December 1st and I’m a winner–or a champion, if you like. A month ago, I made the commitment to write a novel (or a good chunk of a novel, anyway) in 30 days. Today, I can proudly say that I did it. For those in the NaNoWriMo community, this is called winning.
To those that didn’t make it this year, then you’ll just have to rock it next year (or the year after that). Don’t give up. If anything, you’ve started down the path to writing superstardom. For me, writing is a part of life, otherwise this blog wouldn’t exist. My 50k represents about a half of what I want the full novel to be and I plan on continuing it. This time, I will take it all the way to the finish line.
Since I spent most of last month writing for NaNo and not on here, I’ve decided to give you, my readers, a glimpse into my story. The scene below is loosely based on my 23rd birthday and if any of my friends that were there that night are reading this, they’ll recognize some of what is in the scene. At this point in the narrative, my heroine has lost her ability to see ghosts and has been told that in order to get it back she needs to relax (she was exposed to too many ghosts at one time and it has overstimulated her brain). In order to follow her doctor’s orders, she and my hero have decided to go out for some (bad) karaoke. Part of this scene was inspired by my cousin, Lisa, who suggested having them sing Build Me Up Buttercup as we did when we went to karaoke.
I hope you enjoy the scene (be aware that the purpose of NaNo is not to edit, so there may be some spelling and grammatical errors)!
Danny glanced over at Allie. She was watching the couple singing up on stage. He wasn’t sure what the song was, but that was because the girls singing were tone deaf and their voices were so bad that even if they were singing his favorite song, he wouldn’t have known what it was.
He reached for his glass and found that it was completely empty. When had that happened? He hadn’t planned on drinking, but then Allie came out of her bedroom wearing the tightest pair of jeans and a low cut red sweater that hugged her breasts in the most alluring way. The only way he’d be able to keep his hands off of her was if he was too drunk to touch her. Since he was the most embarassing light weight known to man, it wouldn’t take all that much to tip him over the edge. His head was already swimming.
The couple on stage finished their song and the KJ called up the next singer. As soon as the music started playing, Danny was filled with dread. Someone was seriously attempting to sing Let It Go at karaoke. This was not going to be pretty. From the look on Allie’s face, he knew she agreed with him.
“Who the hell thought a karaoke version of this song was a good idea?”
“A very optimistic person,” she replied.
As soon as the woman opened her mouth, everyone knew that whoever decided it should be available for karaoke was way too optimistic of a person and should be forced to listen to this performance over and over again until the day they died a hopefully painful death.
“There’s not enough scotch in the world for me to be able to block this shit out.”
“You’re not drinking scotch.”
“I know, but scotch is much harder than my Sex on the Beach and by saying that there’s not enough scotch, then you have to admit that there aren’t enough sexes on the beach. Or is it sex on the beaches. No, that sounds dirty.”
“Allie you sound drunk.”
“Nah, I get philosophical when I’m drunk.”
“Oh, my mistake.”
She was definitely drunk. He didn’t do much drinking, but he knew she was drunk. Sober people didn’t fall off of stools and Allie was about to fall off of hers. He reached out and steadied her.
Finally, Ms. Let It Go left the stage and Danny’s ears stopped bleeding. He only hoped that the next singer would be better. He would never get up there himself. Singing. In front of all these people. Granted, the only person here that he knew was Allie, but still. He was not a public speaking—or singing—type of person.
The music started and he heard a familiar song, one he hadn’t heard since he was a kid, listening to CBS FM with his mom. Build Me Up, Buttercup. He smiled. It was a cute song. He turned his head to mention it to Allie and realized that she wasn’t there. He looked around before his gaze settled on the stage and there she was. Her brown hair falling into her eyes, the purple streak almost completely gone. She held the mic in her hand and as the words flashed on the screen began to sing. And his ears began to bleed. Again. She was awful. That settled it. She was most definitely drunk. From what he’d seen of her over the last week, he doubted that she would get up there and sound like that if she was completely sober. He really hoped she wouldn’t ask him how she sounded when she was done. He was not a good liar and he could not tell her the truth.
As the song ended and she made her way back to the table, there was a smattering of unenthusiastic applause. This didn’t seem to bother Allie, which made Danny’s stomach churn. She was going to ask him. He knew it.
“How’d I do?”
“Um. You were—uh. You were original.”
That was true. He’d never heard anyone sound like a couple of cats fighting off rabid raccoons.
She laughed. “Original, huh? I’ve never heard that one before.”
“You didn’t think I was unaware at how bad I sound, did you?”
“Of course I knew. I have no delusions as to my musical ability.”
“Why’d I ask? You had this look on your face—kind of a cross between total abject terror and panic at having to face me. It was cute.”
“Cute?” He nearly choked. There were a few things that a guy did not want to be called—a pussy, a fag, and cute. Definitely not cute. Rugged. Manly. Not cute. Never cute.
“Oh, you’re not one of those guys that objects to effeminate modifiers, are you?”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Please. As if you wouldn’t be upset if I called you a bitch.”
“That’s totally different. Calling someone cute isn’t an insult. When you call a woman a bitch, you’re attempting to put her in her place. You never call another man a bitch. You wouldn’t call Donald Trump a bitch because he’s aggressive in his ignorance—stupid and bigoted, maybe, but not bitch. Hilary Clinton on the other hand, has many people throwing that word at her because she’s a strong, capable woman, who doesn’t take shit from anyone. She’s the smarter, less racist version of Trump, but all those babies in the Republican party can see is a bitch.”
“Wow. You’re especially verbose when you’re drunk.”
“I told you, I’m not drunk.”
“So, you normally get up in front of a crowd of people and sing atrociously bad karaoke?”
“What? You admitted to being bad.”
“Doesn’t mean I like to hear it.” She paused to get up. “Let’s go.”
“Are you deaf all of a sudden? Let’s go.”
“We haven’t paid yet.”
“I have a tab with this place. It’s fine.”