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In September, we threw down a Gauntlet consisting of nine increasingly murderous prompts. You responded in kind by writing SEVENTY-SIX ENTRIES, traumatising your judges and freaking out onlookers. Better still; no less than seven of you finished all nine challenges in a timely manner.
(This is a strong incentive for your friendly neighbourhood mastermind to make any following Gauntlets even more challenging, somehow - maybe the next prompts need to be completed whilst balancing an egg on the tip of your nose? All options are on the table.)


Judging all the entries was an exciting affair, and lordy how the results pay testament to that. Behold the rankings in ascending order, brave Gauntleteers:

Dragonix, the Tall
StettafireZero, the True
cecegrace, the Knight of the Flowers
MalurusLeafia, the Titan's Bastard
squanpie, the Queen of Thorns
WindySilver Giantsbane
GDeyke, the Mountain
OneWithTheStars the Slayer
Tobaeus, the Sword of the Morning
Zara-Arletis Stormborn
... In THIRD PLACE, SCFrankles, the Princess That Was Promised and who shall receive:
in SECOND PLACE, Oreramar, the Queen in the North, soon expected to claim:
and by a nose-length in FIRST PLACE, ThornyEnglishRose, First of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Mother of Dragons as well as:


Name of Image

We have set aside a SPECIAL MENTION for GDeyke as well, because of how their high-quality entries charmed the powers that be enough to outrank even some of the competitors with more entries to their name. Our eyes glaze with longing for what could have happened if more entries had been completed. Therefore, we think it is appropriate for them to be awared:


This concludes the Gauntlet; take pride in partaking, because even if not everyone saw it through with the same number of appendages before as after, at least you looked the beast in the eye and said,
'Not today'. I applaud you all.

Game Of Thrones Icon Game Of Thrones Icon Game Of Thrones Icon 

Copious thanks to all donators and to my sorely abused judges The-Monoblos, brennennn and ObsydianDreamer, for making this possible. You guys rock!





October 2017 Lit DD Roundup

Fri Nov 3, 2017, 9:53 PM
Congrats to all who got one! Keep reading, suggesting, and supporting each other!

