It's a week into National Novel Writing Month and.... I have written very little. It's a bit of a disappointment. But. BUT BUT BUT. I have a title. Which may not sound impressive. At all. But I have this habit of avoiding naming my stories as if they are the name of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (is that secretly saying that everything I write is evil?).
The story has nothing to do with him though. Or, as far as I can tell it doesn't. Who knows? Little psychotic Belle/Macy/Lily might have a secret obsession with him. Believe you me, that would not be surprising. Her one joy in life is freaking people out with how dark and creepy and morbid and awkward she is. When she was four she would threaten to tie her parents to their bed and light the bed on fire - and laugh as they burned to death. So taking a fancy with a certain Creep would be right up her alley.
She's actually the one who whispered the title to me. I think it's lame and cannot see the relevance of it for my life, but she is insisting it will fit perfectly in the end.
Comatose. The name of the first Skillet album I bought. So it feels all unoriginal and slightly stupid, but hey, I have a name.
Of course, the three people hanging telling the story won't tell me their names. Maybe I can threaten to send them off to fight a war or into a collapsing building or something life-threatening to get them to spill. Having to put ________ where all names should be is sad and frustrating as I begin to think I am a complete failure at being a writer.
Which I am, I'm sure, but do I really need to be told so through a lack of names fifteen pages in? No, not really. I much prefer having The Boy laugh at whatever obvious mistake I made.
Well, of to sew some pants, throw some pillows, and dance in the snow.