. A desperately bad first week meant huge amounts to make up. Doable? Surely. And so I marched on, chanting like The Little Engine that Could, “I think I can, I think I can.”

Then came the hospitalization and requisite rehabbing.

Do I still think I can? Well, perhaps I *can* and believe me I shall try my best. I’m here to tell you I don’t think I’ll actually make the 50k this year. That’s a hard admission for someone who usually hits it around the 10th of the month, writing 5k per day. Still, things are as they are.

This is a remarkable exercise for me, though. I’m plunked down in my own advice: embrace the SPIRIT of NaNo! The spirit is to Just Write. Write as you can, when you can, and you’ve already won NaNo. The parent who works full-time and still throws into the fray of NaNo has my highest respect, no matter the total at the end. The student who fights against a full-time schedule just to fit writing in? Props to you. The parent who cares for children all day long and while exhausted after sits in front of the glowing screen creating a story? Amazing to me.

So yeah, I’ve had setbacks. Some doozies. But if they can stick with writing, no matter their total at the end, so can I. Here goes!