:icondoughboycafe: Features by doughboycafe

The Osterhase PlotThe most senior nobleman in the land and the reclusive and renowned alchemist for the court of Prussia gazed into the distance at their disgusting peasant kingdom.
The fields had been flooded with a week of February rain torrents, leaving once-lush green spring fields a barren brown molasses. This surely wouldn't help the kingdom's attempts to quash the rebellion.
The alchemist turned to the nobleman in confusion.
"Sire, you do realize that I am an alchemist, not a magician? What purpose could I possibly serve in taking care of this uprising?"
"It is by order of the prince that I sought you. We are, quite frankly, out of ideas and His Highness thought that you would have the...enlightenment and knowledge necessary to aid our cause."
The alchemist chose to interpret the nobleman's indifference as flattery and looked out over the hills again, lost in rumination.
It's no wonder that we have been fighting for almost a year now, he thought. Those peasants are workers of the l
30.05.17: a bicycle haibuni am peddling, though without any real urgency. it is thirty minutes from mechelen to duffel, and while there is a back-lit grey deck overhead, it is still the coolest day in over a week. the scenery will alternate, twice, between dorp and hoeve on my ride; more cusp-ish fades than any hard and fast terminators. i feel as if i have been holding my breath (bodymindsoul) for weeks, and am only now exhaling and filling the spaces with holy mana.
tall grass bobs,
aspens flash jazz-hands;
breeze sings rain.
Hail Mary“Time for confession," she says,
From the balcony, her teal
night gown splashing
against a green plastic chair.
the ocean breathing behind;
the stars asleep under
Charcoal blanket of clouds.
The freckles on her thighs looked
Like a night sky negative; now
they look like Flecks of shell
still stuck to her body.
she digs a finger into
her bed hair tangles, Teasing 
the knots loose. In the moonlight
her fingers kick like crab legs.
Tug and stop, she looks out to sea.
The blinking lights of a barge
Attract her and she slides the
Screen door closed, "forgive me.
I have sinned." Her hair coils around 
her throat in the wind
"You touched me like seaweed, cold,
and unfriendly, the way the ocean
becomes ominous the longer you
show it your back.”
“I had to keep you in my line
Of sight, to remember you are human."
She looks at me and I am
Out at sea with the turtles in
The current and I feel my forehead
Rivet and my lips weld, and her eyes turn
Yellow in the lamp
Sharp Right, Swerve LeftYou won't think it at first.
It starts with his charm. It starts when you comment on his stupid hat and he smirks more than smiles as he asks you if you'd like to share your opinion on another one of his hats some time.
Somehow that smirk comes out less condescending than it should be and more like he doesn’t know how to smile easy. The way he turns his body to face you instead of pretending to hear you might make you feel a little special, but you only give a half smile and tilt your chin back enough to invite him forward.
---
By the time you're on the splintering back steps a few weeks later, you might have a suspicion he'd be a bit more trouble than you have any business asking for. So when he tells you he's trying to fuck the girl moving in next door, that's relief you feel flicker in your chest.
The cigarette he spots you tastes like it was rolled for you even if you only smoke to have something to do when everyone else steps out. You remember to ask what brand he smokes for
the abandoned and overgrownact i
the no trespassing signs declare this strip of land impassable, somewhere that can never be known.
you duck under the rusty barbed wire fence effortlessly.
the sticker-bushes throw their hands out in greeting, snagging your clothes & sketching blood on your
hands.    
your camera beats your chest with every step.
sneakers slipping, crunching; head looking either way for witnesses.
the hunt, the thrill of finding something no one's seen in so long.
act ii
you walk in & the walls bend back, shivering glass.
some ghost notes your name & fills in the blanks.
your camera flashes & you see yourself reflected in every shard, over & over.
act iii
ivy wrapping around a wrist, skin growing sad & blue.
this house makes you hurt; your eyes mirror the melancholy in the windows.
you put the camera to your eye & you could swear that the walls are weeping.
the flash lights &
In God's Parlor RoomThe creak of the church door was a familiar sound—it was common, normal, entirely expected when one practically lived in the house of God as Father James did. And when the tapping came he saw no reason to turn, no reason to look upon this joiner; after all, he had heard the same many taps from the many heels the many mothers wore when they visited.
But the taps did not stop at the first row of the pew. They did not stop at the midway point either, where Mrs. Davis sat, nor did the heels stop their rhythmic tapping when they reached the front. Father James even heard his coworker, Father Anthony, shuffle closer to himself and away from the tapping. Blinking, eyebrows furrowed at his colleague's behavior, the Father turned. At the bottom of the steps that lead to the speaker's podium stood a young woman.
The last to notice her, Father James put down the bibles he had been organizing and walked the same path she had. He nodded to Mrs. Davis, her unknown thoughts filled with disdain
Of All the Places in the UniverseShe was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. She did not smile, but she did not curse him. Instead, she pitied him.
She was seven when she decided to put her faith in rain clouds and the safety that the elderly lady on Oak Street offered once a week. She decided that there is no blinding light inside her, but there was still love in other people. She saw it whenever her buttons passed from her
Falling Asleep on the Late Trainthe lights move
yellow along
the curves
of your face
soft voices
wait
in the rising
fall of your chest
briefly our shoulders
touch
in sleep
your hand
flutters like
a dying bird
an elegy in birdsong.Attic apartment, birds nesting between roof-tiles, I hear them scratch and I hear them cry. The rustle of their mother’s wings, the quiet sounds of sacrifice and hunger, these pink-fleshed chicks inherit their parent’s strength and swallow it down with clacking beaks, I hear the slow devour of motherhood, the gentle expansion of growing wings sprouting feathers.
My bed-sheets awash with haze, outside the city shivers in the winter air and gathers itself into suits, newspapers, morning commutes, polite conversation and I watch the sun catch my ceiling with unblinking stares, prying its way across the room, frothing up tidal at the edges of my bed and always stopping short. Shadows turn to grey and I listen to the birds feed, the birds cry, the birds quivering with hunger that runs deeper than stomachs. Somewhere, far from the dull ache of my head, the weight of my ribs, my stomach sinks with quicksand slowness, swallowing up every ounce of stale atmosphere, black hole rippli
Travel: An AnthologyWalla Walla, WA
The first step, a new horizon
Will not unmeet my shy eye.
It stalks me but will not blink back.
The river running underneath
Downtown,
And trinket shops
Succumbing to sunset hues.
It's like arriving on a friend's doorstep,
And taking the guest room;
Drinking wine,
And letting the simple
Things
Make a simpler man out of you.
Atlanta, GA
Sometimes in the absence of sleep,
The colors of love look different;
And in trying to define them,
Comes the madness.
Sometimes in the absence of love,
The feelings of pleasure feel hollow;
And in trying to refine them,
Sows the sadness.
Sometimes in a solitary place
You can see the pulsing
Of past promises, making
Honest indentations
In the sheets.
And sometimes in hotel lights
It's like you can see
Yourself
Inch closer to a dream,
But it's harder, still, to sleep.
Charleston, SC
No home-grown souls, and mud-thick air
Welcomes the travelling bones.
You come once, and see hope,
Come again and wish you weren't there.
a thousand lilac garlandsYour spine is a ladder, and she
braided it with flower crowns.
Her pressed-lace fingers coil tight
in the wet tangle of stems
as she climbs higher, kissing
the smooth bone with her toes.
She knew the only way
to your heart was through your mind,
but it's a mighty high ledge to reach
and her delicate palms just kept -
slipping.
So she braided your spine
with flower crowns to
keep her grounded, even as she
shinnied into the clouds.
Word War     Brian meant to lose the game, though he knew Dad wanted him to win. He often won, but he didn't want to now. Brian was twelve and tired of playing kids in his group, mostly girls. Tall, clear-eyed girls, awkward, and much more competitive than Brian. He won anyway.  
     "Are you studying the OSPD?" Dad said.
     They were going to the auditorium.
     "Of course," Brian said.
     He lied.
     Though he held the book, he'd gutted the 'Official Scrabble Players Dictionary' so it held the slimmest Gibson book he had. A few clean pages of word lists stayed, in case Dad looked.
     Brian wore glasses, used big words and got called a 'geek' by other kids.
     Dad called his glasses 'spectacles.'
     Not a good Scrabble word. Only three letters coun



