Teeny Tiny Tony and Teeny Tiny

Once upon a time there was a teeny tiny boy named Teeny Tiny Tony. He lived in a teeny tiny house with teeny tiny parents. He also had a teeny tiny dog named Teeny Tiny. Teeny Tiny was very playful.

One day Teeny Tiny Tony went outside with Teeny Tiny. They played fetch with a teeny tiny frisbee. Teeny Tiny was very good at playing fetch. He was the best player in the neighborhood.

Teeny Tiny Tony threw the teeny tiny frisbee very hard. He threw it so hard that the teeny tiny frisbee landed at Teeny Tiny Elementary School. He decided to get it the next day.

The next day was Saturday. Teeny Tiny was following Teeny Tiny Tony to the teeny tiny school. A very hard wind was blowing everything away. The teeny tiny wind blew Teeny Tiny Village away. That is the end of Teeny Tiny Village.

THE END

“This is the first time I’ve kept a diary (or at least tried to without losing the diary first). But before I actually start writing, a few things about me:

1. I never tell anyone anything about myself.

2. I don’t want friends.

3. I can’t have friends.

4. I have to keep myself from making friends if at all possible.

I know it’s crazy, but if I’m going to be accomplished in the future, I don’t need a social life to get in the way now. They cannot know what I am thinking. It would ruin my entire purpose.”

“Gina!”

Oh, Darn. I was almost caught, and on the first entry, too. That’s truly sad. She tiptoed down the stairs, hoping Mom was just wanting her to help unload groceries or help get the car keys out from under the seat. She was always losing those keys. Laura sent in the car two days ago for repairs, and now the hole in the seat was even more obvious. Anything could fall through now, and now “anything” extended to the keys, and every time Laura opened the car door.

“Gina,” Mom said. There were no grocery bags in sight, but Gina did notice that Mom had a slight tear in her skirt, as she usually did. Gina stood still.

“Gina!”

“What?”

“You’re really good at this time management business, dear. That’s why I have a little genius on my hands, anyway. Maybe you can help me here. Look, I have two parties tomorrow night for the school, and I can’t decide which one to go to. I would really like to go to both, so…can you tell me how I can go to both?”

“Mo-om,” Gina said. She sighed. “Okay, what times are the parties?”

“Well, Ms. Lyle’s baby shower is from six to eight in the school library and I have to help set up anyway so I’ll be there right after school, and I have this really cute present for her baby–they say it’s a girl–and the new teachers’ convention at the nutrition center downtown is from seven to eleven.”

“That long for a new teachers’ convention? Why do you want to go to it?”

“Well, since there are two new teachers in the English department and since everyone else in the department is going, I feel like I should, too, but I already told Sabby that I would go to the shower.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You do not have to stay at one party for the entire dura­tion of the stinking thing.”

“Okay, you told me that twice–no, thrice–before. Why can’t I drum that into my head?”

“There we go. Go to Sabby’s party, leave early, and show up at that teacher thing fashionably late.”

“What would I do without you, dear?” Laura Brandeshear bent down to kiss her daughter, but she missed, kissing instead a lock of Gina’s mahogany hair.

“Don’t kiss me, mother. Please.”

Laura obliged. If she was going to run two lives at once, she may as well listen to her dear lov­ing daughter. Laura headed back downstairs.

Gina went back to her room and continued writing, but not before she heard her name echoing across the house again.

“I lost the Scotch tape, dear,” Laura said. “Did you use it?”

“No.”

“Then would you have any idea where it is?”

Gina thought. Laura had countless uses for Scotch tape. Besides wrapping presents, she used it to remove nail polish, test her newly growing wrinkles, hold skirts together until she could sew them back together again…

Gina ran to her mother’s room and headed straight to the sewing machine. Bingo. She grabbed the tape and handed it over.

“Okay, where was it?”

“You ripped a skirt yesterday, too, remember?”

“Oh yes. That’s why I wore this one. But then I got the skirt caught in the car door while I was reaching for the keys this morning before work.”

Gina slapped herself on the head and moaned. Laura immediately turned around. “Are you okay, dearest?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m just fine,” Gina moaned back. “Just–just leave me alone, okay?”

“All right.”

Laura backed off. “Good grief,” Gina whispered to herself. “Why doesn’t she just get the heck off my back? Why did I have to be the one stuck with the scatterbrained mom after she lost the love of her life? God, why did you do this to me?”

Her rant was interrupted by the blaring ring of the telephone. She picked it up. “Brandeshear residence.”

She didn’t recognize the voice on the other end, but she did. Did that last thought make sense? “Is this Gina Brandeshear?”

“This is she,” Gina replied. Who is this crazy person?

“I’m Marylee Smith,” the voice replied. “You know, from biology class?”

Yes, I know a bit too well, Gina wanted to say. But instead Gina put on her “smiley voice” and said, “Yeah, I remember you. You were the one who squished the squid into the garbage can and blamed it on Clark.” She tried to laugh at it, but she just couldn’t. There was nothing in Gina that could laugh.

“Well,” Marylee said, “I was just wondering what has been going on. You haven’t seemed very happy lately. Just making sure nothing was wrong.”

“Everything is fine. Are you coming to put up the decorations for the dance? We need every­one there because we have a lot of stuff to arrange and not very much time. We’re supposed to be there at four, okay?”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” she said. “I love Valentine’s Day, even though I’ve never had a boy­friend. But that’s okay. My parents always bring me flowers or something neat like that.”

Good for you.

“Okay, then. See you at the school. Don’t forget to tell the others on the staff.” Gina hung up the phone, only to immediately hear it ring again. She clicked the button.

“Hello?”

“Hi Gina.”

“Brad? What are you doing calling here?”

“I just wanted to make sure that we have to be at the school at four tomorrow to set up for the dance.”

“Uh, yeah. Don’t be late. And don’t forget the snow.”

“I have the entire list right here.”

“Good, don’t forget that either.”

“So, what are you doing for the dance?”

“Besides taking up tickets? Nothing. You know all I really do is take up tickets.”

“You need to get out more, Gina. School is your life.”

“But it’s productive, at least.”

“Is that why you’ve been so anxious lately?”

“Look, I have totally different reasons for that.”

“Still. You need to lighten up a little.”

“If I wanted to lighten up, I’d call you, but I don’t, okay?”

