Last night, at precisely five minutes to midnight, I won Camp NaNoWriMo with a respectable 69,000 words. 5000 of them were a sort-of book 3 thing, and 4000 of them were written yesterday. Don’t believe me? Here’s Old Faithful with the winner’s screen and timestamp:
So it was that I scooped up my half-price Scrivener, stared at the wreckage of the second book and decided to write a postmortem later. It would be a quiet morning today, getting ready for a trip to London.
Oh hell no.
I opened the curtains today and was greeted with a police car and two tense officers standing to attention outside our next door neighbours. They’re an alright family. Retired, dour Edinburgh middle-class types who spend more time ‘doon the golf club’ and drinking than remembering they have a sad teenage son who spends his days kicking a ball around on his own. There’s an Alan Ayckbourn play in there, if not a novel.
I digress. I do the curtain-twitchy thing, realising too late that I probably ought to hide the bottle of white port in my hand. (I was putting it away. Writer juice is not for daytime.) The nice chap in latex gloves informs me there was a break-in, and they suspected the intruder was still on the premises. As he spoke, a large police van and a car of police dogs pulled up. Shit just got real, as they say.
Now, I can imagine what goes through most normal people’s heads if they’re told this. This is what went through mine…
– THIS IS AMAZING I’M LITERALLY IN AN ACTION FILM AND THERE WILL BE AN IMMINENT POLICE SHOOTOUT
– Oh god, what if the teenage son was so sad because nobody noticed him and I never offered to play footy with him or let him play our XBox, and he’s snapped completely?
– That novel I just finished hasn’t escaped, has it? Because my angsty teenage miscreant quota is kind of full right now.
I carefully considered these options, before saying ‘I didn’t see anything, even though I was up till 3am writing
adverb upon tortured adverb something important’, assuring him I’d set our alarm, and trudging indoors. I watched the stakeout to the tune of BA’s hold music while I tried to change the name on my flight, as mutually unintelligible accents clashed, tempers frayed and the call-centre person learned some new swear words. See, we do learn from our characters sometimes.
Ah well. I have a lovely party to look forward to in that there bustling metropolis. I won’t spend it talking about my novel, propping my eyes open or weeping into a large glass of plonk. Nope.