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NaNoWriMo Update

I'm at 7273 words as of 10pm tonight. I'm still a little behind, but managed to write a lot more than I thought I would. Especially considering that Mikey is sick and has been waking up a lot last night and tonight. I really want to be caught up by next week, I might talk the husband into letting me toddle off somewhere, sans l'enfant, to do some writing this weekend.

The story is really starting to write itself though. I have trouble with dialogue, it always sounds so ridiculously fake when I write it. But that's something that can be cleaned up post-November. For a story starting with no real plot, I've surprised myself with the way my main character has led me and what she's gotten herself into so far.

For those who are remotely interested, I wrote a kind of synopsis for it tonight. Drumroll Please.

Shadow Box

     My name is Danielle, but you don't need to remember that, it's not really all that important in the scheme of things. When I was nine years old, I was given a shadow box. It used to belong to my grandfather and his father before him. The frame was a dark wood and parts of it were beginning to crack with wear. Under the glass were 6 dead moths, neatly spaced and pinned to the black backing, with their Latin names written in scrawled handwriting on small, faded pieces of paper attached underneath each moth.

     I had to sell the shadow box eventually, it was the only thing I had left that was worth anything and I was in trouble. Alex bought it back from the guy I'd sold it to and left it outside my apartment a few nights later, wrapped in gaudy paper, for me to find. I didn't want it as a gift from him, I couldn't accept anything from him or I'd end up like one of those moths. Lovingly placed under the glass and neatly pinned to the backing.

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I am a 24 year old British stay at home mother to a two year old boy. Married to a U.S. soldier and currently living in Germany.

I have seen the Vatican from the very top of St Peter's Basilica, the mud in the World War I trenches outside Ypres. I have walked through Montmartre side streets bustling with people in the evening, gotten lost in the streets of Greenwich Village NYC, run through cornfields on the Welsh border and sat outside with a cup of tea watching fireflies in the fields of the outer Chicago suburbs.

I have held the hands of others through addiction, fear, suicide, despair and come out the other side. I have left everything behind to begin anew.
I have fought mental illness and walked through snow in the mountains of the lake district, England. I have explored the morgue in the bowels of an abandoned hospital on a summer evening, climbed to the top of scaffolding on the outside of a five floor warehouse to look at the city lights of Nottingham at night and I have watched the sun setting on the Texas horizon.

I have held my son's tiny hand through the plastic window on an isolette in the NICU ward. Walked, speaking only in whispers, through the catacombs beneath the ground on the outskirts of Rome and seen the fireworks over Heidelberg castle.

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