Okay, so we are down to the wire on NaNoWriMo. There are only 5,697 words to go. Jo has behaved herself admirably through most of the draft, and the book has done some things that I really am loving, but…
You knew there was a but coming, right?
BUT, we have gotten to the final exciting climax–and I have no idea what it is going to be. There is no more overt character development to be done in those few pages. The plot has come to a screeching halt before the edge of the cliff, so it can’t be a cliffhanger…
And here I am, procrastinating. I’ve done all my daily chores for the day. I’ve done all my weekly chores for the week (once this is done.) I’ve even done some housecleaning today–and long time readers of this and my occasional blog over at Here’s the Clean know that that means I am really desperate to avoid something.
I have to get going though. It is too close to quit–the end in sight, the word counter filling up, the story compelling me along…
I just need to figure out that last bit. 😉
Here’s a snippet from the Dime Novel for The Incredibly Irritating Irishman, “Practical Polly and the Village of Doom” — to see more, head on over to The Conn-Mann Chronicles page on Facebook, and don’t forget to Like us. 😉 Website on the way…
Day 25’s excerpt:
Polly held her breath as long as she could, swimming with the current downriver. She was a much stronger swimmer than Jack, so hopefully, she would be far away from where he expected her to be when she finally had to come up for air.
She angled her way toward the far bank as well as possible in the dark. Swimming until her lungs were threatening to burst, she finally broke the surface, gasping for air.
Dawn was breaking, the sky tinged with gold as the mist rose from the warming river. It provided a bit more screen. She would take any cover she could get.
Slogging out of the river on the opposite bank from the village, she put her back to a tree and slid down it to huddle in a miserable heap at its base. What was she to do? Jack had been the center of her world from the moment she met him.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she realized that most of what she knew of him was probably a lie. Had he even been to the places he claimed? Were the artifacts he had donated to the museums stolen treasures he had no right to? She had given him everything—and he had thrown it all away.
Sobbing, she laid her head on her crossed arms and let all her dreams leave her.
But Polly was practical above all else, and she didn’t let her emotions hold sway for long. Jack would be coming. Probably with his new best friend the chieftain and his warriors in tow. She needed to stop feeling sorry for herself and take stock of the situation.
Swiping the tears from her cheeks, she got to her feet. She could see the smoke of the village cook fires in the distance, so she was still too close for comfort.
Checking her pockets, she found the penknife—she had forgotten that Paolo returned it to her…he probably had too. It was a welcome find. She also had her sling, three rocks—but she could gather more—a ten pound note, and a piece of jerky. She’d save that until she got too hungry to bear it.
She wracked her brains for every bit of survival lore that she could remember. Moss grew on the north side of trees…didn’t it?
Damn Jack! He had her compass in his pack last time she had seen it. And that had been before their capture the first time, so she doubted it was anywhere to be found now.
There hadn’t been anything else of use at the camp, had there? A few bits of canvas and maybe a few feet of rope. Not worth the risk of returning there. He’d probably look there first, sure that she would go back to the familiar.
No, she would strike downriver, staying on the bank opposite the village. He’d never give her credit for that much sense.
Rie Sheridan Rose 