“See you tomorrow.” And then Gina hung up and retreated to her room.

“Marylee just called. Darn those Student Council directories. What business did she have calling me, anyway? ‘Just to see if I was fine.’ I’ll laugh if I don’t hear that again. That is just priceless. What is up with her, anyway? I remember when she nominated me as Stu-Co presi­dent. Ha. ‘I think Gina Brandeshear will make an excellent president because of her dedication to everything she’s involved in.’ That was a hoot. But nobody laughed at her when she said that. Some people just don’t get it, and Marylee Smith is one of them.

And after that Brad called. Why is he calling me so much? He hasn’t been this annoying until now. Everyone knows he’s had a crush on me since second grade, and everyone says we’d make the ‘cutest couple’, whatever that means. When will he get the message that I don’t want to go out with him, or even be his friend? When will they–both of them–get the message that I don’t want to be friends with either of them, or with anyone else for that matter?

I hate Valentine’s Day. I really do. I know that I’m the Stu-Co president and that I’m basically in charge of planning the event, but it’s not that much fun anymore. I was president last year, too, once again nominated by Miss Marylee Smith. It was exciting the year before last, when I was vice-president. Everyone was into it. But now no one is. I guess that’s just as well. I’d rather do it myself anyway. Of course, if I seriously considered that, Marylee won’t let me get away with it. Brad wouldn’t ei­ther. They’d insist that they help. And then they’d recruit the rest of the members, and next thing I know, everyone’s mess­ing everything up. Good grief, we had it hard enough last year as it was. If I wasn’t barking at them, we never would have gotten anything done. It was a strange side of me for everyone else to see since they all think I’m all nice and friendly, but for some reason, it felt perfectly natu­ral for me. Of course I’m not nice like everyone thinks I am. Being really, truly nice would make anyone crazy if they weren’t al­ready so.”

She remembered the Valentine’s Dance from two years ago. Most of the Student Council members that year were senior groupies–they talked and goofed off more than they decorated or organized. Gina wound up doing most of it herself, which she didn’t mind. It turned out bet­ter, anyway. Now those seniors were gone, but they were replaced by freshman groupies who were just as bad, if not worse. It’s a freshman thing, she thought. Either that or a senior thing. She guessed that you just acquire those skills over time.

The book is about a shy and antisocial high school student who has a bit of a nervous breakdown and retreats to her local coffee shop. Here’s a choice bit–the very beginning, in fact. I’ll be away tomorrow, but I’ll have the rest of the first scene set to autopost. If all goes well, it should post tomorrow evening. For now, enjoy the beginning.

“This is the first time I’ve kept a diary (or at least tried to without losing the diary first). But before I actually start writing, a few things about me:

1. I never tell anyone anything about myself.

2. I don’t want friends.

3. I can’t have friends.

4. I have to keep myself from making friends if at all possible.
I know it’s crazy, but if I’m going to be accomplished in the future, I don’t need a social life to get in the way now. They cannot know what I am thinking. It would ruin my entire purpose.”

Determined, much? This one is.

Here you go!

The house was silent that night. All four family members slept in their respective beds, and even if they were awake, they wouldn’t have been able to stop what was happening outside. Not even the neighbors would have been able to stop the action.

The full moon peeked behind the clouds while a soft breeze whistled through the trees. A black and white calico cat ran down the street toward the house next door and entered through the cat door. The pumpkin sat on the front porch, the jagged smile that Derek had carved on its face earlier that day stuck on its face. Then something changed. The pumpkin could feel it. A tingling sensation went through its eyes, nose, and mouth, and if its hair weren’t carved into its surface, it would have stood on end. The pumpkin took advantage of this sensation and raised its eyebrows. Somehow, it could raise its eyebrows. It blinked, and with a little more effort, contorted its jagged smile into a frown, then a confused look, and finally returned to its original jagged smile.

The pumpkin’s cap floated above it, then returned to cover the pumpkin again. The pumpkin looked up. Floating! What a funny thing. The pumpkin willed the cap to float. Surely if the cap could float out of the pumpkin’s control, and the pumpkin could control its facial expressions, then it could make the cap float. The pumpkin imagined the cap floating above its head and looked up.

The cap hovered several inches above the pumpkin’s head. The pumpkin wished it down again, and the cap came back down.

Then the pumpkin had a thought. What if… No, it couldn’t happen. That was silly to even wish for in the first place. But what if it weren’t so silly after all? It had to try, and if it failed, all the pumpkin lost was a few minutes.

So the pumpkin tried to will itself to float. The pumpkin imagined itself floating in the air, and a few minutes later, the pumpkin could feel itself leaving the confines of the ground. The pumpkin floated in the air several inches above the ground for several more minutes, and the jagged smile on its mouth turned into a grin. A final, even crazier, idea occurred. It could float up and down. What about the other ways? The pumpkin had to try.

The pumpkin imagined itself floating to the left instead of floating up, and sure enough, the pumpkin floated to the left. To the right! the pumpkin imagined, and the pumpkin floated to the right. The pumpkin floated in a circle a few inches above the ground, and practiced combining these powers: floating up and to the left; floating to the left while wrinkling its nose; and finally floating up, to the right, blinking, wrinkling its nose, and smiling simultaneously. The pumpkin willed itself to whirl around while floating up and did so.

It looked up at the house and floated up toward Derek’s room. Derek had pulled the shades down, so all the pumpkin saw through the window was a wall of dark blue. That didn’t stop the pumpkin from musing about him and feeling a kinship to him. This was the boy, the pumpkin knew. He has so much potential in life, so much talent. It’s just bottled up inside him and won’t come out.

Unless someone helps him. The pumpkin sighed, then realized that it made that sound all by itself. If it could sigh, then it could speak. But how was speaking going to help Derek out? The pumpkin moved its mouth again and said, “I will help you, Derek.” The voice that came out of the pumpkin’s mouth sounded exactly like Derek’s voice.

The pumpkin had decided. It turned away from Derek’s window and floated away into the night.

