write novel

I hope that I’ll write my first novel in my free time .
I always said I will write my novel .
in fact , I only write a few . (my friends always laugh at this)
so I hope I can reach this plan in my high school times .

sucks. I should start smaller, like a short story.

I hate my story!!! NEXT IDEA!!!

Suddenly I remembered something incredibly important—I reached into my pocket, felt the damp leather cover and sticky pages. My still-soggy and rather smelly Manifesto. Quickly, with nervous, darting fingertips I pried it open to a random page. All the pages seemed glued together, as if the book held some embarrassing secret that it wished to hide from me. One glance, and I knew its secret—it was naked! The words. Were. GONE.
All that was left were the shadows and ghosts of my thoughts, completely indecipherable, completely washed away from me forever. A stabbing sadness caught me in the throat. I had lived, and my Work had died. Maybe it was silly and stupid and nonsense, but it was something that was really and undeniably mine. I felt so sad. Han Solo without his Chewy. And yet… my curiosity about this weird uncharted isle… it’s not called Utonia, that was a hallucination… it’s probably somewhere I’ve heard of… Martha’s Vineyard…
(Apparently my thought process was still a bit cloudy.)
“Hey!” I whisper-shouted at the sleeping girl. Finau didn’t move. I picked up an acorn and threw it at her, but it lost momentum by the time it reached her, and rolled off into the brush.
Hmph. I don’t need to wake her up. I need to find out where I am, I thought, stood up and stretched. I was hungry. Famished. And oddly enough, incredibly thirsty. My lips felt puckered and cracked from the salt water and sun. My face throbbed with sunburn. I didn’t have any chapstick in my pockets. But all of that mundanity would have to wait—I looked around, stepping as quietly as I could through the briars and bushes that carpeted this forest. The air was cool, even chilly, and slightly damp, like an old cellar. There were tall sinuous trees with branches raised towards the sky, with tufts of leaves blossoming an impossibly bright green. With every footstep came the crackle of twigs and dried leaves. Then! I saw a serene face peering at me from far away!
“Hello?” I said.
No reply. I walked closer, only to find that it was a stone face, oddly empty of all emotion, covered in

All I’ve got so far.

CHAPTER 1.
Myrna dies

I drove to the beach that September day with the express purpose of ending my life.
My car, a dark blue Civic, coughed and sputtered and clanked into park. I got out, as gracefully as I could, and tried not to catch a glimpse of myself in any reflective surface—I wanted to imagine myself looking resolute, feminine and beautiful, with flowing hair and a glowing complexion, with thin, compact arms and torso. Unfortunately, there was another car in the parking lot—one with a much better paint job than mine, and without the layers and layers of grime—and I saw a forest-green fun-house version of myself, stout and sallow, with greasy hair, puffy visage, dark rings under my eyes, and a dour expression. I wished that, on the day of my death, I didn’t look such a mess.
I hadn’t talked to anyone in a month. Coworkers at the office would tiptoe past my cubicle, would email any communication. My family? I had finally, finally moved out about four months ago, and I’m pretty sure those were tears of relief on my parents’ faces. Not that I cared in the slightest. I felt nothing.
I checked my back pocket—it was still there, my notebook filled completely with my disjointed philosophical musings. Sometimes a page would have one sprawling phrase on it, one that had long lost all significance other than the beauty of the words themselves: “ALCHEMY OF ANDROGYNY”, for instance. “Petula Clark with secret sorrow.” But other pages were crammed full of miserly handwriting, hardly spaces between words, describing perfect societies, describing humanity’s ills, man-hating, woman-hating, corporation-hating. Sometimes I would describe the necessity of governmental control over the dumb masses, and other times I would wax eloquent on the joys of natural anarchy.
Even though my notebook, my Manifesto, hardly made any sense, I loved it, invalid as it was. I considered leaving it on full display in my apartment, a suicide note/ instant bestseller for the investigators to find and for my parents to publish. But I needed it. My life work would have to disappear into the ocean’s depths with my life itself.
Sitting in my apartment the night before, eating potato chips on the sofa/my bed until the inside of my mouth felt raw and tender, I watched a TV adaptation of The Awakening. I was moved by it- more than I would by reading the book, probably; my senses had been dulled that much. Well I was shocked to find I had any emotion left at all. I was still young, still impressionable. And I understood Edna Pontillier better than Kate Chopin probably did, I thought. She was preserving herself by killing herself.
And I decided I wanted to do the same thing, the same way. No one would know that it was the TV movie and not the book that got me—all they would see was my poignant literary reference.
Plus, I didn’t want to go back to work. I had overtime, and I usually worked about 60-70 hours a week, collecting a disgusting paycheck every friday. 60 hours and I was feeling incredibly burnt out, and yet life on the third floor fourth door right hand side of the Colonial Apartments in my coastal Maine town was even more monotonous. I couldn’t sleep, and the few fitful hours of rest I had, I didn’t dream. It was death-sleep.
Standing idly in the dusty parking lot, pulse racing, I checked my pocket for the umpteenth time for my Manifesto, and then my hand autonomously drew itself to my throat, fingering the necklace I wore. Like seemingly everything I owned, it was in tatters. Hanging from a time-eaten leather band was an old piece of stained glass I had bought from a tag sale years ago. It was of a red apple, bitten or cut open, yellow-fleshed with two symmetrical teardrop seeds. I never really regarded it much; it wasn’t a family heirloom or anything. In fact, when I had lived at home, my mother had tried on various occasions to convince me to throw it away. “You don’t look professional, Myrna,” she would tell me. “You’re not a child anymore, you have to start acting your age. You shouldn’t have to rely on silly things to identify yourself, you’re not in high school, you know.”
Little did she know that it was not just a pendant, not just an old salvaged piece of garbage, but would become the keystone to my admittedly fragile identity. But then, I hadn’t the slightest notion of its significance as I walked towards the shore, and what I considered certain death. I took my shoes off, and shoved my tattered socks into the hole of the right shoe. I laid my work ID badge in the other shoe. I didn’t want to die with that embarrassing picture clamped to my pants pocket. What an unattractive photo, I thought absently, giving a final glance at the laminated mug shot I wore 60 hours a week.

