Womblin’s World

I am reading eight (count ‘em) EIGHT drafts as well as writing my own novel for National Novel Writing Month. Good thing I don’t have to critique them too, or add detailed comments about why I am enjoying them so much — I do like to sleep a little bit of a night time.

This year is the first time I’ve attempted NaNo, and while it’s really for those who haven’t yet written a novel, I felt I needed to boost my raw-draft output having concentrated on editing for much of the last twelve months. There isn’t much of this year left to go, you see, and because I have written, without fail, one full novel every year since 2002, I was getting a little nervous about 2007’s effort.

Anyway, Great Aunt Ida’s Revenge (a weird mainstream story, sorry horror folk) was drafted in a little over six weeks last year, so I’ve decided to step away from Llanvale, my fictional horror setting, and draft a quick and dirty sequel before the year’s end. Enter Stanley, my hapless teen, as he contemplates life without some much-needed nooky.

Excerpt
Great Aunt Ida’s Impossible Return

I own a condom called Tim. He’s been in my wallet now for one year, five months, fourteen days and around about ten or eleven hours. Not too sure about the minutes though (I’m not that anal). He’s nothing special really, neither ribbed nor bumpy with no tiny packets of tingly goo to make the experience extra special, nor does he taste or smell of aniseed or strawberry (as far as I know). He’s just a normal straight up and down kind of guy with no frills. Come to think about it, Tim’s probably the most boring prophylactic in the entire universe. But I love him. I bloody must do because I just can’t give him up. He sits in my wallet, day after day in the dark, living in hope of being allowed his leave, of discharging his god-given destiny, while I live in terror of exactly the same.

Gawd, Natalie.

While I checked out the kitchen cupboards for food, I decided I’d call around her house later on that day. I’d come clean and just admit to being a little nervous about the whole thing. She’d take pity on me, surely, then leave me alone for a bit in the nooky department. Perhaps I could appease her by asking her to help redecorate mum and Uncle Mick’s bedroom in the house. She could choose the colours. Yeah, she’d like that. Women did.

Breakfast turned out to be a cup of tea, a dubious looking banana from the fridge, and was disturbed by a couple of Uncle Mick’s ex-colleagues who looked more shifty that any pair of criminals I’d ever seen as they stood on the doorstep. They wanted to know if I knew anything about the grave robbery. I said no, I’d been away. They asked if I knew anyone who’d want to upset our family. I said yes. Two pairs of eyebrows shot up and two pairs of eyes beneath gleamed with a blood-lust I’d only ever seen in the eyes of Mick when he was after me with Doris, his peacekeeper truncheon type-thing.

“Who?” the stouter of the two wanted to know.

“Oh, just about any criminal put away by my uncle over the last twenty years,” I told him.

The eyebrows dropped down to sit back at-ready and the pair tried hard to hide their disappointment. “Ah well…yes. If you hear of anything?”

I nodded. “Yup.”

“Thanks, son.”

I sighed. “No problem.”

I shut the door and went to check my email. There was one from Pete, nothing from Nat. I sighed again and opened Pete’s message.

“DUDE!” God, he even wrote that way too. “I’m BACK in HELL (ThisTown) for a couple of weeks before going off to WAIT FOR IT………. CARNEGIE HALL in MANHATTAN at a teaching event thing in the recital hall. Shit, Stan-me-man, my balls are busting for this. I’m on my waaaaaaaaaaaaay……..!”