JoNoWriMo

Some of you have probably heard of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), an internet event that has spiraled well beyond its original bounds and now tackles such good causes as young writer's programs and whatnot. The core of the concept, though, is that you write a draft of a novel. In one month. The organization defines a draft as 50,000 words, and their infrastructure is set up to help you track your progress towards that goal. Just get it on the (virtual) page and revise it later.

The problem is that National Novel Writing Month is in November.

November's probably a good time for it—summer's done and, at least in temperate northern climates, the weather's pushing folks to be indoors. The holidays haven't started yet (despite retails marketing programs to the contrary). Days are getting pretty short, and what better way to while away the increasingly dark evenings than sitting at your word processor of choice, fingers clicking away?

Aside from including my birthday, though, November's not a particularly attractive time to undertake major writing projects for me. If my life goes according to plan (and "according to plan" always entails a rather sizable 'if'), November will pretty much always be the end of midterms and the turn towards finals for me. Being on the delivering end of finals and midterms will not change the fact that they're work.

Thus, I proclaim that July will be my Novel Writing Month. Beginning tomorrow, I will undertake to produce at least 50,000 words of progress on Against the Moon (working title), which I began quite some time ago but haven't been able to get much done on between school and fatherhood. We'll see how it goes. Like as not I'll stumble, but even if I only end up with twenty or thirty thousand words, they will be words I would not otherwise have.

Excelsior!

Toast, Toast, and Orange Stuff

No Dinadan Noir today. I'm still working on the next bit.

Father's Day has come and gone. It was a bittersweet day, as you might expect. The brother was here in the morning, although I spent the latter half of it sleeping (there wasn't enough coffee to make a full pot, so I let my favorite tuba player have the travel press). Not having anybody to call was tough. I still have moments where I almost reach for the phone with a cooking question in mind.

Come evening-time, we loaded up the car and headed down to Eden Prairie for a Medalist Band concert. It was the first of their summer season, and a bit rocky at times (the tuba section was much more solid than the trombone section, though). The wife played well. Ivan paid attention to the first piece, then went back to throwing a frisbee at the sidewalk, pointing at the nearby dog, and trying to eat rocks. The weather was gorgeous and I savored (at least for the first bit) the opportunity to chase Ivan around, put him on my shoulders, and generally do the dad thing in an environment where I didn't have to worry too much about what he might wreck.

We need to find him a helmet so I can take him out in the bike seat I got as a Father's Day present. I need the exercise, and it's good for both of us to get out of the house.

Expect another installment of Dinadan Noir later this week.

Dinadan Noir II: 17 1/2 Obsidian Circle

It didn’t take long to confirm at least one part of Arbonne’s story: the Family wanted her dead. Nobody was sure what she’d done or what she knew, but five thousand pieces of gold were on her head…or her shell. Whatever. I was discreet with my inquiries, steering conversations this way and that. I picked up a lot more than the price on Arbonne. The Family was having a bit of a spat. Halvo Bane—one of the few living humans to get anywhere in the organization—had died. Not usually a big deal on Crypt, but something had apparently gone wrong when they went to re-animate him. Turns out he’d crossed paths with a paladin, and his soul had been dispatched elsewhere. He was an uncle, and the death of an uncle made things…wobbly.

None of that helped me figure out who it was that wanted Arbonne dead, but I was getting a sense of the stakes. It had to have something to do with the succession. Might have been personal—if she’d been under Halvo’s protection and he was gone, somebody could be looking to settle an old score. Five grand, though…that seemed a bit much for a jilted lover. That was enough to draw a few of the real pros. Especially against a soft target. There was something more going on.

I wasn’t going to figure it out until I talked to Arbonne.

…which I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do as soon as I saw the green coats on Obsidian Circle. Damn.

The local constabulary didn’t want to let me get inside, but a lot of fast talking and a bit of flashing my badge got me past the cordon. I didn’t know any of the proper sentinels on the scene. Not surprising considering how little time I put in at the headquarters these days. A few of them recognized me, judging by the mutters. None of them, though, made a point of getting in my way. Not that they made any point of explaining things. Joy to the passive-aggressive.

The place was wrecked. Furniture broken. Homarid bits everywhere. And stuck in the biggest chunk of what was left of Arbonne, a trident. Couldn’t help quirking my mouth at that. I was half-surprised not to find pools of butter. Message sent, and the usual one: don’t mess with the Family. A pro wouldn’t have made such a mess. If I had to, I’d have put my money on a kneecapper out for a little extra.

“How long ago?”

“Eh?” The greencoat looked up from his kneeling position by the main bit of the corpse.

“How long ago did somebody find her?”

He shrugged. “Two hours ago, I think. Owner of the place. Made a big fuss. Cap’n sent him off to see Gilgal.”

Kiss of death, that. If the fool had actually gone to Sauronan to make his complaint, I didn’t envy him. Gigal Radisgad was not fond of interruptions. “Any guess how long ago it went down?”

The sentinel seemed to look at me for the first time. “And I should tell you because…?”

“Professional interest. Client of mine gets murdered, I like to know about it.”

“Client?” Raised eyebrow.

“The deceased was trying to find out who wanted the shine put on her.”

“Really.” Lowered eyebrows. Narrowed eyes.

I shrugged with what I hoped was eloquence. “I came here to discuss it with her. Obviously not going to happen now.”

“You figure anything out?” He didn’t quite manage to make it a question.

“Not much more than what she told me. It’s Family business. Crypt. Somebody’s five heavy richer.”

“You know anything else?”

“She was professional company. Prob’ly under a steady roof. Don’t know which, though.”

The sentinel nodded. “That explains the fuss, a bit. Winstanley Rothmock, the third, was a bit indignant that we weren’t handling this more discreetly.”

“The gentleman of the house?”

Again, a nod. And a sigh. “Why is it always a dead hooker?”

“Because,” I replied, “we used up all the romantic tragedy in songs. Pretty much just leaves sex and drinking as company for death.”

“I’ve heard some of your songs. Seems like maybe you’re working on using those up, too.”

My turn to shrug. “Even if the ‘verse keeps turning ‘til I’m ten thousand years old, there’ll be no using those up.”

“You know I’ll be telling the captain you were here.”

“Doesn’t much matter. If I were sensible enough to care about that, I never would’ve taken the case in the first place.”

[- - * - -]

I could have tracked down Mr. Rothmock, but I guessed (correctly, as it fell out) that it would be easier to ask his neighbors. After listening to numerous unhappy diatribes on the man’s “unholy tastes” and “just desserts,” I finally picked up a place and a name: The Phile, in Borales. I had a feeling I was going to be spending far more time amongst Crypt’s undead than any hot-blooded satyr ought. And, as is usual with my gloomy predictions, I was right.