I am pleased to report that I succeeded! I wrote a 50k word novel in a month. It was touch and go but I managed to overcome the editor in me and write without fussing over the grammar or spelling.

During my journey I did learn a few things. I learned that I CAN stay sitting for hours at a time and not get dead-leg. I CAN avoid the dangers of chocolate and caffeine with a little liquorice tea and whole lot of will power. I CAN ignore CSI as long as I have the volume on the telly turned down and have my back to it.

In all seriousness, I really did enjoy the whole experience. I am involved in a writing community in Second Life® and many of the members joined me in the challenge. It was a key to my success. We supported each other, nagged each other and celebrated with each other.

Writing is a solitary profession. It is easy to forget that there are many out there in the same situation who would willingly accept and offer support. Finding a good writing community is not easy but the best advise I can give you is to give Second Life® a shot. Our community is continuing to offer support even after NaNoWriMo has finished. For more information visit Virtual Writers, Inc.

August 14th, 1864

The journey so far had been a rough one. A good proportion of steerage had contracted typhoid and died. With nowhere to keep the bodies and the crew reluctant to handle them, they were thrown overboard for the fish to eat. Most of the dead were infants and those of a frail disposition, but there were a few healthy young men who were taken in their prime. With no proper sanitation, it was little wonder people were dying. After the poor beggars had taken their leave of this earthly toil, they were left dead in their bunks for days. Once the Captain was aware of the death, the crew jumped into action stripping out the bunks, burning the filthy bedding and scrubbing the decks until they near gleamed. With all the work going on inside the steerage area, the passengers were forced to brave the waves up on deck. One small boy was swept out over the stern by a mountainous wave. It enveloped him like a mother would a babe and wrenched him from this life into the murky waters beneath.

His mother could do nothing but stand and watch; struck dumbfounded. She screamed the scream of a tortured soul once the realisation had hit.

Joseph looked gaunt. The food hadn’t agreed with him and he was eating less and less. The sight of so many bodies being hoisted from the lower deck had taken any appetite he had. His complexion was sallow and his eyes had sunken deep into his sockets. Most of his time was spent sleeping. The start of his journey had seen him singing and making merry with his fellow passengers, but as the journey continued he found he was losing the will to enjoy himself. He spent a fair twenty three hours of the day lying on his bunk, the other miserable one was spent making tea and shitting. If he were to catch the typhoid now he would stand little chance of surviving.

During his lucid moments he had begun to think about Bella. He envisioned her smile; the way her lips would curve up gently, enigmatically; not too much of a smile but just enough. He remembered the way her eyes sparkled under lamplight. How could he have left her? Sure he loved her and they could have survived. Plenty of families do. When he saw the steerage children crying in their bunks with their bellies empty, their eyes pitiful and wanting, he near balled with them. What would become of his wee child?

But the deed was done and there was no turning back. He could never return home. He would be shunned. He needed to think about his own future now and what he had to do once the ship hit land.

He had once been told by a cousin of his that there was plenty of work in America and that they were “crying out” for good, strong workers to help build the infrastructure of the new towns that were sprouting up …good strong workers. Why, who’d employ me now? I’m all skin and bone and weak as a child. Joseph thought. Ahh, but I’ll be alright once I touch land; it’s just this seasickness that’s got me now. Sure, I’ll be fine.

Five Points

During a visit in 1842, Charles Dickens wrote: “This is the place: these narrow ways diverging to the right and left, and reeking every where with dirt and filth. Such lives as are led here, bear the same fruit here as elsewhere. The coarse and bloated faces at the doors have counterparts at home and all the wide world over. Debauchery has made the very houses prematurely old. See how the rotten beams are tumbling down, and how the patched and broken windows seem to scowl dimly, like eyes that have been hurt in drunken frays. Many of these pigs live here. Do they ever wonder why their masters walk upright in lieu of going on all-fours? and why they talk instead of grunting?”

Five points was a notoriously rough segment of Manhattan. Thousands of immigrants crowded its streets most crammed into tenements and apartment buildings. Often these tenements consisted of rooms of no more than 12 feet square, each housing between 13 to 20 miserable individuals who slept on rags on the floor.

The tenements were often built closely together with a small airspace between. These shafts were regularly filled with rubbish tossed from the windows, turning the area into a squalid, infested health hazard.

