- I’m dreadfully behind on NaNoWriMo and doubt that I will catch up at all. I have a legitimate excuse this time: I have been ludicrously busy this month with work and personal matters. I actually typed this blog post a week ago, when I was sitting in a hotel in Atlanta, and yes, I could have been writing in my NaNo novel, but blog posts are quicker and easier. 🙂 Then I got busy again and totally forgot to publish this blog post. I hope everyone’s NaNo is going better than mine.
- To address the elephant in the room (bad pun, I know), in the aftermath of the election, the nation is still divided. When I was in the airport leaving for my trip, I saw several despondent travelers wearing Hillary/Kaine shirts, and the guy next to me on the plane was texting something about “this plane is full of Killary fans. These flights to Atlanta are always f**ked up.” There is still so much animosity, and I am unsure that the president-elect will be able to bridge the gap, although the reality is that the matter should not have to fall entirely on his shoulders.
- Excerpt from aforementioned NaNo novel:
“The hell’s going on here, my man? I called the cops—they’ll be here soon. Coming to get this teenage wasteland.”
At least that’s what Eliza thought was said. She was falling down, down, even though she had already fallen. Her hand and wrist had begun to sting and she tried to remember if the side of the Dumpster where she had scraped them was rusty, but the act of pulling something from even her short-term memory was painful enough to cause her to lose energy.
“Can you get up?”
“She’s drunk. Just graduated high school and probably can’t think straight at all.”
“I don’t know whether to feel sorry for them when they act this stupid. Girl. Can you get up? Are you all right?” The voice took on a sympathetic tone and a hand reached under her armpit to pull her up from her half-sitting, half-lying position on the pavement.
Eliza blinked. She didn’t see Miller Lite or Corona anymore, or even Adrian for that matter. Blue lights swirled from the top of what had to be a police car. “Am I going to get arrested?” she asked.
“GHB,” said the woman who was pulling her up, and Eliza thought that was some kind of police code to acknowledge that, yes, she was going to be put in handcuffs and dragged off somewhere. Her parents would kill her—Adrian would kill her—the last thought struck her like a blow to the chest.