Mia made her way down a familiar path to a world she had visited once before. In some ways it looked just as it did the year before: the buildings were still in the same places, though they, along with their plaques, had been scrubbed down after the recent shutdown and cleaning, the streets had been paved, the familiar eraser benches had been revamped, and even some of the people looked familiar. But no one had a bar above their head, most of the people who had halos the year before were halofree, and some people were new by Mia’s standards. Mia checked her name tag and noticed that she was still going by the same name as the year before. She checked into her bag as she entered Wrimonia. Old works, check. Laptop, check. Metal pencil that saved her life last year, check.

As she walked around the forum, she noticed Dragonchilde chasing a Wrimo who strangely resembled a troll across the forum. “Get him banned!” someone yelled as Dragonchilde chased the troll, holding on to her hat so it wouldn’t fall off. She still wore the staff badge, Mia noticed. That was familiar, at least. But one thing that wasn’t familiar was the horde of Wrimos at the Newbies forum. Mia walked on that way and noticed the plaque: “A place for newbies to gather or for veterans to give them advice.”

And then it hit her. I’m not a newbie anymore, Mia thought as she passed them. They looked so young. None of them had participant or winner badges, and many of them looked nervous. Almost all of them chimed up with questions as other Wrimos passed, and some of them chased the more senior Wrimos as they passed. One of them approached Mia as she passed.

“Wow, you did NaNo last year?” the Wrimo, a young impressionable Wrimo, asked.

Mia nodded and looked at the place on her chest where she noticed veteran Wrimos’ badges last year. Sure enough, a Winner badge from the year before sat on her chest in bright purple. “I did NaNo last year and even won,” Mia said.

“I’m scared,” the Wrimo asked. “Is it hard?”

Mia thought back to her own journey through NaNoWriMo: the adventures with her characters, meeting Alaina, the joys and commiserations with other Wrimos, the forums, the procrastination and distraction that she discovered while writing, the battles with Writer’s Block and Inner Editor, the struggle to make the daily word count each day, the struggle to write consistently. Finally she said, “It’s as hard as you make it. But don’t worry, there’s always someone here to help you if you need it.”

The Wrimo smiled. “Veterans can adopt newbies, right?” the Wrimo asked. Mia nodded; she had noticed this the year before but decided not to take advantage of such an offer; after all, she was here to write. “Will you be my mentor through NaNo?”

“Of course,” Mia replied, and they wandered around the forums while Mia told the new Wrimo about her NaNoWriMo experiences.

***
And Adventures in Wrimonia comes to a close. There’s so much to say here, but that’s what a separate post is for: the experience of writing Wrimonia, why such-and-such didn’t get mentioned (probably because I didn’t have time!), and what’s coming next.

Feel free to link this on your blog, Twitter, whatever. Just don’t pass this off as your own, and we’re cool.

I highly encourage you to donate to the Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that runs NaNoWriMo, if you enjoy this tale of noveling madness. If you donate in the new year, your donor goodies will appear in the month before the event you donate to (NaNoWriMo or Script Frenzy).

If for some strange reason you’re really into giving money to Internet strangers who write somewhat humorous things, I won’t complain. You can do that at the link below.

“What do you mean, that’s for me?” Cole asked as he bent over on the floor and examined the pieces.

“There’s postmodernism for you,” Amy said.

“Let me get this straight,” Cole said. “First you steal my pawn. Then you kill my girlfriend. Then you break my pawn?”

“Doesn’t it make perfect sense?” Amy asked as she and Keith stood over them. “It’s postmodern. It’s supposed to make sense if you screw with your brain just enough.”

Cole shook his head. “If there’s something here that doesn’t make sense it’s you,” he said. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You don’t have to do anything because I’m leaving,” Amy said. She walked away with Keith. Mia did nothing but type away as her characters reenacted this scene, Alaina at her side. Mia had been able to reach her daily word count goal every day over the last couple of days, even exceeding it easily. It really did come more easily with those black clouds now out of the sky.

The End, Mia wrote.

The characters ran toward Mia. “Check your word count,” Amy said. “Go on, check it.” She squeezed Keith’s hand as Mia pushed the word count button.

Fifty thousand, three hundred seventy-seven.

Confetti fell from the sky. Mia jumped up from the eraser bench and hugged Alaina, then all the other characters in turn, even the characters who appeared just to celebrate. “We knew you could do it, Mia,” the ghostly older woman said, “even if I didn’t show up in your story at all.”

Mia looked down. “Well, I’m sorry,” Mia said. “The story just didn’t turn out that way. Next year, maybe?” The woman grinned and started to party with everyone else.

“You have to verify it, Mia!” Alaina whispered, nudging Mia.

“Verify?” Mia asked.

“Of course!” Alaina replied, pointing to the bar above Mia’s head. It was still blue because Mia hadn’t updated her word count yet. “Don’t you want to turn that bar purple?”

“Yes!” Mia said. She looked at the clock above Wrimo Hall. According to the clock she had five and a half hours to go. She grabbed the laptop and ran toward Wrimo Hall and up the stairs to Verification Quarters.

Robots buzzed around this area, too, and Mia and her characters walked toward the nearest one. She examined the boxy body, the arms, the wheels on the legs, the FIREBUS logo on its side. She looked for a place to verify her novel.

“Uh, hello,” Mia said. “Where do I verify my novel?” As soon as she said that, a drawer on the robot opened, and out popped a cable that plugged itself into Mia’s computer. “Won’t that give me a virus or something?” Mia asked.

The robot beeped twice. “Counting words,” the robot said. It was silent except for some beeping for a minute. Mia noticed that the dial on the robot was going farther and farther to the right.

“Fifty thousand, three hundred seventy-seven words,” the robot said. “Congratulations, you are a winner of National Novel Writing Month!” A certificate popped out of its stomach, and Mia examined it.

“National Novel Writing Month winner!” the certificate said, and Mia examined it as the cable unplugged itself from Mia’s computer and the robot rolled away from them. “Congratulations! This certificate declares that (your name here) wrote (your novel title here) in the month of November as part of National Novel Writing Month.” The name and title were blank, presumably so Mia could write them in herself. Mia skimmed the rest of the certificate, not quite caring what it said anymore but taking in the actual accomplishment. Then she scribbled her name and title on it and looked up at her bar.

It was a delicious shade of grape with the word WINNER! emblazoned on it.

“Let’s go,” she told her characters. “It’s time to celebrate.”

And celebrate they did as they walked past the writers with blue bars and joined the ranks of the purple.

