The background: writer and designer Gabe Chouinard proposed the challenge last week--to write, between Friday the 2nd and Monday the 5th February, a 60,000 word novel. To spend the entire weekend writing and come out of it with a complete work. Working from midday friday to the same time on Monday, that's about 20,000 words a day.
Look here for the full details.
I don't have any illusions: 60,000 words is a target I can't reach. I'm just hoping I can hit 10,000. Whatever happens, it'll be something gained.
I'm already messing up, having started far too late, and being so tired from staying up late last night that I can't concentrate. But tomorrow, I'm sitting myself in front of this computer and I'm going to do this.
Anyhoo, I'm really tired right now, so I'm quitting for some much needed sleep. The count is pitiful: 210 words. Here they are:
Sunlight slanted from above, glinting off a thousand empty suits of armour. Dust floated in the air, gathered on cuirass and pauldrons, shield and vambrace. A thousand helmets hung from wooden stands, a thousand shields stood propped against empty greaves. The ghosts of a thousand warriors hung there, enshrined in steel; each suit a life lost, each shield a memorial.
The dust, hung suspended, now stirred as ripples and eddies swirled outward, the serene quiet shattered by the the thud of boots. The last of them strode into the stillness, between the ranks of his forebears. From the oldest of them, torn and battle-scarred under their grimy shroud, he passed forward through history. Their aspect changed as the years pass by; marks of battle gave way to signs of decadence, to gilt and polish, epaulets and engravings. The hall's central rows were filled with ceremonial attire.
The survivor paid no heed to the past that surrounded him; he moved on, head high, face forward, toward the present. Around him, the gilt faded; the engravings became less elaborate; ceremony set aside as the twilight years approach. Grey streaked his temples, like the last clinging fragment of a youth long past—the rest of his hair was white as fresh snow.
But you're right - it will yield something, if not a full novel. It clearly already has.
Sentence of the week.
