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Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes

"Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets,
In midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure, a year in the life?"

Tuesday afternoon, November nineteenth, 2013. I found out that the biopsy results came back positive for invasive ductal carcinoma breast cancer.

A year ago today.

I went from being completely pinkwashed (as my twitter handle VictoryOverBC proves) to having arrangements to pay for my funeral expenses underway. 

I'm also further from death now than I was a year ago, with the tumors either quite tiny or gone altogether. There's still microscopic metastatic sites that don't show on scans, have been battered into submission by chemo, and are being suffocated by hormonal therapy.

I retired, I finished a novel, I had my best month ever with NaNo, I've made new friends, and lost some of them. I've helped people, I've moved to a new house, I've gotten married. I've discovered I like potato salad when it's made with sweet potatoes, I've met an oncologist I'm glad to have on my side in this.

I'm re-evaluating my language when it comes to cancer. I grew up, as so many do, thinking of cancer in terms of battle language. I grew up on Tour of Duty and Platoon and Aliens, I'm a fan of the military group in Fullmetal Alchemist, it was as natural as breathing to adopt the battle allegories as my own in the beginning.

But I'm starting to understand how busted that language is, the way so many aspects of our language are busted in terms of women's rights and rape culture and racism. Just because it's how things were always said or done is not a valid reason to continue them.

I'm not sure what language I want to adopt to replace the war mentality. Because on one hand, it is a fight. But when you have metastatic breast cancer, by that terminology, you're fighting a losing battle, or winning a Pyrrhic victory, with NED coming with CHF and neuropathy. And many times you don't even get NED.

It's a fight, and it is a battle. If that language is busted, I'm not in a place where I can divorce that from my life in cancerland yet. But I can see that dying is not losing the battle. Living each day is winning. Each day that I have won since my cancer diagnosis is a victory.

Each minute is a victory.

I have five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred victories against breast cancer under my belt, and I intend on getting far more than that. I don't lose. I don't quit. Dying isn't losing the battle. There has to be another bridge here, for the metastatic crowd. It's not a win-lose dichotomy. Like how gender is not as binary as male-female, victory isn't either. 

The system is busted. The language is busted. And neither embracing nor avoiding the battle language is quite the answer. But when you're used to looking at either black or white, it's hard to pick out the shade of gray that falls between. I'm trying to see it, and I'm trying to describe it, and not quite managing it.

I'm fighting for my life, and every day, I win. When I go, I still win, because it will still be on my terms. The only way I could "lose" is if something else happened, like an automobile accident. That's not on my terms. I can't fight that. If I can fight, I win. Victory is measured in light. In love. Not in the calendar location of a funeral.

"In five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes,
How do you figure
A last year on earth?

Figure in love.
Figure in love.
Figure in love.
Measure in love."

I did it.

I don't exactly know how, but I did it. I have done better in this year's NaNoWriMo than ever before. I mean, look at this:

 

I don't know how I pulled that one off. I really don't. I just know I sat down and started writing, and boom. Story exploded all over me.

I accidentally the whole thing in 5 days. I'm not done yet, though. I'm maybe - maybe - at the story's halfway point, and this is the first of three. 

My carrot dangling in front of me isn't just visions of an agent and a publisher (although I will admit that would be nice) but nursing school. Since my diagnosis, I have been so scattered, so fatigued, so unable to focus and finish anything that I can't risk an application because if I do get in and burn out, it would crush me. But, if I can stay focused to finish, not just one novel but three, not just the rough drafts but a polished finished version, then I can pull myself together enough to be serious about nursing.

In the meantime, I'm going to sit here and stare at myself and try to figure out how I averaged 10k a day, and I'll share a little bit of the raw material I produced during this time

======================================

     The sunrays coming through the trees increased in angle as the day wore on, and although William was tired, there seemed to be a degree of tension in the group that worried at his nerves. Suddenly his horse shied, tossing its head back and almost clipping him in the mouth, and a shrill, jabbering shriek came from somewhere to the east.

