Are you on a writing roll and you don’t want to stop because it’s built into your daily life? The problem is you need a way to keep track of your word count just like on Nano. This helps to keep you accountable as you see the stats of your daily word count progress. Hold onto your keyboards – problem solved! NaNoWriMo has just introduced Goal Trackers! I’m totally jumping up and down for this! Keep track of your goals just like we do during November Novel Month on NaNoWriMo. Go to ‘My NaNoWriMo’, then click on ‘Goal Trackers’. Create your title, timeline and word count goal. I have already started mine for December, it may be a lesser goal but still a goal of writing everyday.
YES! Made it through Read more
This poem was written by combining 5 random verbs (balance, fate, moan, peck, peep) with baking nouns (cupcake, flour, mixture, pan, sugar)
The mixture is all out of balance.
Don’t moan, don’t make a peep.
Because putting this all together isn’t an exact science;
you won’t end up with a pan of cupcakes.
Pecking at me won’t help either.
You get more flies with sugar, but ask yourself,
Who really wants flies?
You can screw up your face,
but it won’t turn flour into toast–
That sort of alchemy doesn’t work
and it won’t convince me, either.
It’s all nonsense, it’s all just chance;
throw it in the pan like a stir-fry
and see what we can get.
That mixture, even if it is out of balance,
could feed us for tonight, maybe
sate some of our hunger.
We’re left with the thirst, but we can sleep
tonight with full bellies
and aching limbs and longing hearts.
Out of balance doesn’t mean ruined.
A fallen souffle
a crumbling cake with runny frosting
bacon with just the edges burnt
Eat it. Don’t let it go to waste.
I would like to apologize for the the blank post,”Abusive Relationship”. I’m saddened by the loss of the poem, and it was actually a comedy piece, but, alas, it has dissipated as so many digital works.I would like to submit in its stead, this short piece. As always, thanks to our readers:)
The vague fuzziness became thought, and as Edgar felt the thought, he became conscious of himself. There was a golden warm light, and he felt a little cold. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t know he was Edgar, but consciousness now had him, and he felt cold, despite the warm air that was drying his wet skin.
Someone was standing over him, and there was sound now, but he did not understand. He didn’t remember that he had once worn glasses, and he didn’t know that he was naked. He simply knew that he was cold, and faced with such strangeness, he began to cry in long, wailing gasps.
Amy sat in the waiting room, across the desk, an attractive un-gender figure called West was scrolling through the forms that Amy had signed on the little screen. West nodded and slid the tablet back into its charger.
“Now you see, Miss Eden, your relative is cured from his illnesses, but he will need to come back twice a week. We usually suggest more, but the payment plan that was selected at the time that Mr. Eden was initiated only covers two. His integration into proper society will take longer than the optimal 6 weeks, as you have stated that you do not wish to enroll in any of our convenient payment plans We could safely say, “the un-gender paused while they looked down at a chart on their desk, “six months until he will be able to live alone.”
“Six months?!” Amy started. “I can’t have him living in my apartment for six months!”
West inclined their head. “I realize it is inconvenient, but, as your relative has to catch up on over two hundred years of scientific advances, history, and societal norms, well, he’s pretty much a child. For him to not have a guardian is not only unethical, it is illegal. Your family signed documents of responsibility when this contract was made. Until he is deemed acceptably integrated, you are his legal guardian.”
“Bloody Hell.” Amy said under her breath.
A heavyset nurse with large breasts came in the side door. “He’s awake!” She said, handing a tablet to the un-gender. “I hope you have informed your employer that you will need a few days off.” The nurse made a pouty face, “ The poor old boy is having a difficult adjustment.
Amy slumped even further into her chair as the open door let in a grown man’s child-like wail.
The fear provides a way out, right? A way to avoid everything. “I can’t.” What a fucking crock of shit. Of course you can. Tell it like it is: you’re afraid. You’re afraid to move forward, afraid to open yourself up. Match your fear with stubbornness, if not courage. You don’t have to be courageous. The brave are just as fearful as the rest of us, but they know how to handle it: they ignore it. At least for the time being.