Joseph had spent such a ghastly journey on the ship that anything was preferable to the lurching and seasickness. It was unlikely that he would stay there long; he intended to earn a bit of money and move on as fast as he could; even if it meant moving a few streets away to safer surroundings.

Life inside the slum at Five Points was pretty much like anywhere – people ate, drank, slept, danced, sang and played cards. There were plenty of things a young man could try- that could perhaps lead him astray. Joseph had visited a saloon on the first night with a new acquaintance Thomas, and could hardly keep from gasping aloud. For what a sight; women, half naked, breasts dangling, some singing songs with sailors and fondling each other as they sang, others rigorously fornicating; the women bent forward with their torn petticoats raised up exposing their buttocks and the tender meat below. The men foraging and thrusting and the whores gasping until the men released themselves all over their pretty petticoats. Some writhed on the laps of half clothed gentry, squealing with joy and shaking their heads wildly as their faces twisted in ecstasy.

What surprised Joseph the most was that these occurrences were watched with little interest as if it happened so often that it was no longer worthy of note.

The Bowery at Five Points was a lively street full of beer halls (some with billiard tables), bowling alleys, a theatre or two, street vendors and street performers such as Minstrels and dancers. You could drink, gamble, have a girl or two and play a game of duck pins, all in the space of a few hours. All of this was a world away from County Down and Joseph enjoyed the sights and experiences but grew tired of them after the first week. By then his wallet was empty and he had very little to show for it, other than a bout of genital lice and a few hangovers.

The prospect of his future caused Joseph great agitation. He didn’t want to stay in the slum for very much longer; he had no more reserves and work was harder to come by than he was first lead to believe. The fighting between the nationals and the foreigners often forced the jobs the way of the nationals, for fear of reprisals – many of their gangs had links to those governing New York. It was ironic that a good proportion of the nationalists had parents who arrived the same way as the Irish. Gone now were the ties that once bound them. People were starving, fuelled by the constant arrival of new immigrants and it was every man for himself.

Before he knew it himself, Joseph was standing in line for the conscription table. He’d not decided one way of the other but it wouldn’t hurt to query the officer.

Follow my journey as I attempt to write a novel in a month with National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). My journey began on 1st November. Below is an unedited excerpt for your delectation. The whole point of NaNoWriMo is that you just write your heart out and worry about editing after you have completed the challenge. So, anything you read will be in the raw.

The Elephant Collector

Prologue

“You needn’t be thinking you were the first to invent sex. Catch yourself on, child!” My grandmother never minced her words. She came from an age where women had to take charge. The hawks in their ivory towers had given the command. The lads had all left for far flung places and the women could no longer simply tend the house and kids. No, they were expected to till the land, make the ammunitions, drive the army trucks, tend to the sick and dying and still make sure there was a stew on the stove in time for dinner.

My grandmother had an expression that could wither an oak tree. One look from her – only if you were doing wrong, of course – and you were mincemeat.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s your blouse; it’s cut too low.”

“…and that makes your think I was thinking about sex?”

“No, that makes me think the boy will be. Be careful of them, child. They’re rovers, every last one of them. They’d sooner break your heart as look at you.”

From an early age I had been taught that passions were natural but that we should stifle them. Sex should be avoided at all costs. Unless of course you were married then it was fine as long as it wasn’t on a Sunday.

My grandmother and I had a special bond. We were of the same ilk; sensitive and creative with an inherent inferiority complex. When I was very young, we would dance together. She’d spin me round and round in a giggling whirl of energy. We’d dance the Party Polka and the Waltz. She would lead and I would follow. The Tango wasn’t attempted – it was considered a bit too risqué but I would frequently see a few Latin moves thrown in. She would often sing as she danced. She’d sing like the old-timers, where the end note warbled. Danny Boy was her favourite. Whenever I tried to join in, invariably the song would be spoiled. There’s nothing like a croaky, weak voice to ruin the festivities and my Grandmother wouldn’t be shy in telling me. Honesty was always the best policy but would cut your confidence like a knife on a Victoria Sponge Sunday.

My family came from a long line of staunch Irish Protestants, seeded from the North of the border. Good strong, God-fearing folk. People who understood that reformation was the best thing for the people. William of Orange, or King Billy as he is affectionately known, was heralded as a champion. He fought James II at the Battle of the Boyne and saved us all from a fate far worse than death – being ruled by the Irish.

