Day Twenty-One

21 is blackjack. 21 is the legal age to drink, and to gamble. 21 is the name of a best-selling Adele record. It is an extra chromosome in those with Down syndrome. That’s what I think when I consider 21. Oh, and it’s also the title of a cool movie about gambling, but its importance to me right now is that today is the 21st day of NaNoWriMo, the novel writing month when writers everywhere try and blaze through 50,000 words in 30 days. Here are my stats through 2:46 on the 21st day of NaNo…

Words written today: 1,044
Average words per day: 2,037
Target words per day: 2,000
Total overall words: 42,787

My story has evolved in several sections since I last blogged about it on day 15, and my two protagonists are several steps closer to meeting. There have been two major reveals since last we spoke as well, one of which is the turning point of the story. Now the characters are hurtling on a collision course of consequences for actions that took place long before the novel began. Here is an excerpt:

“The cloisters were long hallways that branched off into open spaces that looked to be door openings but that had no doors hanging within them to separate them from the hallway itself. The entire place was as drafty as a castle, which is what it most closely resembled in looks and in atmosphere. Those who lived within its walls valued the design as it gave them adequate chance to commune with their god and with themselves. It was mostly silent, as well, in the large rooms and hallways that funneled people in and out on their way to the chapel or to the dining hall, the two other buildings in the compound. While those other buildings were for fulfillment of soul and body while awake, the cloisters were strictly for sleep. Each room within the edifice was set aside for the nuns of the Franciscan order, an Episcopalian sect that had somehow thrived in Utah despite Mormon influence and dominance.

Sister Henrietta sat in her room at the beginning of the hall. The room held three pieces of furniture: an old, creaky bed, a small dresser, and a writing table that had seen better days. She had the table pulled up to the edge of the bed where she sat composing an old-fashioned letter with paper and pen. It helped her feel connected to others in a more visceral way by actually taking the time and energy to write and then to have patience when waiting for a reply. It’s what she had always done, and she wasn’t about to change just because it was getting harder to see the individual letters as she formed them on the page. She freely admitted that she was getting old, but somehow she had grown into herself and appreciated what she was still becoming.”

What I love about these characters is the fact that they’re human and they make no apologies for it, but most of them have done horrible things and they must atone for them in some way, shape, or form. I won’t give too much away because I plan on having the novel published someday, but I will say it has been incredible getting to know these characters in ways that the people closest to them never will. That’s one of the glories of being both the writer and the reader, and I wouldn’t give either of those personal connections with the work away for anything.

Time to write more. I plan on getting in at least 700 more words today. Fingers crossed.

Sam