:iconbeccajs: Features by BeccaJS


FFM Retroactive 20 - Dishonourable ThievesEveryone tells the rich little ladies to stay in after dark, or they’ll get mugged. No one tells me though, and I’d ignore them anyhow. Muggers have the best stuff to nick.
I knew one was following me long before his hand landed on my shoulder. He squelched as he walked – sure sign of a sewer rat, that. I nodded his way, stretched my face into a grin. He didn’t say owt. Sure sign of a thieving sewer rat, that.
“Yer money, y’little beggar,” he grunted, the smell of booze on his breath halfway welcome when the rest of him stank of shit and rancid sweat.
“Aw, too bad mate, I’m clean,” I piped back, brushing my fringe back to show off my eyes: brass, glass and broken as a curfew on Saturday nights. “’Sides, ye wouldn’t hit a blind girl, now would ya?”
He might’a growled at me, he might not. I felt fer an’ found his purse, made of claggy fur and smeared with god knows what. I fiddled with the tie
FoggyThere are beasts in the fog.
They howl and scream
and charge so close to you
that you can see the expression
on the faces of their captives--
horrified and terrified and electric--
so close that they move your 
hair as they rush by you,
racing away from the mass
still on the road: the roaring,
screaming clash of steel flesh
and fiery blood and smoking feet.
You, yourself, just escaped 
a beast of your own as it
flung you from the path, 
spinning off into the fog
before coming to a guttering halt.
You knew about the other beasts,
but you were so pumped up on 
adrenaline, panic, and relief--
all at the same time, like an
entire dinner drunk from a blender--
that you just needed to escape your own,
stepping out into the uncertainty and danger
without recognizing it.
Now you recognize it, as this latest 
bright-eyed monster whips by you,
its captive screaming silently
behind its massive, transparent
third eye; the beast's luminescent
innards washing their face with
'nothing' is a raptor*** Listen to me read this piece:  
When I tell you "it's nothing" you usually hear:
the clouds are dark
and rough like elephant skin
and I'm caught up
in the folds of an ear,
tangled and desperate for relief
but unsure how to flip myself an escape.
You usually hear:
the world is still turning 
on its axis 
and I am left breathless, breaking....
broken in more ways than I can count on my hands,
broken in more ways than I can put a name to,
broken in more ways than I can ever explain.
It's not that simple, really.
Really, "nothing" is a raptor
dragging furrows down my sides,
screaming unintelligible.
"nothing" is horseshoes and handgrenades
in my chest
and the only difference between them
is the size of the crater they leave
after touch down.
"nothing" is a snapdragon
teeth latched in tender skin
tugging at the hidden heart of me...
begging, taunting,
bleeding me out because my gasp goes unheard
in the chaos and "nothing" is a parched throat
clogged with all the utterance
Nymphaea“There’s no time,” the young woman with the blue eyelids says sharply, “take this and run.” She stretches out a hand with a lotus blossom growing from the center of its palm. Its petals are a warm, glowing pink against the coppery brown of her skin, and it is so very achingly part of her.
Arguments and protests rise and die on my lips. “Thank you,” I say instead, reach out and pluck the flower from within her. Her body folds in, limbs crumpling with the shock of it, and the plumes of smoke spread further over the sky.
I take her advice too. Cupping the lotus in my own trembling fingers, I run.

