Nanowrimo: Week #1
I decided I would make the attempt to do Nanowrimo this year — for the uninitiated, that’s National Novel Writing Month. You spend the thirty days of November frantically trying to pound out a novel of 50,000 words or more. I’ve participated in a number of years, but I think I’ve only actually finished twice. Will I finish this year? That remains to be seen.
I currently stand at 9,415 words which is a little behind the average. I should be at 10,000 words, but Life has really been testing me and my patience the past couple of weeks, so I’ve been struggling with that along with a bout of Depression. I’m hoping that the session with my therapist on Friday will help me get back in gear.
My novel project for this year is actually a revamp of an old project. I’m bringing back my Arthurian fiction novel, Journey of Excalibur, which details the life of Excalibur from its forging to its journey across Europe and into the hands of Merlin.
As a treat to you, my readers, here’s an excerpt of the opening paragraphs!
Click to read!: Nanowrimo: Week #1The King is dead.
The pale woman stood at the prow of the wherry as it eased its way out of the swath of mist that surrounded the small isle. Water lapped against the sides of the small boat in rhythmic time to the tug and pull of the oars being drawn by the six black-robed figures that lined either side of the craft. For a moment, the woman forgot them and the heavy burden that lay in the center of the wherry between them. Instead, her eyes looked ahead where, in the distance and despite the semi-darkness of the growing twilight, she could see the golden glow of a lighthouse as it called wayward travelers home from their many journeys. A bell tolled, its gentle keen doing little to bring her comfort as that singular thought ran once more through her mind.
The King is dead.
She turned, casting a look over her shoulder to the shrouded bier that dominated the center of the boat. Even draped with pale, gray silk she knew who now slumbered beneath and her heart broke with such knowing. Again, she turned away, but this time her eyes went to the blade that lay balanced in her upturned hands. It was a longsword of exquisite make, the blade still as glittering silver and sharp as the day it was forged. It reflected the light cast by the beacon ahead, wavering hues of amber dancing across the blade. The little wherry went unerringly to a short dock that jutted forth from the shore of the isle, bumping up against the familiar moorings with the gentle squeak of damp wood rubbing together.
The King is dead.
Overhead, the bell tolled again. Its sonorous tones were like leaden weights placed upon her heart as she stepped up onto the dock. She turned, indicating with only the tilt of her golden head that the other occupants of the wherry should follow her. The six black-robed figures moved in unison, as if one mind was divided among their bodies. Together, they lifted the gray-shrouded bier and followed the woman onto the dock. She led them forward as she took her first steps onto the sandy shore of the isle. Even her light-footed steps sank into the crystalline grains of white sand up to her ankles, leaving a trail of small indentations in her wake. Behind her, though, the six figures left no footprints at all.
“I am returned, O Avalon…” she murmured with a weary voice filled with her heartache.
As the words fell from her lips, the mists of the isle peeled away to reveal the front edifice of the keep that safeguarded this place from those who did not belong. Not that many ever found this place by accident; those who found their way here were either brought or invited. Much as she brought the man who rested on the bier behind her.