I've posted my word count earlier today (26,264 words) as I have next week's workshop, the last in the longitudinal series, to prepare for. This month is flying past and I'm ever aware of other commitments, of other responsibilities to be met. A poem for next Dread Poet's meeting remains half written, photographs wait for the words that will transform them into Haiga, emails beg to be answered and a dozen other tasks tap on my consciousness.
I imagine this is the same for all Nanowrimo participants, the commitments and responsibilities may vary, but they are there none the less, to be worked around, over and under and somehow we manage. This writing challenge is excellent practice in setting writing priorities, of making the previously undo-able-doable and setting a schedule in place that can be used at any time - not just during Nanowrimo.
(Another) Sneak peek from Chapter Twenty- nine
He'd hardly been in the church since the funerals. Couldn’t stand the smell of death that hovered over the place, of incense and flowers mixed with mustiness and old wood. He dipped two fingers in the holy water font, a custom carried over from childhood, genuflecting toward the altar as he walked slowly down the aisle. Another habit. He knew Father Kelly could hear the clip of his leather soles against the wooden floor, but he kept his back to him, turning only as he reached his side.
‘It’s been a while, Brendan. Did you want to speak with me?’ He nodded toward the confessional at the side of the church.
‘No, not that way, Father. It’s about Maureen.’ He saw a shadow pass over the priest’s face, the pulling down of a blind between them. ‘We’re all worried about her, you see.’
‘Well sit down then,’ he gestured toward the pew, ‘and tell me what’s bothering you.’
He’d hope to speak to the priest in the vestry where it was more private. Not here where anyone coming in could hear what he had to say.
‘This is a good a place as any,’ then, as is reading Brendan’s thoughts, added, ‘no one comes here much these days anyway.’
Brendan noticed the priest had slipped into a corruption of Irish brogue as many descendants, several generations removed from the old country, often did. He’d been known to do it himself in certain company and he’d never been near the place, nor his parents before him. The soft burr of the priest’s voice had the power to mesmerise. He supposed that was the intention, but today he wanted a strong voice and mind to advise him.