***
I know some of you were speculating about more parts, but the tale ends here quite nicely without more summary of the days in between. Truth be told, not much happens after Mia defeats Writer’s Block and Inner Editor and winning–she shouldn’t be browsing the forums because that’s how she got behind to start with!

But this isn’t THE END. I’ll be posting an epilogue on Wednesday, and then it’ll be time for life after Wrimonia.

Feel free to link this on your blog, Twitter, whatever. Just don’t pass this off as your own, and we’re cool.

I highly encourage you to donate to the Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that runs NaNoWriMo, if you enjoy this tale of noveling madness. If you donate in the new year, your donor goodies will appear in the month before the event you donate to (NaNoWriMo or Script Frenzy).

If for some strange reason you’re really into giving money to Internet strangers who write somewhat humorous things, I won’t complain. You can do that at the link below.

Mia had one hand on the pencil and the other hand on her keyboard. She glanced at her screen and saw the end of the scene she had just written. No, Amy would never do that, she told herself as she backspaced an entire paragraph and thinking that she really shouldn’t be doing it. Sure, Amy would never do it, but Mia needed the words. Twenty-seven hundred words a day didn’t come easily. Mia looked at the calendar in her bag where she kept track of her word count by day. She had written twenty-five hundred words the day before, and those words actually came much more easily after discovering that NaNoWriMo was in her very name.

Or was it? If NaNoWriMo were in her name, wouldn’t she already have a purple bar? Wouldn’t she have had a green bar a long time ago? Wouldn’t NaNo be, dare she say it, easy? She looked around Wrimonia and saw the Wrimos with purple bars walk past without a worry in the world. Some of them stopped past to cheer on Wrimos who were still writing, just like the marathon runners did the day before.

Mia didn’t need any interruptions, so she tried to look busy and write. It was very hard to look busy, though, as the sky turned dark and two very familiar figures appeared. No one would find her in these conditions anyway, especially anyone who wanted to give her a pep talk like the marathon runner did the day before. Mia kept typing, hoping that the noise of her keyboard would scare them away, but when she saw someone with long curly locks and the accompanying figure with a tight bun in her hair enter the scene, she knew that there was no hope.

She kept typing and backspacing and finally stopped. There was nothing left to write about, and then she looked up.

“Not you,” she whispered.

“Oh yes, us again,” Writer’s Block said. “Who thought again that NaNoWriMo was in her name?”

Mia stood up and held the pencil in her hand, facing Writer’s Block and Inner Editor. “The marathon runner told me yesterday,” Mia said. “You cannot stop me from winning NaNoWriMo. The purple bar will be mine.”

Writer’s Block laughed. “No it won’t,” Writer’s Block said. “You haven’t written anything worthy since you were a wee lass, and even then it only got hung on the fridge because it’s your mother and your mother’s supposed to do those things.”

“Oh please, Mia,” Inner Editor said, cackling. “Look at this.” Inner Editor leaned toward the laptop and read the latest passage that Mia had written. “Amy walked hand in hand with Keith? They walked in the park together? Is this all you’re making them do, Mia?” Inner Editor asked her. “Come on, you’ve been on dates. What did you do on dates?”

“I haven’t been on too many dates,” Mia replied.

“Lies,” Inner Editor said. “Think of dates you’ve been on. Surely you can make this more realistic than a bunch of walks in the park. Surely the parents with children will find this darling young couple a little disturbing after awhile.”

“But they’re just on a date,” Mia said. “Besides, all my dates were… nontraditional,” she said, pausing and neglecting the fact that most of her dates involved movies and friends. Sometimes food was involved, but never traditional dinner and a movie dates that most people went on. Those were for people who weren’t poor college kids.

“Then use one of your dates,” Inner Editor said. “You’ve had enough dates that you can write them well, as uptight as you are. Hey, you haven’t gone on any of those this November.”

“Shut up!” Mia said. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you and about how you’re trying to get in the way of my novel.” Mia pushed Inner Editor back as Writer’s Block began blowing big black bubbles around them.

“I destroyed those bubbles once, and I can destroy them again,” Mia said as the bubble surrounded them.

“Oh, how?” Writer’s Block said. “These bubbles are storyproof. They’re even museproof, not that yours has been around in days. She’s been enjoying her vacation, by the way.” Writer’s Block walked around Mia. “I’ve had her tied up and gagged, and she’s been calling to you with ideas all this time. Shame you can’t hear her.”

Mia fumed. Has Writer’s Block really been doing this all this time? Was he really out to get her? And enjoying her vacation?

“And you!” Inner Editor exclaimed, pointing at Mia. “I’ve been out to get you all month. I’ve been reading first drafts of novels, trying to show you how every other Wrimo has written a first draft better than yours, but no, you won’t even listen. You just keep on plugging as if you won’t even think about giving up.”

“That’s because I won’t,” Mia said. She had already pushed Inner Editor back once to no effect. Surely she wouldn’t do it again. “And you, Writer’s Block. You’ve been a figment of my imagination the entire month, teasing me and making me believe that there’s nothing to write about when in fact there’s plenty to write about.”

“Then let’s see you catch up now!” Inner Editor said. She turned to Writer’s Block. “You know what to do.” Writer’s Block blew more small bubbles. Mia’s laptop floated out of her bag, and the bubbles sucked words from the laptop and into the bubbles, and Mia ran around, popping bubbles with the pencil, but she wasn’t fast enough. A few minutes later the bubbles that had popped once were being reformed by Writer’s Block and were sucking in the words again. Inner Editor ran toward Mia and whispered in her ear.

“Don’t pop those bubbles,” Inner Editor said. “Those are all crappy words anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to get rid of all of them.”

“But those are forty-two thousand words!” Mia exclaimed as she popped the word bubbles too slowly for them to return to her laptop.

“Loser,” Inner Editor whispered. “Terrible writer. You’ll never become a great writer. You’ll never even be a NaNoWriMo winner.”

Mia dropped the metal pencil for a minute. Was it true? Was Inner Editor right?

Then Mia heard the sound that lifted her spirit more than any other since Writer’s Block had trapped her inside the bubble. Footsteps. A figure with brown shoulder-length hair stepped in, followed by a shaggily handsome man. They were holding hands, and the woman was holding a young boy. Brenda followed them in, followed by the rest of the coffee shop staff and some of the other customers. Even the ghostly couple Mia hadn’t seen in weeks, Cole, the preschool staff, the children at the preschool, and people Mia didn’t even recognize stepped into the bubble.

