Yesterday, I wrote 5,611 words in my NaNoWriMo novel. (If you don't know what that is by now, you haven't been paying attention.) It felt really great, even if I'm pretty sure all 5,611 of those words were terrible. I only have 44,389 words to go before I can consider NaNo won. Of course, that won't be the end of the novel. I'll still have to finish it (because I'm sure mine will be longer than 50,000 words), edit it, edit it again, let someone read it with a red pen in hand, edit it some more, hide it in a closet, cry at how terrible I am at writing and how I'll never amount to anything, recover, edit again, then forget all about this novel, write a new one in a more normal time span, edit that one, and send it out into the universe to take the publishing world by storm. Years later, this novel will be the one that is released as the genius first attempt at writing from the best-selling author that is me. (I aim high.)
But in the mean time, I thought it would be nice of me to share at least some of what I wrote, no matter how bad.
So, here it is...a raw, random sampling from my NaNo novel! I went to a random number generation site and had it choose a number between 1 and 120 (the number of paragraphs I have written). This is the paragraph it chose, and I decided to give you two paragraphs, just for fun. Again, this work is completely and totally unedited, so if it sucks, well...it's supposed to. Ernest Hemingway said, "The first draft of everything is crap." So true, Mr. Hemingway. So true.
After the dispatchers have administered the poison, it is my job to leave the letter that will inform the family that their loved one has become deceased. Usually, the cleaners have already arrived to remove the body. For this, I am thankful. Once in awhile, I will get there first. The dispatchers are lazy and arrogant with their work – they almost always leave the body of the deceased exposed, limbs shriveled, eyes open in terror. It is terrible to stare into the eyes of the dead, but it is even worse to look at their families the next day at the market, knowing that you were the one who delivered the fateful register. They say the poison causes no pain, but the bodies I have seen never look peaceful. Often, there is a foul stench of bodily fluids and excrement.
But tonight, I am fortunate. Each bed I have visited so far has been cleaned thoroughly, leaving no indication that a living, breathing human slept soundly in it mere hours ago. I raise my forearm to a small black scanner on the outside of the last house on my list: the home inhabited by Edoqua, Joseth. The flashing red light on the scanner pauses momentarily, then, without a sound, turns green. The door opens, and I slip inside.