Sorry For The Silence

I got busy yesterday morning and the time passed for entering my prompt writing and I had to go to work, then last night I just didn't think of it. I did write Sunday night and last night, really I did, even though it might look like I just dashed Sunday's words off last night before digging into the "real" prompt but that's not how it was. I wrote Sunday but wasn't inspired so it's short. Last night's was better.

Still don't know what I'll NaNoWriMo about but I've got an inkling of an idea floating somewhere in the very back of my mind that I'm trying to lure to the front so I can give it some accessories so it'll survive the month. I have faith that all will be clear next Saturday when the starting gun fires. Jennifer, we can use this blog to report our daily word counts and share snippets like the group did last time. Do you know what you're going to write about? Jenny and Bob, we'll both be relying on you for encouragement here too, so you'll have to actually post not just lurk. And without further ado I bring you crappy first-draft writing!

October 26--Write about what goes without saying--Ah, those little assumptions. They get you every time, don't they? There you are minding your own business and then you blunder into the quicksand of assuming you know what someone meant or wanted. Never assume. It's a slippery slope to destruction. It'll get you every time. This is one of my least favorite prompts and I can't stop my brain from skittering all over the place so I'm going to stop before I get so frustrated I break my pencil. Bye.

October 27--Write what the darkness proposes--The cool darkness seeps over the windowsill and slides across the room swallowing small details. By the time it has crossed the room only large shapes remain to define the space. Fiona sits in her grandmother's wing chair watching the dark consume the room and feels its cool touch as it crawls over her. She doesn't move. She hasn't moved since her lawyer Kyle Mason left carrying what was left of her future in his scuffed briefcase. Too soon a realtor's sign will appear in the yard and unfamiliar people will gawk through the rooms she has spent her whole life in. Already people stop talking when she enters a shop or the diner as if the fate of the remainder of the Camerons is all they have to amuse them.

One small bitch and one story--not bad.
--Barbara