You think all of those knights and dragons tales are interesting because the characters aren’t afraid? No, the knight that has to face down the dragon is shitting his pants right along with us, but he’s too stubborn to let it stop him. The real hero milks that fear–turns that overwhelming need to fucking curl up and cry into a sack of balls. Then he whips that goddamn dragon in the face with his balls
The asshole is the one who isn’t afraid. If you’re not afraid of change, you’re stupid, or you’re just not looking. Fear provides clarity. It’s good for you. It tells you–hey, maybe you step back a little bit from the ledge, huh? It keeps most people from jumping off buildings, which is good, right?
But when that same feeling presents itself when you’re at home, sitting in front of the TV? The only falling you’re doing tonight is maybe falling asleep. Why do you need all that fear? The one that sneaks up and sees you thinking about finishing that novel, or writing that song, or knitting that blanket, and says “nah. Don’t jump. Don’t do it.”
What the hell do you think is going to happen if you turn off the TV and just fucking tap on your computer keys for a few minutes? Is anyone going to die? No. No one is going to get hurt. But why are you afraid? Are you afraid of succeeding? So you sit there, on your stupid couch, your ass growing wider and the upholstery groaning under your weight (it wasn’t supposed to stand up to 8 hours straight of your fat ass sitting on it, you know that, right?), and all your dreams fucking prodding at you like demons. No fucking way. Get your ass in gear and start making something, or fucking give up the dream.
That’s the thing. Langston Hughes asked what would happen to the dream deferred, but it won’t dry up like a raisin. It grows thorns, and then falls into the toe of your shoe where you can’t get it out, it sits just beyond the reach of your fingers. You can touch the bristles, feel their sharp tips, but you can’t grasp it.
So every time you put on your shoes to go out and do something, to make something, to be something, it prods at you. That dream turns into a fear thorn that you can feel every time you move. The only way to get it out is to fucking realize your dream by absorbing it into yourself or cut it out. There is no in-between. There’s no halfway dreaming. It’ll make you crazy. No halfway courage. You can’t simultaneously hold your fears close to your heart and use them to slay the dragon. You’ve gotta let go of something. You choose.
Make that dream explode.
“Going back to what we were saying, before you so rudely interrupted me, tell me again why Skuzo is first on the door?” Amy asked, her feet propped up on the desk, her overpriced pumps crossed. She stared down Hank at his desk across the room.
“I told you, your money bought you into the business, but it was MY business. You wanted your name first, you should’ve started your own detective agency.”
He blew a cloud of cigarette smoke out the open window.”
Amy grabbed her chest in mock horror, her eyes wide, “It’s because I’m a woman! You, you, you-”
The phone on her desk rang.
“Little and Skuzo!” She answered, sticking out her tongue at Hank.
She listened intently, and then her face fell.
“No, thanks, not interested.”
She hung up the phone and sighed heavily.
“I’ve been here three hours, and this is worse than that time I temped at a pillow factory. I organized four years worth of files. And you know what it-”
The phone rang on Hank’s desk. He picked it up.
“Skuzo and Little.” He said.
He listened as the caller talked for a moment then he said,”Is your refrigerator running?” he paused, “Good, go fuck yourself.” He said, and he hung up the phone.
“Jesus.” Amy said. She had sat up in her chair. “That was a little harsh.”
“Yea, sorry.” Hank said, “It was some idiot.”
“What did they want?” Amy asked.
“Stupid thing about winning a vacation.” He said.
“Oh man, I hate those!” Amy said, putting her feet back up at her desk.
“What,” he said, “Vacations or telemarketers?”
“Fake Vacations.” she said, “You know, the ones that aren’t real.”
Hank’s brow furrowed as if the girl across the room was unfathomable, then he shrugged and leaned back in his seat.