Aaaaaand we’re done.

How’d you do? I didn’t do so well myself. I couldn’t get over that 35k block fast enough (or indeed, at all), and when I looked around last week for the motivation to persevere, I just couldn’t find it. What I’d built so far felt so disconnected, it may as well have been 9 chapters from 5 different novels. It didn’t seem worth continuing just to prove that I could do it. So I didn’t.

But!

I did write over 31,000 words this month, which is considerable and much more than I’ve written in quite a while. While I’m not considering this a “win” by any means, it’s definitely progress, and at the end of the day, taking a step forward with your writing, no matter if it’s a thousand words or fifty thousand, is really what it’s all about.

So welcome to December! It’s time for chores and books and other writing projects you’ve been neglecting for the last 30 days!

Doing NaNoWriMo this year? There’s no need to do it alone. Come buddy up with the deceptionists and all your podcast listening friends. Comment to this post with your NaNo Username or a link to your profile. I’ll come back in and update the list as I find time amid all the things I’m doing to distract myself from my 1667/day word count goals :)

I’ll even put up some fancy widgets once they come online. If you’d rather not see your word count on the leaderboard, just let me know and I’ll take you off. LIkewise, if you’ve buddied up with me and I haven’t added you to this list, don’t take it personally. I’m just dense. Shoot me an email or a tweet and I’ll get you added.

Have a great November and may the word count be ever in your favor!

The Deceptionists:
Kelly
Jim (who is probably doing it, but doesn’t want to be all public about it)
Dave?
(Caroline is sitting this one out, but still using the month to focus on writing goals)

The Peanut Gallery:
Mizzelle
CeeKayEll/Chris
(Special Guest Star) Sigrid
WeaklyRoll/Kyle
Shaun

On the upcoming Deceptionists episode, I talk about Sparrow & Crowe: The Demoniac of Los Angeles, which is an original comic book miniseries by me, Jeremy Rogers, and artist Jared Souza. It’s currently in production with Hermes Press, and it’s set to debut in Spring 2012.

The book is an occult mystery centered around the possessed daughter of a Los Angeles mob boss. The story mixes crime noir with pulpy horror, as occult detective Doctor Xander Crowe and his assistant Sparrow find themselves caught between Hell and the mob, facing Crowe’s greatest failure… and worst enemy.

This is a creator-owned venture, and the comics market is a tricky one. So, to that end, we’ve launched a Kickstarter project to help us raise money for costs associated with the production and marketing of our comic book.

Click here to visit our Kickstarter site!

Click here to visit our Sparrow & Crowe comic website!

If you’re curious about our characters, they are two of the main protagonists from my audio drama, Wormwood: A Serialized Mystery, which ran from 2007-2010 — and is still available on iTunes. Visit wormwoodshow.com for more information.

Fuzzy Typewriter proudly presents The Deceptionists: Truth through Fiction!

In this episode Caroline, Kelly and Jim are joined by writer/editor Sigrid Ellis to discuss writing historical fiction. Also: Sigrid shows her work!

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:

English Curse by Frank Turner
Ring of Fire by Social Distortion

And here’s some additional information and links with work from our special guest, Sigrid Ellis:

Sigrid’s blog: http://sigridellis.wordpress.com/

Sigrid’s short story, “No Return Address”: http://strangehorizons.com/2010/20101129/return-f.shtml

Whedonistas, a book Sigrid contributed to: http://madnorwegian.com/19/books/whedonistas-a-celebration-of-the-worlds-of-joss-whedon-by-the-women-who-love-them/

Below is the “short story” I wrote in response to the Crime prompt I received back in April and read badly on the most recent podcast. It really is more like the beginning of something than all of something, but I still liked it enough to make it seem worth sharing.

Cloudy with a Chance of MURDER

“Chip” Chapman opened his bleary eyes at the sound of the maid’s shrieks and—after several seconds too many—got around to realizing that he was wet.

The splash as he bolted upright informed him that he was more than just wet, in fact: until a second ago, Chip had been submerged up to his shoulders sound asleep in the hot tub of the Marriott Courtyard hotel. As his temples throbbed with hot agony and the maid continued trying to give him a heart attack, his eyes darted haphazardly around the courtyard and he struggled desperately to pinpoint the last thing he remembered.

It had all started in the hotel bar. Chip and his cameraman, Bill, had met downstairs for a few badly needed drinks after trying to cover the Overland Park Tornado for News Channel 7 and barely escaping with their lives. Going into meteorology, Chip had always seen himself spending his days staring at radar readings in a cushy office chair and spending his nights standing in front of a green screen, telling Kansas City whether it would be wise to bring a sweater to work. He’d never factored in those early years of his career, the years when he’d be the low man on the local news totem pole. He had a master’s degree in atmospheric physics, but until the chief weatherman got a better gig or retired, he would be the storm chasing shlub whose job was to take a camera out in the blizzard so people would know it was snowing outside. That night, this glamorous job had nearly gotten him impaled by a “No Parking” sign on live TV. This had rattled Bill a bit and rattled Chip a whole hell of a lot. “A few drinks” quickly became “quite a few drinks,” which became “telling the bartender to leave the bottle,” which apparently became “blacking out in a tepid hot tub.”

The chill of the air conditioning informed Chip that he was naked. His suit, tie, and telegenic yellow rain slicker were folded neatly on a lounge chair by the pool. At least he’d had that much sense.

Chip looked down. The opaque water was the color of rust. Across from him in the water sat Bill, his tongue bulging from his bloated, plum-colored face. Bill’s shocked, bug-eyed expression was no doubt due in large part to the red, studded dog collar buckled tightly around his windpipe.

This was an awful lot to take in all at once. Chip hurtled out of the water like it had been electrified.

“Wait wait wait! Hang on! It’s okay, it’s okay!” he called after the poor middle-aged maid, who had promptly abandoned her cart and bolted down the corridor upon taking in Chip’s nude, apparently bloodstained body. He meant his words to be reassuring, but they came out more like frantic screams.

He was starting to remember some kind of tussle after the bartender cut them off. Had they fought? Had they not fought? Had they actually started getting along very well indeed? And where the hell did Bill get a dog collar in the middle of a tornado? Was that just something he had on him at all times? Just in case?

One clear thought penetrated Chip’s mental fog: once the maid ran into someone or remembered she had a cell phone, his life would be coming to a spectacular end.

His eyes dashed from Bill to the lounge chair and back again, and he made a snap decision: he had worked too hard to lose his freedom and reputation over something he didn’t even remember doing. If he even did it at all! He was covered in cuts and bruises; for all he knew, that was his blood circulating through the jets.

Chip decided not to think about that for the time being.

He looked up. It was clear from the dark gray skylight that it was not yet dawn. Assuming Bill wasn’t as heavy as he looked, there was still a chance to get him out of there before anyone else happened by and recognized them. He just hoped to God that the keys to the news van were still in Bill’s pocket. Figuring out what had happened could wait until the Marriott was distant in the rearview mirror.

By midday, Chip would be back on Channel 7, only this time they would be filming him on the freeway from a helicopter.