While William was trying to make certain his horse didn't bolt out from under him, Baeron and Jo were already nocking arrows, aiming in the direction of the shriek. The woods were as still as death, then he heard the noise again.

"What was that?" he heard Anna ask, her voice low.

"That was a bzoar," Roth replied. "That's how they communicate with their tribe."

"They're a ways off," Baeron said, though he didn't lower his arrow.

"They're not on the hunt right now. They sound different when they do. But be cautious, and keep a keen eye out for any movement in the woods. Don't be afraid to point out anything that looks suspicious," Roth said. "Try to make as little noise as possible."

The string of horses began to move again, although William noticed flecks of white, foamy sweat forming on his horse's shoulders and neck. It snorted, tossing its head more, the small pointed ears swiveling and always in motion. Baeron and Jo relaxed their bowstrings and lowered their aim slightly, but kept their arrows nocked.

The strain of the hard trail and the threat of bzoars wore everyone's nerves thin, but there was no arguing among the group as they all remained silent. The road was too steep and the horses too tired for them to move any faster than they did, and William watched the encroaching spread of evening from the east with a wary eye. He heard the bzoar's jabbering cries off and on throughout the afternoon, though it was hard to tell if they were any closer or not.

William glanced over his shoulder, and saw Tyzel had a battle axe ready in his hand, although it rested in a casual manner against his leg. He twisted back around in the saddle, and started to recite the spells he had been learning before the trip, practicing at drawing forth the energy. He stopped before the spell completed, and allowed the built-up energy to bleed off. He was told that it was similar to lifting heavy things to get physically stronger, and the exercise kept his mind off his nerves and on something he could use for defense.

The woods grew darker as evening arrived, and William anxiously waited for signs of a settlement up ahead so they could take shelter. Another jabbering shriek broke the quiet, and gooseflesh raised on his arms. That voice had been definitely closer.

While he looked around for signs of either danger or sanctuary, Baeron moved his arms enough for William to notice that Anna seemed to be wiping at her face a great deal. He caught himself before he could say her name, wanting her to look back at him, to see if she was crying, and say something to make her stop and feel better if she was. Instead, he tried to will her to look back, staring hard at the back of her head.

Anna did not seem to notice, but Baeron did, and looked behind him at William for a moment. Then Roth turned around a slight bit in his saddle, and looked at Anna briefly before putting his attention back on the woods. William bit back a noise of frustration at the apparent awareness of Anna's distress, and no one seemed to do anything to stop it.

He was so focused on Anna that the next shriek made him jump, almost causing his horse to bolt. There was another shriek, closer, the sound seeming to echo off the dark trees, and then further away, there was a howl that made his blood turn to slush.

William could feel his horse trembling underneath him, from either fatigue or fear but likely both. The white foam of sweat lathered on its neck seemed to glow in the dark when he wasn't looking at it, and faded away to obscurity when he tried to focus. Then the horse seemed to perk up and find a new burst of energy, and they all broke into a slow trot. The ground was not as steep as it had been, although it was still far from level.

Move quickly. Roth's voice in his mind startled him, he'd forgotten about the dragon's telepathy. Then he saw thin slats of dim light coming from shuttered windows. The buildings were smaller than he expected, after the last village, and while there were a number of dragon-sized buildings, he saw just as many, if not more, sized down for an elf.

Roth dismounted and everyone else followed suit, and Jo's horse reared a bit when another howl echoed through the woods. William staggered on shaky legs, leaning against his horse's sweaty shoulder for balance. The only noise was the shuffling of feet and the agitated snorting from the scared horses. Someone grabbed his arm, and William stumbled a bit as Tayani pulled him over to Anna, and then escorted the two of them to a doorway. She tried the latch then knocked hard, and William watched the others hurry to get the horses into a building across the road.

The door next to him opened, and a green-eyed older man eyed them suspiciously. "Get in," he said, looking past them to the others. "How many in your party?"

"Eight more," Tayani said. "Have you room?"

