So, I’ve been working on a ya contemporary called “Drift” for NaNo. Have to say, I think it’s coming along just dandy. Since I have no tips to share and my brain is awash in all things NaNo, I thought I’d share the first couple paragraphs of my WIP.
This is a NaNo draft, which means ugly phrasing and repetitive words, spelling errors and missing punctuation. Reader be advised.
(Okay. I hope it’s not THAT bad).
When your entire life’s a lie, you need one constant that’s true, even if it’s just your name.
I hate hating my life.
I flip open my track phone. It reads three am. Something woke me up–maybe it’s just the storm brewing in the west. More likely, it’s my well-honed instinct that I’m about to relive my worst nightmare.
I shove my blankets aside and stare out the open window at fields of wheat swaying beneath the onslaught of a hot, stormy breeze. Lightning flickers in the distance. I count to five before the first roll of thunder rumbles across the plain.
I know I can find freedom that field. I can run and never stop and no one will ever find me. But there are shadows that can hide a man and my momentary sense of freedom disappears. He could be out there. Any one of those hulking forms could be the flesh and bones of a predator who, in an alternate existence, I would call dad.
Our Cadillac backs into the driveway. The car door slams. Mom’s keys jingle as she unlocks the deadbolt of the front door and the next roll of thunder drowns out her words. Now I know it’s the instinct that’s kicked me awake. She’s come home from her night shift at the hospital early, which can only mean one thing. I roll onto my back, dreading what’s coming.
“True?” She raps on my door. “True, get up. Time to pack.”
I press my eyes with the palms of my sweaty hands. How many times have I been woken by her this way? I’m seventeen. We’ve been on the run since I was an infant, moving every year or two, so that would make fifteen. I wish I could forget that number and all the memories that go along with it.