So every year I attempt NaNoWriMo. That’s the National Novel Writing Month, held every November as amateur scribes the world over attempt to write a 50,000 word epic in just 30 days, midnight November 1st to midnight November 30th. Quality doesn’t matter; quantity does. The purpose: get people writing that never would, and give them a deadline to motivate them. They can always edit it later.
My first year of trying was 2002, when I was impressed with my ability to fire off 10,000 words before I gave up about nine days in. The next three years…we don’t discuss.
Last year, though, I had a good idea coming in and planned ahead, leading to a word count of 21,467 before I gave up.
This begs the question: should I continue? I’ve been looking over it and editing a bit, and I know where the story’s going and how it ends (I even have some of the end written, though it’s rough.) My problem is the quantity over quality part; it has to be good for me to want to continue. And being my worst critic and not an avid reader, I haven’t a clue how good it is.
So I’m posting the first thousand words here. If time permits, please read, and comment.
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Lost Highway movie download Just a year prior, Tony had first stopped to read the sign along new Highway 51. Passing it a million times heading to and from Carbondale, he never thought much about stopping to partake. After all, he knew the history of that place better than those who erected the marker to honor it. The Winchester Farm predated the town itself and watched for decades from atop its towering hill to the east as the trees surrounding it fell and the village crept towards it, slowly encroaching on the property’s borders. Finally, about a decade back, the highway was realigned and businesses started to migrate east, and what were once open fields and the sparse remnants of forests made way for pavement and bustling subdivisions, a stark contrast to the lush green orchards passed down through the Winchester family tree.
Tony realized that it was almost a year to the day since he’d finally taken the time to gaze at the Centennial Farm sign posted by the state to honor the years of history that had unfolded on the land. Countless generations farmed the earth, driving the economy of the fertile soil known as Little Egypt and fueling the rapid growth of the land trapped between the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. Transportation and industry built up around this and the myriad other farms, and migrant workers moved in and out of the county, some eventually becoming full-fledged locals. In an area of the country that devoted a majority of its acreage to producing corn and soybeans, this land’s little niche of fruits and vegetables set it apart and gave the locals pride. The Winchester farm stood for decades as the holotype.
Now it was Wal-Mart’s to play with.
Makeshift dirt lanes were once all that led traffic from the new highway into the peach fields that lined central Union County, but the construction companies had already started to lay down far sturdier piles of rock for the machinery. Not three months before the ancient farmhouse had stood tall, rotting away but still noble in its role as a landmark guarding the east entrance to Shawneetown. Rumors circulated throughout the village for months: the Winchesters are selling their land to out-of-towners; their kids don’t care about their community or its history. Wal-Mart’s coming to put downtown out of business. We might as well all move to Carbondale.
Now rumors were truth.
Not three months ago the backhoes came like a thief in the middle of the night, crushing the sixty-year-old residence into rubble in a matter of hours. Residents awoke in the morning to find a pile of rubble, idling machinery, and an Illinois Centennial Farm sign that had been accidentally knocked on its side, an appropriate symbol of the sudden event. The Winchester kids had been too ashamed to destroy their family’s home in the daylight, choosing instead the coward’s way as they counted their money in Chicago.
By noon, someone had taken the Centennial Farm sign, spray painted a red “X” on it, and sat it by the door of City Hall. A pointless protest, Tony thought. What’s done is done.
This was the day the community had been approaching with both dread and anticipation – the day that the Mayor and the Chamber of Commerce would finally stop the secrets and backroom dealings and pass the expected death sentence onto the core of Shawneetown’s business district. Tony figured this might be the day that future generations could say the already crumbling town ceased to exist.
This was something he had to see in person.
The stones of the newly laid – no, make that lazily thrown down – rock lanes leading onto the Winchester property flew out from under his truck tires as Tony pulled off of Highway 51. The turnout was stark; the local radio station sent a reporter, as did the town’s newspaper and the regional broadsheet from Carbondale. Other than that, it was just the usual morally corrupt suspects straining to pat themselves on their backs: Mayor Alexander, his friends on the city council, a couple brave souls from the Chamber of Commerce, and of course several representatives from Wal-Mart here to revel in the conquer and begin the war for the hearts and minds of the community, as if the residents really had a choice in the matter.
Tony heard it referred to as a “rally” and a “celebration” on the radio the day before, but it looked to be nothing more than a well-staged press conference, if not a full-fledged brainwashing session. A crudely printed banner stretched behind the podium confirming the poorly kept secret: “Shawneetown Welcomes Wal-Mart to Union County.” As if this was something to celebrate, he muttered silently to himself, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the front of the truck.
“I’d like to welcome all of you who came out on this wonderful day, as we begin the renaissance of our great community! As you all probably know by now, we are very happy to welcome the newest members of our happy village, our friends at Wal-Mart!” The mayor’s grin slipped upon hearing the muted, scattered applause, as if he expected the ten or fifteen people to somehow erupt magically into an uproarious explosion of joy. “Everyone…” he searched for the right word, desperate to impress the Wal-Mart big wigs. “Everyone here is delighted to expand our city, adding not only this great shopping destination but a number of other great, new stores, making Shawneetown the jewel of Southern Illinois and shopping destination for miles around!” Perhaps three people clapped on that one.
Tony tossed his keys in the air momentarily as he slid back towards the truck’s door; his several minutes there had been enough to let the reality sink in. This misguided tool, elected four years prior on his daddy’s legacy and the success of his inherited tractor dealership, was taking the town in the direction he thought was best: outside commercial expansion, industry, modernization, or whatever corporate buzzword could best describe a sterile cesspool indistinguishable from the next town over. Something utterly unoriginal and uninspiring. Enough to drive apathy into the hearts of its children.
It was just something Tony figured he would have to learn to live with.
