Statistics and Story Writing Fun

tatistics on Day 6:

Words typed in last five hours: 5,000

Number of times checked Facebook: 1

Number of times felt like checking Gmail/Facebook/Writer'sForum/etc. and did not: 5, and counting

Days worth of newspapers caught up on in one sitting: 4

Today's discovery: while I love listening to music while writing, the set up works better if I listen to non-English music (such as Runrig, in Gaelic, or the Super Furry Animals, in Welsh) as it leaves me free to concentrate on my own words

Original research for the day: listening to nightingales

And so on. Total word count for week one: 12,650

In other news, the next installment of Kait Nolan's Forsaken By Shadow is up - here.

And Alliterative Allomorph 'as an adventurous 'andout! By which I mean, she's hosting a contest; enter here.

Meanwhile, here's a wee NaNo snip from Out of the Water, in the point of view of Rosa's love:

He followed the others to the kitchen and stood by the hearth as Lorenzo and Ricardo pulled out chairs and flopped onto them, throwing their arms across the table. He busied himself with lighting a fire, as Lorenzo had done in the sitting room, but the brothers were silent behind him and he knew they’d fallen asleep even before he turned and saw them, cheeks pillowed on their sleeves.

He could hear Rosa moving back and forth in the pantry and stepped up to the door. It was unnerving how much he needed to see her. His heart darkened when she was away from him, and every morning when he saw her it was as though he was meeting her for the first time; her diffidence, her ducked head, always brought a smile to his face. Anyone would think him ridiculous, falling in love with a maiden he hardly knew, and he’d certainly never planned – well, how could you plan anything when a woman ran toward you out of the trees, in need of rescue? You rescued her, booked her a ship, and suddenly found yourself spending every hour of every day with her.

Now here she was, oblivious to his presence, breaking pieces off a loaf of bread and dipping them into the jar of olive paste they’d had at the supper table, her head in profile as she ate. His fingers ached to sketch her, the line of her hair, falling behind her ear; her shawl across her shoulders; the way her dress moulded to her body. It was ragged and stained by travel, hanging so limp that it hugged her features, her arms, her chest, her –

He must have moved, for she turned then, and saw him, covering her mouth with a hand that held yet another piece of olive covered bread. Two steps forward, and he took the bread from her hand, tossing it into his own mouth. Her eyes bored into his as they chewed together and swallowed in unison. He saw her throat move and had to bring a hand up, to touch her there, and his lips could only follow, resting on the hollow of her throat, hungry, moving up her neck to find hers. His hands roamed in her hair, pulled her ever closer, even as his body pressed against her, pushing her back against the counter. He did not have enough fingers to explore her face, clutch her to him, knead her shoulders, all at the same time.