"Barely," the old man said as they passed. He kept the door open and watched, and William looked around, realizing they were in the tavern room of an inn. Several others were present, somber and grim-faced, watching in silent curiosity.

Just a bit of writing

Something was going on. Tyzel had barged in without knocking and located everyone before dragging a chair over to the door and settling in. But he insisted nothing was wrong, that Roth merely wanted him to pull some guard duty. William wasn't buying it. Not completely. James and Anna were in agreement, which did nothing for the latter's nerves.

"Tyzel, what is happening out there?" William asked for the umpteenth time.

The dragon shot him a dry look. "Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and expecting a different result?"

William sighed. "But I know you're hiding something. We all know you are. For the last time, what's going on?"

"I somehow doubt that's actually the last time," Tyzel said, watching him. "All I know is, Roth told me to get in here and watch you three. If there's something going on, he'll take care of it. So there's nothing to worry about. Therefore, nothing is wrong."

Posted via Blogaway

Resources for NaNoWriMo

This is a collection of writing tools and resources I've used this year for NaNoWriMo

Scrivener: http://literatureandlatte.com/

Zim Wiki: http://zim-wiki.org/

Map Creator Tutorial: http://calthyechild.deviantart.com/art/Fantasy-Map-TutorialxResources-258559867

Chaotic Shiny Generators: http://chaoticshiny.com/

Fantasy Name Generators: http://fantasynamegenerators.com/

Animal Groups: http://www.thealmightyguru.com/Pointless/AnimalGroups.html

Twitter: https://twitter.com/VictoryOverBC/status/529768543412568064

Doll Divine: http://www.dolldivine.com/hobbit-and-lotr-dress-up-game.php

SFWA Fantasy Worldbuilding Questions: http://www.sfwa.org/2009/08/fantasy-worldbuilding-questions/



Happy worldbuilding!

A Brief Introduction of Characters

Today, I'm posting a series of images, brief blurb cards for a hand-picked selection of characters, mostly main characters, but a few have important supporting roles. All character images were created using Azalea's Lord of the Rings Scene Maker from Doll Divine.

William was jolted awake by the carriage coming to an abrupt stop. He could hear nervous snorting and restless hooves, and the coachman's steadying voice. Beside him, Anna's fingers sought out his hand, gripping it tightly, and with eyes long-adjusted to the dim light, he could just barely make out James moving off the bench to retrieve the weapons stored below. Steel glinted dully in the meager light. A clatter of hooves came quickly up the road beside him, and William's fingers itched to draw back the leather flap and look outside.

"Stay here," he heard Roth tell the coachman. "We're not alone in these woods."

"Aye, sir."

For what seemed to be an eternity, it was quiet and still, save for the nervous snuffling of the horses, and the creak of the trees and carriage. Then from out to their left came a garbled scream that made the hair on the back of William's neck prickle. There was the ringing sound of steel striking steel, and low voices he couldn't quite understand. Brilliant light flashed around the edges of the window coverings as a spell was cast, followed immediately by the sound of wood shattering and the screaming groan of a trunk buckling, toppling through the branches of its neighbors, and the grating sound of bark on bark as it never quite hit the ground. The carriage lurched as the horses shied, and it felt as though the coachman was barely able to rein them in. He heard a terrified whinny coming from behind from the horse tied up behind the carriage, and the ring of its hooves striking the wooden walls as it reared.

Anna let go of his hand and he realized too late her intention, as she did what they all wanted to do, and peek out beyond the covering to see what was unfolding, to give an image to the frightful noises they heard.

"Anna, stop!" he hissed, moving up beside her. But he couldn't make her lower the curtain, for he too was intent on looking outside. James looked out the other one, and they watched as Roth, still on horseback and expertly handling the mount and a wicked looking sword, faced off with three men. Only one was on a horse, two were on foot and William couldn't tell if that was by design or if they had been unseated at an earlier point.

"The man on horseback is a mage," James whispered. "I've seen him before."