The Atlantic was frigid. I gave out a yelp the second my skin touched water, feeling a sudden jolt of adrenaline. But strangely, I welcomed the influx of feeling and treaded forth, until I was up to my waist. After a few gasping minutes, I was passably accustomed to the temperature and swimming, swimming towards the foggy horizon. I swam for what seemed like hours, thinking about stupid things like snide comments I overheard my coworkers make about me- something about a walrus, which I found very offensive, although maybe they were talking about someone or something else,actually. I looked back, and couldn’t see the shoreline at all, but strangely I wasn’t feeling exhausted—more invigorated than anything else. Frustrating. I had hoped that I would die quickly, painlessly, my eyes fluttering shut and my body going limp, unconscious, as I peacefully floated down to the bottom of the ocean.
I glanced at the sky and wondered when it had changed from seaglass blue to the dour grey curtain that was now suspended above me. In moments, raindrops began to patter onto the waves, and the distant roll of thunder sounded, far behind me. I couldn’t help but feel an irrational fear that the storm would worsen, that I would be struck by lightening—irrational because of the specific goal of this particular outing. To die. I tried to gulp back the worry, and continued doggy-paddling through the endless Atlantic Ocean. The rain fell steadier and CRASH! the sky flashed with lightening. The waves were much worse, towering hills of cold water. I couldn’t feel my feet. Then, another flash of light, a sonic-boom CRACK-CRASH, and jolting, ticklish pain through every molecule of my being. I lost consciousness, noting proudly that this was, indeed, an exciting death to a boring, pointless life.

CHAPTER 2

The whisper of water hitting soft sand, and the tickle of the tide playing with my toes awoke me. I opened an eye. Blue sky, water noises. Had I lived? Had I wimped out, and simply dreamt my battle with the thunder and lightning and mammoth waves? I opened my other eye. More sky, and a blurry periphery of treetops. I sat up, my clothing crusty with seasalt and my face uncomfortably warm. Sunburned?
I was on a beach—that much was clear, by the sand and the fat seagull who looked at me with suspicion. There were tall reeds and small flowers growing sparsely, and a thickening forest behind me.
I tried to banish the sudden suspicion that I had reached some tropical afterlife. nonono, I told myself. This must be some strange island a few miles off the coast of Maine. I must have just washed ashore.