“Try-po-pho-bi-a,” explains the blonde sitting across the table from me, winding her ankles around one of mine, making me shiver in my skirt. “Like, that thing where people hate seeing dots close together. Like lotus pods photoshopped onto skin.”
“I like lotus pods,” I say, smiling. “Side
FFM July 3, 2017 - ArithmomaniaThe UPS truck made a beep-beep-beep sound as it backed up Maude's driveway. She'd gone out to meet him and advised him that it was easier to back in than out, as her house lay at the bottom of a rather steep hill. Now she stood in sight of the driver's side-view mirror, giving expert directions with her arms. He had many obstacles to circumnavigate, from her carefully laid flower benches to the tasteful little statues, a bird-bath, and a row of little faux-torches - and she would not have a single one of them so much as touched. Neither would she allow the delivery man to park anywhere further away. "We do not have all day." She'd said to more than one unwilling trucker. "And there are far too many boxes for you to carry all the way down."
Usually, the UPS truckers assumed they were being sent to some warehouse or sports arena. None of them were ever prepared for the quaint little house, up in the hill overlooking the city, not far from where that one actress lives who was famous for t
Eclectic InspirationSoothing blue waves coming and going on golden sand. 
Twilight painting the sky, the clouds illuminated. 
The soft whisper of a book's pages. 
Flames dancing, flickering as they lick the air. 
Bright leaves running on a breeze. 
A quick ghost of a touch, leaving shivers. 
Clouded eyes, mind far away, dreaming. 
Fire in the heart and hope in the soul. 
Sheltered blossoms blooming. 
Raindrops pitter-pattering, a lullaby in the night. 
Flowing ripples, distorting light. 
Feet tapping, an endless rhythm. 
Puffs of white drifting across the sky. 
Freefall, heart-stopping adrenaline. 
Sunlight cutting through fog, through mist. 
Salty tears falling, coursing a path. 
Boundless energy, running and skipping. 
The soft swish of fabric, sighing and rustling. 
True inspiration. 
Eclectic.
playing the hard Abelard in the game of hearts.I.
I fold, cold, cards rough to my fingers.
the bitter and brittle fear rising like vomit
in my throat, coating me in a mist of mysteries.
histories echoing with every doubt, case out.
road kill in the still morning air, food for fortune.
instinct blinking out with final thready heartbeats.
II.
at a distance puppets dance mad and sad,
our taint restrains tensions tested to wrest
incidental assumptions now made mad
as they burrow deeper to at length best
well-wrought defense, made of memories won
in games of chance with cards cut from our flesh
to bear barter for hearts in grimmest fun
mocking our marks, wagers we can refresh
from the seeming endless Tantalus purses
we hide, inside, to bide time for the tell
presumed in eyes that lie out of curses
ancient as an holy scripture, God’s spell
cast in castrations of divinity
as we take hemlock from necessity.
III.
the shadows dance because the fire does
and so do we
and our chaotic nature does not permit us
vision of all elements at on
TabernacleI found Priest in the tabernacle playing the very opposite of holy. We were drawn to each other, both aware that we had tried a different sort of thrill than the undulating bodies crowding around us. If they had even read of it, they would have dismissed it as nothing more than science fiction. Looking around me proved that suspicion. The whole crowd were junkies high on drugs or on rumors of vampires, sex and a death far more permanent than la petit mort.
They were seeking their host. He was right there, invisible in the midst of them looking down at me from above, eyes flashing unnaturally. Motionless I watched him. When he beckoned to me, I moved, joining the undulating crowd, keeping my eyes locked with his and letting the crowd think life continued to be normal and any electricity that crackled through the air was simple chemistry.
We communicated wordlessly as he watched, finally making an impatient motion for me to join him. Nodding in acknowledgment I made my way to him losing