One of the men on foot lunged at Roth, slashing out with a jagged, curved blade that Roth parried while backing the horse away from it. That had the intended effect of forcing him away from the carriage, and the other man on foot bolted for it. As he grasped the handle, his eyes met William's, and a dark grin crept over the man's face.

Then Roth shouted, an arcane word in a guttural language he didn't know, and the man convulsed, frothy blood appearing from his mouth as he collapsed.

"So it is you," the mage said. "What manner of treasure lies within that carriage, I wonder."

"Back away, Mileil," Roth ordered. "You now know it is I, so you must know what I am capable of doing."

"So do you, Ashlor. And you can only do so much without sending the horses into a stampede of terror, which would jeopardize what's in there." He smiled. "I have no such concerns, however." He held up his hand, and a red glow quickly formed with a rushing noise of wind.

James swore and dove at them, although William wasn't certain how he hoped to protect them from the incoming fireball as it enveloped the carriage. He felt the hot rush of air, then nothing. The roaring flames suddenly dissipated, and the carriage lurched. He heard Roth shout a command he didn't catch, and then they were flying down the road, away from the fight.

And so begins November

Blogger is on West Coast time. When a post would be published at midnight, in reality, it was already 2 in the morning where I was.

It's 2am in Nebraska. Right now, I'm probably getting home. From midnight onward, I was writing at the Perkins on O Street, kicking off November.

It's National Novel Writing Month, or as it's more commonly known as, NaNoWriMo. The goal is to write a novel, 50k words or more, in 30 days. It's an exercise in turning off the inner editor, to hang up the hang-ups over whether or not that's the right word, obsessively editing what was written and pacing back and forth over the same ground without making any real progress toward the end. The editing, the polishing and proofing and ruthless cutting, that comes after the meat of the novel is produced. NaNoWriMo produces the meat. If you choose to cut it into something marketable, it's up to you.

NaNoWriMo has produced novels which, after polishing and cutting, went on to be published. NaNoWriMo has spawned ideas from the monthly projects, a tangent thread to follow, which in turn produces a novel fit for publication.

It's not a formula that works for everyone. Some people flounder instead of fly in the unbound freedom of it all. Not every novel, even if cut and polished, will be fit for publication. Very few novels actually face the wrath of an editing pen. It's a month of nonsense, a lesson in powering through writer's blocks, training in a habit of writing a little bit every single day.

All you need to stay on the goal is 1667 words a day. That will put you at 50,000 words by November 30th.

There's a novel idea I've been wanting to do for a while. The core elements, the basic plot. But I hadn't found quite the right setting, the perfect stage to make the characters shine. In 2013, I think I might have solved that problem.

In November 2013, I also received my breast cancer diagnosis. I was ahead of the projected word count, I was turning out easily 2,000 to 3,000 words a day. But the diagnosis derailed me. Hard.

I did some more writing in the spring, but not very much. I'd lost the motivation for fiction writing. My energy went instead into this blog, into a memoir which is still far from being where I can give it a final period.

I knew November would come around again. They changed the rules, a work in progress was now allowed as a novel entry, provided we started counting the word count at zero on November first, and only factored in the words we wrote through the month of November.

I'm picking the novel back up. It only has 30,000 words to it. A little more than that, actually, but not by much. I want to find my creative drive again. I want to get this story told, about the daughter of a necromancer, the science-minded son of a mage, a shadow dragon and his family.

If I can do this, if I can finish this novel without falling behind the curve (some allowance will be made over Thanksgiving as we're hosting it this year) then I will allow myself something else: the attempt to get into nursing school. If I can't keep up the energy and drive to stay ahead of the daily word count, to finish this novel, then I can't keep up with the demands of nursing school. If I want to go, I'll get this done.

So take a break from a month-long parade of anti-pink, and expect updates to be more sparse this month. What does come across this blog will very likely pertain to writing woes.

And in case you're a fellow NaNo'er, my pen name on the boards is Zanne Chaos.