I was wrong. And I was about to find-
“Who are you?”
This voice came seemingly out of nowhere. However, craning my head around, I saw a girl emerging from the dusty thickets. She had a harsh voice that crackled and growled, but she had on such a pretty, frilly dress that I was immediately put at ease.
Rather than respond to her question, I stared blankly at her as she approached, watching the doily lace of her hem bounce with each step. I noticed she also wore pretty white stockings that gradated to a soft dirty brown to muddy umber as I lowered my gaze to her feet. Her shoes, which looked to me ill-suited for any terrain that wasn’t carpet, were covered in a thick crust of mud, their small, blunt heels almost imperceptible.
Soon she was right there, right in front of me. She squatted down and stared into my eyes.
“Can you talk?” Again, with strange, coarse intonation.
“Yes,” I managed. The truth is I was so achey and exhausted that sitting up was a great effort for me, and explaining myself fully to this strange creature seemed like a wishful luxury. “Where… am I?”
She looked taken aback. Her dusty eyes squinted and her loud red hair shifted in the breeze. She took out a notepad suddenly, a movement that made me dizzy and nauseous. She produced a pen from seemingly nowhere, out of that long mane of unkempt hair, and scribbled something into it. This didn’t seem strange to me, as I had decided that I was dreaming a silly, fun dream and may as well enjoy it at face value.
“Who was the first queen of Utonia?” she quizzed me.
I gave her a blank stare. “What does that even mean? What’s… Utonia?”
She shook her head dismissively. “What is the significance of… a cornish hen?”
I laughed weakly. Apparently that was not the answer she was looking for, and she looked flustered and angry.
“Fine. One last question, though it really won’t prove you’re her. Because who hasn’t heard of the stained-glass apple? You could be any vagabond… wearing admittedly strange, otherworldly clothing-”
Stained-glass apple? I touched my necklace. “Wait, you mean like this?” I asked. I held out the pendant, with its rather silly, gaudy apple… and watched the girl’s face contort into a caricature of surprise.
“The Queen!” she breathed, and she suddenly sounded infinitely less pissy.
I looked around groggily. “Where?”
“You’ve finally arrived. I knew they were doing it wrong. Come with me!” She stood up quickly, pulled back her shoulders to a jaunty tilt, and held out a pale,slim-fingered hand. I hesitatingly took her hand, questioning her sanity.
“I just never expected you to be so fat!” she said matter-of-factly, as she helped me up to me feet, where I wobbled unsteadily.
“How rude. I… really don’t know how to take that,” I muttered. “Who are you, anyway?”
“My name is Finau, and I am a renowned Utonian scholar. Or—I was. I will be again. Once I show them… once I expose them..!” And she began talking heatedly and passionately about things completely outside of my comprehension. Chancellors, some strange Russian-sounding guy named Rovjak, etc. And she did not attempt to explain to me what she meant by all these strange terms. I gathered that I was in ‘The Kingdom of Utonia’ but really, I can’t much remember what was said as we briskly walked through those woods. My legs followed her, but my eyesight and hearing seemed to be filtered through a long, dark tunnel. I remember us stopping, and Finau dragging me over to a bed of leaves.

I woke up the next morning much more cognizant than I had been the day before. Finau was still asleep, sprawled boyishly on a thickly mossy stone. Had we slept without protection in these woods? How charming.

I have started. I will finish it before school starts again. Write a bit a day.
I will write this fantasy novel, not go around looking for newer, better ideas. why? because it’s better than writing nothing at all.

here’s what I’ve written today—sorry, it’s not the beginning.

I opened an eye. Blue sky, water noises. Had I lived? Had I wimped out, and simply dreamt my battle with the thunder and lightening and mammoth waves? I opened my other eye. More sky, and a blurry periphery of treetops. I sat up, my clothing crusty with seasalt and my face uncomfortably warm. Sunburned?
I was on a beach—that much was clear, by the sand and the fat seagull who looked at me with suspicion. There were tall reeds and small flowers growing sparsely, and a thickening forest behind me.
I tried to banish the sudden suspicion that I had reached some tropical afterlife.

I’ll keep it up, post any new parts, :)

my tutor is going to help me! yay. i really trust him. he said he will read and help me to finish my novel. eventhough he is making one himself now, but he said he still want to help me. awwww thank you very much sir!
i just printed it all, two plots, with two draft each. i’m going to send it through my friend because i can’t get into his place,
now i’m chatting with my bestbud, lets call her Dee, and she supports me! aw, it really really makes me happy. i always embarrassed telling this to anybody. i don’t know why. eventhough i know my friend and family will and always support me, i just don’t feel comfortable telling them , like ’ i want to write novel.’

i have finally finished my plots. and i actually made two plots, two stories. I don’t know which one i want to do it first, sometimes i like both of them and sometimes i hate both of them.

i have started to do this, but awww i’m stuck. somehow there’s so many things i wanna write and i can’t decide which one i want to write first. mixed up. uuuh stress.