“Good afternoon,” Amy said, facing Mia. She turned to Writer’s Block. “Your bubble isn’t characterproof, I hope you know.”

Writer’s Block turned pale. He had never thought of that when devising his evil plan.

Mia turned to her characters. “You know what to do,” she said, hoping they did because there was no way she was going to tell them what to do in front of her nemeses. The characters certainly did know what to do, and they popped those bubbles with gusto. Keith was particularly good at popping bubbles; he ran around popping bubbles with his X-Acto knife, while Amy popped bubbles with the traveling shovel of death, which she somehow rescued from the burial site. Mia didn’t even bother asking her how that had happened and in fact didn’t even get a chance, for Inner Editor was rounding on her.

“Terrible. Worthless. Useless prose. No one writes worse than you,” Inner Editor said. “Your words are better off here, you know. They can live a life in their best condition, never being exposed to the light of day. No one will have to suffer deaths from exposure to Mia’s words. The world will be much better off without your words.”

“Lies!” Mia yelled, trying to convince herself that it was a lie because it would keep her going and help her finish NaNo–that is, if it were even possible.

“Truth,” Inner Editor said, and with that Mia could take no more. She held the pencil up to her and heard the voice that filled her heart with joy, except this time she could hear what it said, and she listened to it as her characters ran around destroying word bubbles and setting Mia’s words and their own story free. Only a few more bubbles remained.

“If ever Mia shall decide
To give up NaNo–oh, she tried!
Then she should know there’s no debate
That NaNoWriMo’s in her fate.”

The voices sang Mia’s name followed by NaNoWriMo several times before resuming the rhyme. Mia smiled and turned back to the inner editor.

“I’m going to finish NaNo whether you like it or not,” Mia said, holding the point of the pencil closer to Inner Editor than was healthy.

“No,” Inner Editor said. “You can’t. Your novel is terrible.”

“Just watch me,” Mia said, and she stabbed Inner Editor in the heart with the pencil. The song played out loud as the characters popped the last two word bubbles, and Inner Editor writhed.

“NaNoWriMo… in your fate…” Inner Editor mumbled as her bun fell apart and her face fell flat, her glasses falling to the floor. Inner Editor fell to the floor in a crumpled heap as Writer’s Block writhed at the other end of the bubble, pinned to the bubble by Amy and the traveling shovel of death.

“How’d you like that?” Amy asked. Mia watched as all the words floated back to Mia’s laptop and arranged themselves in the right order.

“I can’t believe it,” Writer’s Block mumbled. “You did it.”

“Oh, not only did we do it,” Amy said. “But we know what’s going to happen next. You’re only in Mia’s imagination, after all.”

Mia sat back, letting Amy take control. Amy’s hair sat in place, her eyes blazing and the traveling shovel of death in hand.

“What?” Writer’s Block asked. “What do you mean you know?”

“Oh, we know,” Amy said. “Remember when Keith and I went to the art gallery I work at because I was working their next event?” Writer’s Block nodded. “Guess who happens to be there?”

Writer’s Block gulped. Cole stepped forward, and Amy held the pawn in her hand. Cole reached for it, but Amy didn’t hand it over. “Oh no,” Amy said. “You’re not supposed to get this back yet.”

“What do you mean, I don’t get it back?” Cole asked. “That’s been missing for weeks and I’ve had to make up this crazy postmodern explanation as to why a pawn was missing from a chess set. Most of them have bought it, but others, not so much.”

“And what did you tell them?” Amy asked.

“That it represented… something. I don’t remember what now,” Cole said. To tell the truth, he didn’t want to remember.

“You’re not supposed to get this back yet,” Amy said. She watched as Writer’s Block writhed in place. Mia suddenly realized what Amy was about to do and then remembered what Alaina told her way back when.

“Amy, no!” Mia said. “You can’t do that to him.”

Amy turned to Mia. “Why not?” Amy asked. “It’s the traveling shovel of death. It’s supposed to kill people.”

“But you don’t get it,” Mia said. “Too many people have tried that. He likes getting bopped on the head by it now. It only encourages his crime of robbing people of the ability to write.” Mia looked around and noticed that the bubble around them was fading. Fading, but not disappearing entirely.”

“Then what am I supposed to do, stab him with the pencil?” Amy asked.

Mia thought. She never actually killed Writer’s Block; in fact, Alaina told her that Writer’s Block would always be back. Amy wanted to try, though, so Mia walked to Inner Editor and yanked the pencil out of her. Surprisingly, it was clean, probably because Inner Editor didn’t have a heart. Mia grinned and handed it to Amy.

“Go for it,” Mia said. Writer’s Block writhed as Mia and her characters surrounded him, telling him what they were doing next in the story, and when Amy stood right in front of him, Amy said, “You’re a monster, Writer’s Block. You deserve to die,” and she stabbed him in the heart.

“I’ll be back!” Writer’s Block yelled as his writhing slowed to a dull stop, and he writhed no more.

“I’ll be back?” Amy asked Mia.

The bubble faded, and someone else entered, someone Mia hadn’t seen in a long time. Alaina wrapped her arms around Mia. “Welcome back,” Mia said.

“How’s the writing going?” Alaina asked.

“It’s going well,” Mia said. “Could be better.” Alaina turned toward Amy, who had now pulled the pencil out of Writer’s Block’s chest; it too came out clean. These villains really were heartless. “What have you been up to?”

“I’ve been on a little vacation,” Alaina said. “It’s what happens during this time of the month.”

Mia shook her head. “No, really, what have you been up to?” Mia asked. “I could have used you during the last few weeks.”

“Don’t worry, I’m back now,” Alaina replied. “It’s time to make this happen.” Amy handed the pencil back to Mia, and Mia stashed it back in her bag as they settled on the trusty eraser bench to write. Eight thousand more words to go, Mia told herself as she began to write.

***
Have the enemies been vanquished? Will Mia finish NaNoWriMo with three days and 8000 words to go? I am a cruel human being for making you wait until Monday.

Feel free to link this on your blog, Twitter, whatever. Just don’t pass this off as your own, and we’re cool.