:iconakrasiel: Features by akrasiel


demonlogy          remember remember
                       the whispers of november -
                     but wait, this isn't a revolution
                                it's not even a rebellion
                           your white flag doesn't drop anything but morale
                                           the one man army of nothing
              staggered steps and dried tongues,
                       cracked lips begging for Legion
                 
Rose and the CompassRose held the compass in her hand,
She did not know this foreign land,
She’d walked so far, she could not stand,
Where was that man? Where was that man?
And in the distance – silhouettes,
She panicked, feeling quick regret
But she was weary, soiled and wet,
The figures met, the figures met.
Her body trembled as the sky
Changed drastically before her eyes,
No warning ‘fore the blackest night,
“Can I still fight?” “Can I still fight?”
A pap’ry cloth was placed in hand
With subtle grains of soil and sand,
“What is this?” Rose did so demand,
“It is the plan”, “It is the plan”
“Please carry these towards the seas”
“And when you hear the wind’s howl cease”
“Just place it in the cockle’s key”
“Then leave it be”, “Then leave it be”
She stumbled, staggered to the beach
And soon she came to seashell’s breech,
The cloth fragmented once i
Temperance in the ReversedAbigail Wash had seen the mafia push a beat-up Model T into the lake. And she had told the town about it for five days. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe her; it was that they didn’t know what she wanted them to do about it. She would insist on pulling the car from the lake and her daddy said he only needed a few good men to help with the wrenching. But no few good men wanted to know what the mafia didn’t want them to know.
Men cut from a less moral cloth told Abigail to keep silent. And after those five days, she fell silent on the topic of the car. Although for the next six years until her daddy lost the house she could be found gossiping with the other school girls or baby talking that mutt of hers, it would go down in local folk lore that the mafia cut out her tongue.
For five days the car was the topic of the town. After five days, they laid the topic to rest in a shallow grave. And it stayed there for the next ten years. Some government project was intere
There Was a Time (Rondeau Prime)There Was a Time
14-07-17
There was a time, once long ago,
When I was paid to kill many a man.
I roamed throughout deserted lands,
Collecting gold and jewels as pay –
Many a time was spent wasting away
While I watched the gun within my hands –
There was a time.
It's said you reap what it is you sow,
And I reaped rewards from clueless clans,
Whose necessities drowned in time's last sands
As they diced with whether to stay or go;
There was a time.
ConstellationsI am trying to connect the dots
like the first storyteller,
mad for a conspiracy in the constellations
to explain our separateness.
Naming shapes that can never know mine
or my shapely geometry,
but still I make the lines and dream the reasons.
The origin of MILKMAN!
Our story begins, as many do, with a young boy being hit by a van.
Jim Heckinthwaite was but eight tender years of age when he was struck a glancing blow by a speeding Ford Transit. Said van was fleeing a bank robbery in York when it knocked young Jim for six. When Jim woke up, what did he see but his favourite superhero, Mr Fission, rounding up the bank robbers with the power of an unshielded nuclear reactor? On that day, Jim knew that he had to dedicate his life to fighting for Truth, Justice, and for some unfathomable reason, the home delivery of dairy products. As soon as he had himself decontaminated.
    For years to come, Jim trained his body to the peak of physical fitness through vigorous PE classes at school. If we’re honest, this peak wasn’t a very tall peak. Barely a hillock in fact. But that lack of ability did not hold him back in the slightest. For example, there was that nasty incident when he drank a gallon of toxic waste in an attempt to get
CurtainI resurfaced,
the taste of salt and rare coins in my mouth.
I moved upward
like a swimmer
and kissed you properly so I might not
be alone.
The streetlight poured silver down your chest
through the open window
and your hair
sank pale and fragrant
into the edges of my vision
in the dark.
I could not see your eyes
so much as sense them,
as if they were familiar stones on a path I only walk
when I am in love.
I watched the curtain swaying nearby,
numb and ornate and rhythmic,
now and then touching your shoulder
the way I used to wish I could.
It moved like a sleeve
just before a hand emerges,
restless yet un-alive,
prophesying in half-gestures.
It swung lynched and moonlit
over the windowsill,
bloodless and ignored,
so easily burnt, so quickly harmed.
I slipped so deep
into the curtain’s wakelessness
that I sucked in a sharp blade
of air
when you clutched
at its folds.
You held me with your eyes,
questioning.
I shook my head
so near yours that our lips brushed—
not yet,
 
