Bookish

Dag 4

Ord i dag: 682

Mykje stress på flyplassar i dag, så få ord.


I horisonten ser eg eit pastellblått skyfjell. Sidan det er det einaste som skil seg ut frå resten av landskapet går eg mot det. Etter fem minutt eller ein time, det er vanskeleg å seie, klokka mi har blitt til ein liten skydott, er eg framme. Fjellet stig opp over marka som eit tynt spir, umogleg og fantastisk. Eg byrjar å klatre, eg tar tak i utspring av røyk som stikk ut av den skeive skysøylen. Eg er nesten vektlaus. Etter kvart som eg kjem høgare, nærare sola, blir det varmare, lysare, medan skyfjellet er kaldt mot hendene mine som glir halvveges inn i det. Fjellet blir smalare og smalare, det starta på storleik med eit hus, no er det nesten som eit tre, og eg byrjar å bli redd for å falle. Samtidig ønskjer eg meg skugge, det er så varmt, eg sveittar sjølv om den fysiske utfordringa er lita.

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Dag 3

Ord i dag; 8
Fullt program, inkludert migrene. Desse orda skreiv eg paa laanebmobilen paa toget til Glasgow paa veg til Tom McRaekonsert.

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Dag 2

Ord i dag> 2192
Det som er greitt med flyplassar og flyturar; masse tid til aa skrive


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Dag 1

Ord i dag: 294
Ord totalt: 294

294 / 50000 words. 1% done!

Så var vi i gang igjen, med NaNoWriMo. I år blir det ei slags novellesamling ved tittelen Eit atlas for oppdikta stader.

Om du vil lese meir om tidlegare forsøk, kan du sjå lotiel writes. Løpande statistikk på nanowrimo.org.


Neste side inneheldt nokre få liner.

Du som har vore der ingen før har gått
Du som trivst best stader som jamvel ikkje finst
Du som har gått deg vill i ditt eige sinn
Du treng eit kart

Eg slo om. Boksida blafra og knirka litt. Tittelen var…

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An Excerpt from ‘The Story of a Hero’

I stopped by Main Street on my way from Lord Ashton back to my father’s shop. A commotion could be heard from blocks away, and as I was in no particular hurry, I decided to find the cause.

A great many people crowded the side walks and alleys. I gathered some important personage was to pass through our town; they did from time to time. We were on the main road to Mount Seray, the greatest city and the administrative seat of this region of the country. Trying to get closer to the road to be able to see (I am tall, but not tall enough to see from behind five other people), I asked someone in the crowd who we were expecting.

“It’s Amarin, didn’t you know?” Why would I have asked, if I did? I didn’t say that, just nodded. She was already quite famous after killing that dragon in West Porland, and for refusing the rewards offered by the surviving villagers. I think I quite admired her, even in those days. She was a great role model to the girls I knew; we all wanted to be like her. We borrowed our brothers’ wooden play swords and stabbed at the dark, waving our hands in magic gestures. We’d shout, “boom!” and the bandit or dragon or evil sorcerer would be no more.

Just as I pushed my way to the second row, earning a few elbows in the ribs, which I am sure I deserved, she came riding around the corner. Her horse was tall and dark, and she was dark and beautiful. She was everything I had imagined and more – she was a legend alive. Her arms and legs were clearly well muscled, seen even standing several meters away, yet she held herself with the poise and daintiness of a Court lady. I was not disappointed.

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