I highly encourage you to donate to the Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that runs NaNoWriMo, if you enjoy this tale of noveling madness. If you donate in the new year, your donor goodies will appear in the month before the event you donate to (NaNoWriMo or Script Frenzy).

If for some strange reason you’re really into giving money to Internet strangers who write somewhat humorous things, I won’t complain. You can do that at the link below.

“Don’t you want to be in Wrimonia again next year?” one vendor yelled across Wrimonia. “Get a halo for yourself or a friend today! Save Wrimonia!” The vendor pushed his cart to a Wrimo celebrating her victory, and Mia looked away to a sign ticking away the seconds toward the end of NaNo. Mia watched it for a few seconds before turning away. Every second watching that sign was a second not writing, she told herself, and I can’t afford that right now.

People ran across Wrimonia, and Mia spotted the battalion of marathon runners running across Wrimonia cheering on the Wrimos.

One marathon runner looked at a Wrimo who was behind on word count. “You’re behind,” the marathon runner said, “but you know what? You can do it! Fifty thousand can be yours by the 30th.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” the Wrimo replied. “I’m just trying not to stop writing at this point. I have twenty thousand words. That’s nearly ten thousand words a day.”

“There are many Wrimos who have caught up from that far behind and finished,” the marathon runner said. “Some have written even more in this time. Heck, even a few have written the full fifty thousand words in this time.”

“But I can’t,” the Wrimo replied.

“But you can,” the marathon runner said. “NaNoWriMo is a marathon, not a fifty yard dash, and you’re about to reap the benefits of it. Just keep writing, and you will surprise yourself.” The marathon runner kept running, and the Wrimo kept writing. Mia looked up, and the marathon runner was right in front of her. It was the same marathon runner who gave Mia the pencil.

“You’re not going to give up too, are you?” the marathon runner asked.

“I didn’t expect you to say that,” Mia replied. “But it’s tempting. It’s awfully tempting.” Mia scooted the pencil over so the marathon runner could sit down on the bench. “My story sucks. Really really sucks. I just joined the Suck Club because it sucks so badly. There are busty lesbian cabbage pirate ninjas, and random characters who came out of nowhere in there, and I don’t know where it’s going or if it’s going anywhere, and I don’t know if there’s any point to doing this in the first place.”

“Tell me, Mia,” the marathon runner said. “Why did you sign up for NaNoWriMo to start with?”

“I wanted to write a book,” Mia replied. “I lost all inspiration for writing and I wanted that back.”

“Have you found it again?” the marathon runner asked.

Mia stammered. “Well, I thought I did,” Mia replied, swinging the pencil around without realizing it. “Sorry,” she said when she nearly hit the marathon runner with it. “But then the Writer’s Block and Inner Editor decided to haunt me and I barely escaped, and Alaina and my characters haven’t been around for days, and I don’t know where they are.”

“Mia,” the marathon runner interrupted. “I didn’t just give you this pencil on a lark.”

“It does something,” Mia replied. “It’s still talking.”

“You mean you still haven’t figured out what it does yet?”

“Well, when Writer’s Block and Inner Editor were taking me on two on one, I managed to escape with this,” Mia said. “I pierced the bubble Writer’s Block was blowing.”

“But have you actually listened to the voices?” the marathon runner asked.

Mia shook her head. “They’re still indistinguishable to me. It’s just a blob of voice.”

The marathon runner gulped. “Listen.” And she and Mia leaned in toward the pencil, and suddenly Mia heard something so warm, so beautiful, something she had never heard before. It wasn’t a voice at all, actually. It was a comforting sound, a sound of joy and love and inspiration coming from the inside of that pen.

“But what is it?” Mia asked.

“Have you figured out anything else the pencil does?” the marathon runner asked. Mia shook her head. “Play with it for a minute.”

Mia examined the pencil further, and she noticed that where the metal part of a normal pencil would be was where this pencil unscrewed. She unscrewed it, and out flew nine letters. They flew into the air and spelled her name. MIA WONNOR, the letters in the air said. She stared at them for a few minutes. They were in the most beautiful font she had ever seen, and each letter was in a different color. As Mia stared at the letters, the marathon runner moved a hand, and the letters rearranged themselves.

NANOWRIMO, the letters read a minute later. Mia stared in astonishment. Was NaNoWriMo really written in her name? In the stars, even? Mia looked up, even though it was the middle of the day and the only star up was the sun.

“You can do it, Mia,” the marathon runner said, handing the pencil back to Mia, and Mia looked at the pencil again. “NaNoWriMo is embedded in your very being, Mia, and you were meant to complete NaNoWriMo. Now go forth and finish!”

Mia looked up at where the letters once were and noticed that they had now disappeared back into the pencil. The pencil was warm yet light in her hand. There was one more battle to fight, but first, the next milestone awaited: forty thousand words.

***
Some of you figured this out ages ago, but yes, Mia’s name was meaningful. In fact, I spent the trip to my write-in the day I started this novel trying to figure out the perfect NaNoWriMo anagram for her. Will this spur her to finish with over 10k and days to go? We shall see.

Feel free to link this on your blog, Twitter, whatever. Just don’t pass this off as your own, and we’re cool.

I highly encourage you to donate to the Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that runs NaNoWriMo, if you enjoy this tale of noveling madness. If you donate in the new year, your donor goodies will appear in the month before the event you donate to (NaNoWriMo or Script Frenzy).

If for some strange reason you’re really into giving money to Internet strangers who write somewhat humorous things, I won’t complain. You can do that at the link below.

Everything was gone. Writer’s Block, Inner Editor, the black bubble that Writer’s Block had been blowing to surround them. Mia looked up. It was just like the day she was browsing the adoptable threads in the Plot Doctoring forums, except she didn’t get sucked into anything. She got up and wiped herself down. Then she noticed where she was.

NANOWRIMO ATE MY SOUL, read the nearest plaque. Nothing could be more true, Mia thought as she ran into the forum. She stumbled into the nearest thread, conveniently titled “I hate myself and want to die” and collapsed on the nearest couch, metal pencil still in hand. As she panted, she looked around the room. Other Wrimos appeared to be in similar states.

“Why?” Mia asked as she looked at the pencil. “Inner Editor and Writer’s Block have been chasing me down, and I barely escaped. I’m behind and I’m not sure if I’ll catch up, and my characters just killed someone with the traveling shovel of death and it doesn’t fit in my novel at all.” Mia burst into tears.