Nocturne IIThe dust and bones of our father's father's
ghostly beneath our footsteps. Our city
gone beneath cinder. Always the injured
allure of dawnbreak beneath falsity
of darkness. And, yet, still, we face the war
while watching onward our god chained in sky.
And, yet, still, powerless, we arrive sworn
to the wilds. We gather all our light,
pooling, ghostly beautiful, reticent.
The dust and bones of our fathers once held
the way through the black wood, magnificent
in its bridge, its golden trusses, its weld.
We shall travel to meadows where all warmth
cannot be made lesser. Brothers, sisters, to arms.
Hansel and Gretel in the Wasteland    The ruins of the city loomed over them like a dead forest. Everywhere Hansel and Gretel looked they saw charred husks and crumbling facades. More than one person had attempted to scavenge supplies from this maze of decay. None of them had ever come back.
    “It’s hopeless,” Hansel said without taking his eyes off the skyline. “We should search elsewhere.”
    “Go, then.” Gretel hefted her pack and shifted her feet. She didn’t want to go in there alone, but she wasn’t about to let him know that. “I bet I’ll find a treasure trove in there. If you leave, I won’t share it, and you’ll have to stay banished until you do find something.”
    Now he did glare at her, but he didn’t argue the point. The world used to be a kinder place, but now it was about surviving, and to survive, you needed to prove you were useful. No free rides. Not even for family.
  &
my father a king, my lover a genius, i a foolmy heart belongs to 
men whose bodies have
long been cold beneath the earth,
who took their last breath many a
century ago. 
i find myself, when i am
alone late at night
without another soul around,
praying to a king i 
never knew. 
i wish for his guidance,
his approval,
his praise. 
when i whisper his name,
it tastes like blood and iron and
paternal. 
my kingly father is warm,
stern, reflective, everything i
had hoped my
flesh and blood father
could've been. 
i find long lost lovers in
the pages of biographies.
they reach out to me -
calling my name, 
grabbing hold of my clothes
to drag me down to them
in between the pages.
each one of them is
divine. 
they have the stars in
their eyes and
marble in their bones. 
i am awestruck time and
time again by their beauty.
they are everything a
more lively lover
could not be.
they've had experiences,
won battles,
shaped nations.
they never cease to
amaze me. 
everyday i find myself
falling
grandeurfrom the pouring water, we drew
               thoughts
concepts, usually pastoral,
plucked grandly from their scenery
and stowed in confines like
these.                you know,
there was something odd
about that invention. what’d
we call it?                sublime.
that thought-absent feeling from
the foot of a mountain we sought
to capture, the feeling we imagined
normal people already had.
He Has His Father's EyesThere were two things my father never talked about. My mother, and how he had lost both his eyes. Whenever I would inquire, he’d keep doing whatever he was doing, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. This happened a few times, and eventually, I gave up. All my life, as far as I could remember, my father had raised me and my mother had been out of the picture. I never knew if she was dead or if they had simply gotten divorced. My dad would never tell me. So, I wondered in silence.
       On my 18th birthday, my father had for once let me sleep in, which was something he would otherwise never do. There was always something to be done around the house, groceries to be purchased, china to polish. He kept busy and made me do the same. On that day, however, I was wide awake and had a slight tingling in my belly, knowing that from this day on, I was no longer a child.
       My father barely looked up when I entered the kitchen.


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NaNoWriMo Resource Journal 2017

Tue Oct 31, 2017, 1:23 PM
NaNoWriMo can be difficult and exhausting. This is a short compilation of things that can help you keep your head on straight in November.

Time & environment management tools


You are busy. Your life is full of obligations, activities, social needs. Fitting writing in can be a challenge when you have so much to do, so here are a few pieces of advice from someone who works from home:
  1. Keep your environment clean. If you don't, you will find yourself exponentially more distracted and stressed.
  2. Keep your time well managed. If you don't, you will find you don't know what time you have to do what and you will inevitably forget to do something important.
In order to help you with these, here's a list of tools for you. Pick and choose the ones you think are relevant to you.

