In 2006, I attempted NaNo. Ultimately, the attempt resoundingly failed, but that’s not particularly important anymore.
What is still important is this: The attempt gave me one of my absolute favourite muses. ♥
It wasn’t supposed to, of course — just like my other favourite muse, this one here is a bleeding attention whore. And just like the other muse, he was only supposed to be spotlighted for a couple of paragraphs, a simple extra.
Which, of course, somehow promptly translated into “YAY I’M TAKING OVER THE ENTIRE THING HOORAY HI.”
I’ve long since given up arguing with my brain, and the things that float about in it. So take it over he did. With his own epic quest for crossdresser-tastic gay porn that actually had nothing whatsoever to do with the novel proper.
And typically, I never did get rid of him, after that.
The story itself flopped as a NaNoWriMo, and I’m still unsure as to what of it I will be able to salvage, but bloody hell I’ve still got Winnie.
And I suppose this one little snippet will serve as well as anything to illustrate why:
“I wanna party hat! We all need party hats! Who here has a party hat?”
When no party hats were immediately produced for him and his friends, Winnie pushed his chair back and stood, grabbing onto Faye’s ponytail for support. “I said, WHO HERE HAS A PARTY HAT? WE’RE IN DIRE NEED OF PARTY HATS OVER HERE, YOU SOULLESS LUMP OF SODS!”
No one gave him a party hat. Instead, a bouncer gave him a warning that if he didn’t shut his mouth, he would have to leave.
Winnie burst into tears.
“I just wanted a bloody party hat!” he sobbed. “Because they’re fun, and I’m fun, and gay porn is fun, and we should be having a party, and we obviously need party hats for it! They’re trying to stifle my inner child!” He then had a passionate fit of wailing into a crumpled-up paper napkin.
Once the spasm of angst was over, his mascara had run all the way down his cheeks, but he had a furtive glint in his eyes that suggested he was ready to wage war against this grand injustice. And indeed, he wasted no time in springing back up to his feet, clutching that same napkin in his hand, and attempting to chuck it at the offending bouncer. (It only made it halfway across the table, and hit Con squarely in the forehead. Con didn’t notice, staring fixedly at the bubbles in his drink.)
“You’re killing my inner child!” he announced tragically, the back of one hand pressed to his forehead as if he were a lady about to swoon. When this statement didn’t get him the attention he felt that he deserved, he opted for a different tact. “BABY KILLERS!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Two minutes later he found himself sitting outside on the sidewalk, still without a paper hat.
And the actual point of this post, you ask?
Winnie has just reappeared, yet again.
A prompt for a litmag not only made him pop back into my brain, but taught me something I’d never before known: His birthname. (He’d always just been Winnie, to me.)
And, all in all, long story short…I just made my first proper writing submission to anything actually official. :)
And I’m not even nervous! Not because I think it’s some amazing piece of literature that will of course be published, but because, well, I have a very loud crossdresser muse in my head again, and he really rather drowns out everything else.
Priorities, indeed. ♥