“It’s okay, Mia,” ororo said, looking up from the laptop. “Remember all the signs around Wrimonia about first drafts sucking?” Mia nodded. “It’s true. I’ve done this since 2002 and all of my work sucks.”

Another Wrimo with long hair entered and collapsed on another couch. “Hi ororo,” she said. “Hi Mia,” she said after reading Mia’s name tag. “My life sucks. Everything about it.”

“My novel sucks,” Mia said, commiserating. “And I don’t want to quit. I can’t now that I’ve bought the halo.” She looked up at it. “I don’t know about the noveling karma anymore, but it’s definitely telling me not to quit. I paid for this thing!”

“My characters just hurt me instead of their villain,” XantheKelsylva, the long-haired Wrimo, said. “Look at this.” She showed off a slash on her arm. “And I thought we were better off as the writers.”

“No, we aren’t,” ororo said. “I’ve already suffered their wounds too. At least we’re just the authors, right?”

“Yeah, imagine how much life would suck if we were all characters in someone’s NaNoWriMo novel,” XantheKelsylva said, and everyone laughed.

Despite the run-in with Writer’s Block and Inner Editor and despite their hovering over Mia whenever she tried to write (they kept at a distance after Mia’s escape, and Writer’s Block stopped blowing the bubbles), Mia did write three thousand words that day. She really wanted to reach forty thousand words, but the pull of the Inner Editor was just too strong, and no more traveling shovels of death could be found. The next day Mia found herself in the NaNoWriMo Ate My Soul forum again, Writer’s Block and the Inner Editor at her side, and stumbled into a forum with a picture of a soap carving on the door. It reminded her of Fight Club, except the words didn’t say Fight Club. Instead the pink bar of soap said Suck Club. Mia entered, pushing the door open and noticing a large bar of soap with the same emblem on the center table.

“I suck!” a Wrimo named Pookel exclaimed. “My life sucks, my novel sucks, and everything sucks. Can we just say suck?”

“Well, my novel sucks too,” another Wrimo said.

“So does mine,” Mia commiserated.

“Then you should join the Suck Club,” Pookel said, pointing to the bar of soap at the center of the table.

“The Suck Club?” Mia asked. “What’s that?”

“Read the wall,” the other Wrimo said. Mia got up and read the wall.

“Welcome to Suck Club.
This is the place for everyone whose work sucks.
The first rule of Suck Club is you don’t talk about Suck Club. Others will do that for you, while pointing and laughing.
The second rule of Suck Club is you don’t talk about Not-Suck Club. Those people with talent make us cry.
The third rule of Suck Club is when your plot says stop or your characters, you will continue to flog them, dead horse-style.
The fourth rule of Suck Club is no strong characters, no tight plotting, no exploration of themes and NO GODDAMN ENCHANTING POETIC TURNS OF PHRASE
The fifth rule of Suck Club is if this your first night at Suck Club, or if you’ve been here for years, you have to Suck.”

Mia finished reading the rules on the wall and realized that they described her perfectly, a far departure from her opinion at the beginning of the month. “Let me in!” she said. “I’m writing a sucky novel!”

“Welcome to the Suck Club,” Pookel said. “Take a small bar of soap from the table as a token of your membership.” Mia grabbed a bar of soap and pocketed it, not noticing that it wasn’t a bar of soap at all but a rock in the same color as the Fight Club bar of soap. Mia walked out of the forum, ready to write as she settled on the nearest eraser bench. She took out the pencil and examined it. The metal, the fake eraser end that wasn’t an eraser at all, the pointy end that couldn’t be written with at all. Somehow, somehow! though Mia didn’t know how, this thing had saved her from Writer’s Block and the Inner Editor. They would be back, though, Mia thought as she caressed this pencil and typed away at her novel. She laid it on her lap and typed over the pencil.

The voices were still there, and what she heard before as mumbling voices were no longer mumbling. They were much louder now but still indistinguishable. She typed the next sentence and leaned in toward the pencil.

Nothing. Mia gave up and continued to type. Three thousand more words, she told herself as she kept typing. That was all she needed to get one step closer to getting back on track, but Alaina and her characters must have taken an extended vacation on a most inconvenient time. Mia looked around, and sure enough, they were nowhere to be found. Chris Baty was also nowhere to be found, as he was probably also working on his own NaNoWriMo novel. (Mia had heard through the NaNo grapevine that Chris often got behind on his novel and played catchup during this time of the month.) She looked back at her novel and continued to write.

***
Suck Club is another NaNo thread from the early forum days. The thread isn’t often reintroduced anymore, though, which shows the often-fleeting nature of the Internet.

On another note, people have asked if I ever appear in the novel. I’ll go ahead and answer this one and tell you that no, I don’t appear. That’s why I’m mentioned a couple of times early and why the fourth wall is nudged here: Mia meeting her maker is a little too meta.

Feel free to link this on your blog, Twitter, whatever. Just don’t pass this off as your own, and we’re cool.

I highly encourage you to donate to the Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that runs NaNoWriMo, if you enjoy this tale of noveling madness. If you donate in the new year, your donor goodies will appear in the month before the event you donate to (NaNoWriMo or Script Frenzy).

If for some strange reason you’re really into giving money to Internet strangers who write somewhat humorous things, I won’t complain. You can do that at the link below.

The once-ugly man unzipped his costume and revealed his shiny locks and handsome outfit. He pranced around Mia, blowing dark bubbles in her direction and laughing with glee as they popped in her face.

“Stop it!” Mia yelled as another bubble, the biggest one yet, popped right in front of her face. “I’m trying to write here.”

Writer’s Block laughed. “Write?” he asked. “Oh, you won’t get any writing done here. Look around you.” Mia looked around. It was just her and Writer’s Block under the word tree. Other Wrimos passed with their bars of blue and green and purple. Mia noticed that some Wrimos still had lower word counts than she had, and they were still writing. Writer’s Block still wouldn’t leave Mia, choosing to blow more and more black bubbles in her direction.

Mia tried writing but wrote two sentences. She looked at him.

“Where’s your creativity now, Mia?” Writer’s Block asked. He cackled loudly.

“No,” Mia said, noticing that they were now alone. “You won’t get to attack me. I defeated you many times this month.”