  1. Unfuck Your Habitat. “Terrifying motivation for lazy people with messy homes.” But it’s so much more than that. Yes, it involves some yelling and swearing. But, it’s about motivation, and support, and accountability.It sets realistic cleaning goals and checklists for you that will help you keep your home and workspace at a baseline of organized.
  2. Rescue Time. If you have doubts that you are using your time wisely, this app will send you weekly reports to indicate your time thieves. You may be shocked to discover how much time you are wasting.
  3. Remember The Milk. If you are struggling to manage everything you have to do and you work with many different devices, this app is for you. It is a great free tool which is compatible with your mobile, computer, gmail, outlook, etc. It helps you to manage your tasks easily and reminds you of them wherever you are.
  4. Focus Booster. This app is based on the principles of the pomodoro technique for individuals who procrastinate and feel overwhelmed by tasks. It is designed to enhance your focus and remove any anxiety you might have with time.
  5. Dropbox. Please dear god back up your files and make them accessible to yourself wherever you might need to retrieve them.

NaNoWriMo tools


Now that you know when you can write and your dishes are done and your laundry is folded, time to actually get writing. There are a few motivational tools that can really help you with this, especially for when you get stuck.

  1. Nanowrimo.org. The first of course being the website itself. Sign up for it. Make friends. Track your wordcount. It really will help you get to the finish line, and it's free.
  2. NaNo Widgets. These little html codes will show trackers that you can post on facebook, DA, whatever. And you can even post face offs against friends.
  3. Written? Kitten. It's very simple. If you write 100 words, you get a picture of a kitten as a reward. Everybody wins.


Go on, you can do it!



NaNoWriMo 2017!

Tue Oct 31, 2017, 1:18 PM

It is National Novel Writing Month!


  •  What's that? You don't know what NaNoWriMo is? 

On November 1, participants begin working towards the goal of writing a 50,000-word novel by 11:59 PM on November 30.

Valuing enthusiasm, determination, and a deadline, NaNoWriMo is for anyone who has ever thought about writing a novel.

For more info visit www.nanowrimo.org !!


Nnnnow, for our return friends...

Alright so you have decided to take on this beast. Congratulations. We’ve got a lot of words to write,
so let’s get started!

Even for an old hand at this, 1,667 words a day can be daunting (especially in dreaded week 3), even more so for a newcomer. But don’t worry, you can do it. I’m here to give you a few pointers and wave my pom poms around for you.

                        72d10-tumblr Static Tumblr Maoaubjog61re1a3so1 500 by doughboycafe

 

First, here’s a few things to keep in mind:

  • Remember that NaNoWriMo isn’t a traditional contest. You are competing against yourself, and no one else. If you don’t finish, you haven’t failed. 25k words is 25k more of this book than you had before.
  •  You probably want to have an account on NaNoWriMo.org  - they have fun widgets and forums to help you along, as well as weekly newsletters and encouragement during the event.
  • Winning gets you 50% off Scrivener. Cool!


And now a few pieces of advice:

  • If you do get stymied, don’t let it get you down.  Write yourself a little note in the beginning as to why you are writing this book. Look at it when you need the reminder, it will help you keep going. There is an ebb and flow to this event, so just keep trucking and you will feel your mood lift before long.
  • Do make an outline, however sketchy, just to have an overarching idea of how your book will go.
  • Also make a schedule for yourself so you know when you can carve out writing time. It will be a relief just to know that time is already set aside for you, even if it is only an hour here and there.
  • If the spirit moves you to write ahead, and a scene is really flowing, do it. There will be days where you are under count or just can’t write at all due to having a life. A buffer will definitely not hurt you.
  • You do need to write when you can, even if it is only a few hundred words. Towards the end of the second week things often get hard and people get stymied. But you’ll need to push through it.
  • And remember to use the community as a support network, either here at CRLiterature or at nanowrimo.org . The point is we are doing this together.


Even if it seems almost impossible to get this done, you can. Plenty of people do. So don’t worry about over-editing which might bog you down, and don’t worry about publishing, or what to do after, or anything like that. This is a draft. Once you have it, you can go through all the post writing steps. But you need to have it first, so that’s what you are going to do this month.

 

Check in with us here on this journal and in no more than 5 lines tell us about your NaNoWriMo project!



Recent Journal Entries

Sunday support chat for NaNoWriMo in 10 minutes; now up to day 19! 

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1 deviant said More word wars & another opportunity to talk up your project! - chat.deviantart.com/chat/CRLit…
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1 deviant said Only two weeks left though, so let's get writing! - nanowrimo.org