National Novel Writing Month: A Writer’s Experience

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11/28/12: The killer fired. Lee took a step backwards, and smiled. “Bulletproof vest, you hipster motherfucker.” He squeezed his trigger. His assailant wore a vest as well, but it was a stylish vest, and not at all bulletproof. His glasses hit the pavement without shattering—no lenses. Lee strode over to where he lay, blood merging with his maroon skinny jeans on the grimy sidewalk. “Who do you work for?” The man spat weakly in his direction. “Wrong answer!” Lee grabbed one end of the man’s mustache—the third-most-sensitive part of the male body. Lee liked working his way down. “WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?” Lee pulled, hard. The mustache tore off easily, taking no flesh with it. A fake. The man smiled, then began coughing, violently. More blood. Before Lee could get to work on the second-most-sensitive part of his body, he was dead.

                “Poser,” Lee muttered. Nothing left but to search his messenger bag for clues. He leanedovertopull

                Fuck! Spacebar’s broken! Third fucking time! Now I have to walk all the way to the fucking Genius Bar—God help them if they tell me I’m typing too hard again. And I’m so damn close!

Word Count: 47702

12/1/12: Time to get some endorsements! Manuscript: check! Bus ticket to Palm Beach, Florida, home of billionaire author James Patterson: check! Grappling hook to get past his electric fence: check! Pepper spray for his pet Komodo dragon: Wait. I know I have it here some—

Word Count: 50,008

12/2/12: I asked for my phone call, but it turns out James Patterson owns the Palm Beach Police Department and the local courthouse. Nothing doing. Erasing the book from my hard drive was bad enough, but did he really have to feed my manuscript to the Komodo dragon? On the bright side: Less than eleven months until next November!


-A. Gertler

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