“Oh, but I got the better of you some days,” Writer’s Block said, dancing around Mia and blowing more bubbles. “Remember when you didn’t write fore three days in a row? Or when you wrote only five hundred words for two days?”

Mia stared at Writer’s Block. Yes, it was true that she stopped writing for two days in a row. Everything Writer’s Block said was true. But–

“I beat you in the end,” Mia said.

Writer’s Block laughed. “Beat me?” Writer’s Block said, cackling. “Please. You only think you beat me because you sat down to write again. That’s just you pretending to think you beat me. You pathetic little twit.”

Mia stood up. Was Writer’s Block laughing at her? “No,” Mia said, this time more forcefully. “I beat you. I’ve already beaten you.”

“Please,” Writer’s Block said. “You just let your characters kill off someone with some silly traveling shovel of death and you want to say that you’ve beaten me. Maybe I should start haunting NaNoWriMo novelists more often. I just choose you because you’re special.”

“You mean you choose only me?”

Writer’s Block shook its head. “Oh no no no, you silly little girl,” Writer’s Block said. “Everyone who faces me sees what they want to see, just like with everything in life. In your case you see an unusually handsome man who just happens to be a bit evil. Kind of like real life devils.”

“But like I said, I’ve already beaten you. I’ve already written thirty-six thousand words,” Mia pointed out. She pondered showing Writer’s Block those words, and then thought against it. What if Writer’s Block destroyed those words? But then she decided that Writer’s Block couldn’t be that dangerous, and she held out her laptop. As predicted, Writer’s Block laughed, but the laugh was a bit forced.

“This? This is your writing?” Writer’s Block asked. “We’ll have to see what she says about that.”

Writer’s Block continued to blow bubbles around Mia as someone else appeared. A someone with a tight bun in her hair and wearing a white blouse and a plaid skirt. It was the same outfit Mia remembered her wearing the last time they had met.

Inner Editor.

Mia cringed, especially when she saw the large red pen in her hand. “Not you too!” Mia exclaimed. “What did I do to deserve you?”

Inner Editor smiled. “Did you see the last scene you wrote?” Inner Editor asked. “Killing the guy’s poor girlfriend? You’ve never even met her in the novel before. It makes no sense. Negative sense, even. You had no reason to do it except to get words in your novel. And the busty lesbian cabbage pirate ninjas. Let’s not get started on those.”

“You should get started on those,” Writer’s Block said. “I like you when you’re feisty.”

“Yes, but we’re not here to get feisty,” Inner Editor said. “Or at least I’m not.” She turned to Mia. “You can’t have those scenes in your novel, Mia. Think of what someone would think if they saw it on a bookshelf. Does anyone read about busty lesbian cabbage pirate ninjas?”

“Of course not,” Mia replied. “That’s why this is a first draft.”

Inner Editor laughed. If only Mia knew what she knew. “A first draft, you say?” Inner Editor asked. “A first draft?” Inner Editor grabbed Writer’s Block’s shoulders to keep herself from falling over with laughter. “Oh, my darling, you have a long way to go in order to learn what it’s really like to be a writer.” Inner Editor stopped laughing long enough to let go of Writer’s Block’s shoulders and walked toward Mia. Mia stopped typing and looked up at Inner Editor. “You have to learn to craft your words so they shine, shine just like that halo resting on top of your word counter. You have to learn to make your words create worlds in the reader’s minds. You have to–”

“Wait a minute,” Mia said, interrupting Inner Editor. “Have you ever written a book?”

Inner Editor looked offended. Of course she hadn’t written a book. Who would write a book when they had better things to do like correct other people’s grammar? She was about to say this when Mia kept going. “Because if you haven’t written a book, you don’t know how hard it is. You write really shitty prose, want to quit halfway through, pad your words, write shitty scenes that you know will be taken out but you need to keep going anyway, and then finally hit The End in some blaze of glory, even if the blaze of glory is just to eat more chocolate and go to sleep.”

Inner Editor interrupted Mia just before Mia was about to go on. “Now you’re stark raving mad,” Inner Editor said. “Haven’t you ever read a book, young lady?”

“Of course I’ve read a book,” Mia said. She was about to say that she went to college, but then she thought of how many complete books she read in college and thought against that. She had other things to do, like read for fun, during that time. “What else do you expect me to do with my spare time?”

“Not write, obviously,” Inner Editor said, pointing at Mia’s bag. “All rubbish, I tell you. You haven’t mastered the art of writing, young lady. And for that you’ll never become a great writer.”

Mia had had enough. She gathered her belongings and ran away from them, but the atmosphere of Writer’s Block and Inner Editor blocked her from getting away. Alaina, I need you, Mia thought. Word war forum, I need you. She tried to think of what to write next, but her mind blanked. Nothing came to mind as she thought of what to do.

Then her mind was taken back to a scene several days ago. She was sitting on a bench with a marathon runner, and the marathon runner gave her a pencil made of metal. Was it still there? Mia wondered. Well, if the traveling shovel of death was still there yesterday, surely the pencil still had to be there.

But it was harder and harder to think as Writer’s Block and Inner Editor closed in on her.

I will not quit, Mia thought to herself as she dug through her bag. I will not quit. I will reach fifty thousand. I can do it. She fumbled through her bag. Notebook. Another notebook. Chocolate. Her hand bumped against something metal. Success. She grabbed it from the bag and tried to stab Writer’s Block. Nothing. What was this thing supposed to do if it couldn’t kill people? she thought. Then she remembered that neither Alaina nor she could kill either one of them. The surroundings grew darker, and Mia noticed that it looked solid. Then she did the only thing she could think of to do and pierced a hole through the edge of the bubble that Writer’s Block was blowing.

***
Cliffhanger! What will happen to Mia? What will happen to Writer’s Block and Inner Editor? Is this the last we’ll see of them? Time will tell.

Feel free to link this on your blog, Twitter, whatever. Just don’t pass this off as your own, and we’re cool.

I highly encourage you to donate to the Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that runs NaNoWriMo, if you enjoy this tale of noveling madness. If you donate in the new year, your donor goodies will appear in the month before the event you donate to (NaNoWriMo or Script Frenzy).

If for some strange reason you’re really into giving money to Internet strangers who write somewhat humorous things, I won’t complain. You can do that at the link below.