As the story goes, Protestant King William and Catholic King James fought each other on the banks of the River Boyne just outside the town of Drogheda. Thank goodness King James had the beginnings of dementia and was prone to panic or Lord knows what might have happened. Notwithstanding the fact that most of James’ army consisted of untrained peasants who approached the attack with farm implements – a scythe is no match for a musket, as well you know. After the battle was fought King James returned to exile in France, and British and Protestant dominance over the country was assured.

My Grandmother had or still has a curious collection of elephants. A large chipped and rather ill-looking, male, made from some sort of china and painted black; a wooden, brown-stained family (with tusks that look suspiciously like ivory); several larger wooden ones festooned with silk scarves, carefully tied as they would on a woman’s neck and a stunning white marble mare and calf.

As a child I would play with them and give them voices. We would go on wild expeditions together. I would imagine myself atop the mighty male, charging through the African bush, peeling the leaves of the Marula tree from my face. With my sword held high I would fight the natives, win the treasure and be back in time for tea.

In quieter, more civilised moments, I would join the circus with them. They would tell me how they could balance aloft a podium on two legs whilst holding a glittering ball in their trunk. And how they could run around the edge of the big top tent holding the tail of the elephant in front, so that the herd would form a ring. Then I’d hear how badly they were being treated by the elephant trainer so I would free them…with my sword held high!

If caught playing with these treasured items, I was invariably scolded.

“These are ornaments, child; not toys and they have special meaning to me. They’ve been passed down from my granny and her granny before her. You’re not to touch them; you hear?”

From Wikipedia: Procrastination is a behavior which is characterized by deferment of actions or tasks to a later time. Psychologists often cite procrastination as a mechanism for coping with the anxiety associated with starting or completing any task or decision. Psychology researchers also have three criteria they use to categorize procrastination. For a behavior to be classified as procrastination, it must be counterproductive, needless, and delaying.

Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.

Now, I’m not saying that I procrastinate, no…no way; I always work on things as soon as I think of them; I am never late at sending out birthday cards or cashing gift certificates and cheques, I always make sure that my planting is done at the right time so I have a summer garden in full bloom. No, I plan meticulously and keep to my schedule without fail. Not!

We all procrastinate at some time or other; we are only human after all. However some offenders are serial procrastinators and are often unaware that their behaviour is damaging their health and future success. Over the course of a single academic term, procrastinating college students show signs of compromised immune systems as they succumb to more colds and flu and gastrointestinal problems. They are also prone to bouts of insomnia.

Procrastinators go on the search for distractions, especially those that take little effort or commitment. The prime example, and one which we are all probably guilty of, is checking emails and social internet sites. We can feel a sense of achievement as if we are helping our career on it’s way. However, if we are honest with ourselves we know that constantly jumping from one screen to another is only hindering our success.

Procrastination doesn’t care who fits the shoe as offenders often shift the burden of responsibilities onto others, who then become resentful. It destroys teamwork and private relationships.

According to Joseph Ferrari, Ph.D., associate professor of psychology at De Paul University in Chicago, there are three basic types of procrastinators.

Arousal types, or thrill-seekers, who wait to the last minute for the euphoric rush.

Avoiders, who may be avoiding fear of failure or even fear of success, but in either case are very concerned with what others think of them; they would rather have others think they lack effort than ability.

Decisional procrastinators, who cannot make a decision. Not making a decision absolves procrastinators of responsibility for the outcome of events.

So, which one are you?

Joseph Ferrari, Ph.D. is associate professor of psychology at De Paul University in Chicago.

So, this is the first day of my plan for world domination…no, wait, that was yesterday’s plan, today’s plan is to write a 1000 words. I begin my new writing regime by taking a break and visiting Inkgirl.com – as the site implies; it’s a diversion. During my amble, I came across this funny and just had to share it with you.

If you haven’t already visited the site then you should; it’s fun and informative and you can’t ask for more.

I have been encouraged by Debbie from Inkygirl: Daily Diversions for Writers to commit to writing 1000 words a day. Okay, well, I can do that; I can’t promise the words will be beautiful or inspiring or witty but at least they’ll be there on a pixel page. Proof to my promise.

How many words have I written now?