Friday, November 2, 2012

NaNoWriMo Time, Bitches!

November is National Novel Writing Month, known better as NaNoWriMo. I gave it a shot last year and by "gave it a shot" I mean I set up my page on their official site and proceeded to write not a single word.

This year, however, is different. Yesterday was Day 1 and I dropped 1,774 words. Yeah. Like a boss. I'm doing it this year, dammit. The tentative title is Hannibal Preston & the Adventures of the Six Gun Wizard. Probably won't stick, but who knows. And in case you noticed it's the name of this blog, there's a reason. I've been thinking about this novel for the past four years and I'm just now getting down to the process of writing it.

NaNoWriMo was a big factor in my hitting the laptop and finally telling the story, but another was attending a book signing by Heather Brewer this week. You can read about that event in the next week or two over at Walrus Publishing, but suffice it to say, it was inspiring. We share a very similar past and upbringing and something just clicked.

So I'm doing this. NaNoWriMo is the beginning. This novel is getting written. I have given myself a deadline of Jan. 1, 2015 to get it published. Gonna. Fucking. Happen.

Here's the opening of Hannibal Preston.

Hannibal held a wand in one hand, a smoking pistol in the other as a wizard lie dead at his feet.

Hannibal was fucked.

Perhaps “wizard” isn’t the most accurate description of the man on the floor with a brand new hole in his head just above the left eye. “Charlatan” would be a generous term. “Asshole” would be closer to the truth and more in line with the thoughts racing through Hannibal’s mind as he heard the rumble of the so-called magician’s loyal, albeit mislead, followers.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As Hannibal is barricading the door, preparing for the arrival of several pissed-off, recently-made-leaderless minions, we’ll go back to the beginning, a time before our protagonist was the recipient of the murderous rage of a small city. In the beginning, Hannibal was only loathed by a few. To their credit, though, they had years of practice.