My adventures with the Novelling November

Guest article by Fanni Sütő

Although I like to think of myself as a girl of many virtues, I am also painfully aware of my shortcomings, for example; my questionable driving skills, my messiness and my impatience and lack of long term determination. While the first two flaws don't really interfere with my writing the last one can make life quite tough for an aspiring novelist. The reason why I participated in the Nanowrimo, the national writing month is because I wanted to prove myself that there was no curse sitting on me and if I really wanted to, I could work on the same story for a whole month.

There are many people who frown upon this international writing endeavour; the anti-Nano fraction sees the writing month as a ridiculous attempt to make a fast (= necessarily hasty and bad quality) progress in one's novel. They see the Nanowrimo as a big playground of naive writers who don't yet know that a “real writer” has to pamper a novel for years to make it enjoyable. There is, of course truth in what they say but we mustn't forget that November is the month of the actual penning or typing down of the tale itself. We had the whole year to ponder about our novel, plan a complicated plot, fill out character sheets, make Youtube playlists for writing and Pinterest boards for inspirations. My own poor characters first appeared in my thoughts around April but until November they were roaming in my head, staggering around like zombies. I think they are grateful for the Nano and me too. Who would want to have half-ready, untamed creatures wondering around in their heads?

Relief by Damon King

empty waiting room

Kelvin made sure to masturbate before he left the house. He had overheard his older brother recommending such precaution to friends. Michael was always talking about ‘hand relief’ and advised to ‘never go out with a loaded gun’—a method of preventing premature ejaculation and prolonging his sexual encounters on Friday and Saturday nights. But it was eight o’clock on a Tuesday morning, and sixteen-year-old Kelvin was not heading to a nightclub.

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Excepting Leap Years by Michelle Bailat-Jones


When they were young a windstorm blew a photograph off the desk and down behind the dresser in their bedroom. Today, when they are old, when they are packing and clearing away the house, they find it covered in dust, faded. 

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