750words.com And Other Bits

Thanks to a friend of mine on another blogging site, I have discovered this nifty little website called www.750words.com. It is based on the idea from The Artist's Way about writing three pages in a journal every morning. These "morning pages" are supposed to be sort of a brain dump of sorts, just you writing, unstructured, letting words flow out of your mind, through your fingers, and onto the paper... or in my usual case, into becoming on the laptop screen.

One of the things I love about the site, and don't go laughing here, is that they give you little badges for different achievements. Ohhh, don't go offering badges to someone who runs around World of Warcraft reading obscure books and eating odd things just to gain an achievement for the hell of it. You know I'll just be all over that site! So far, I have earned a turkey (writing 3 days in a row), a penguin (7 days in a row), a flamingo (10 days in a row), and a cheetah (speedy typist!).

What can I do with all these badges, you might ask? Well, nothing really. But a giggle or two over them, and a grin when I see a new one pop up is more than worth it to me.

NaNoWriMo is coming up in fifteen days. Do you have your plot bunnies well fed? Mine have decided to whisper in my ear as I sleep and give me dreams of the very vivid sort. This latest dream had me hanging out, talking with a couple guys who were working on a private plane. We were in the country somewhere; huge, leafy trees offering shade, and what looked like a boathouse-cum-shack with peeling white paint was very near. The sound of a couple small jets overhead cut though the nature noise, and we looked up, for some reason instinctively moving closer to the shelter of the plane to help hide our presence, although there was nothing we had done wrong. One of the guys made the comment that they were marking the perimeter, or doing something with the perimeter. This seemed to be enough of a reason for me to run up to the larger house for supplies. I don't know why we were going to run, and I don't know why the military (because that was who the jets seemed to be) were flying and dropping some sort of sonar markers along the lake shore, but it was apparently enough of a reason for the character I was to be alarmed.

In the larger house, a Native American man in his thirties was working, renovating a sunlit room. I greeted him, and tried to act as nonchalant as possible as I pocketed Band-Aids, Mercurochrome, and scoured the little medicine cabinet for whatever else I could sneak away with. He came in, though, alerted by the sounds of my scrounging, and asked me what in the world I was doing. Not in a threatening way at all, but for some reason the two guys at the plane and I were supposed to be a group unto ourselves. I turned, plastering a smile on my face that I was hoping looked a bit more genuine than it felt, and tried to play my antics off as just that - the nutty chick's silliness that everyone around was supposed to be used to.

I remember the sunlight streaming in through the glassless window in the other room, the room where he was working, and lighting the area behind him as he stood over me, and the motes of sawdust and tree fluff dancing erratically in the shafts of yellow gold. And I remember having the feeling of knowing him, and of his knowing me a lot better than either he or I would publicly admit.

And now, after writing all of this down, I have a funny feeling the basis of my NaNo novel has just been changed by the characters who inhabit that world. That's just fine with me... I have learned through the years not to fight them. They will take you where they want to be, and if you fight, you wind up with a story that doesn't come off nearly as well as you had hoped, or (and this is the more common result) you will find yourself with a half dozen or so partially written stories that have no life and no luster to them, and will never see the words "The End" to complete them.