He flung himself down on the bed.

Margo took a drag from her cigarette. Keeping her eyes on the newspaper she said, “Oh, Harold, I’m sad to hear that, but never fear you can revive him in the morning.”

“No, Margo. This time he’s really dead. What a way to go.” He took the cigarette from her hand and took a drag.

“How did he die?” Margo continued to read her paper as she questioned him about Vidor’s demise.

“Cut in two by a commuter train. The police haven’t even found his lower half yet. I’m afraid Vidor is truly dead.” He paused, “I don’t know how I shall go on without him.”

Margo sighed. She looked at her husband lying with his face buried in the pillows.”For pity sake, Harold, You’ve gotten Vidor through tougher scrapes than this. Perhaps tomorrow the police will find his lower half and he can be stitched back together.”

Harold picked his head up from the pillow. He glared at her, “Oh, Margo, don’t be so silly. You can’t sew a human being back together after he’s been cut in half. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Well then, Vidor is dead. You’ll have to find someone else.” She returned to her reading.

“There is no one else, only Vidor. I could never do the things with anyone else that I’ve done with Vidor.”

“Well then Harold, your only option remains to become a miracle worker, and resurrect Vidor in the morning. Or maybe it wasn’t him at all. A case of mistaken identity.”

“They found his telltale birthmark. It had to be him.”

“Perhaps a twin. Did Vidor have a twin?”

“A twin? Hmm.” Harold paused to think, “I don’t recall that he had a twin. Oh Margo, Vidor’s dead and there’s nothing I can do to revive him.”

“Don’t fret about it tonight, dear. Just crawl under the covers. Curl up next to me and sleep. Tomorrow you’ll find a way to get Vidor through this. You will become a miracle worker.” Laying a kiss on his forehead, she pulled the covers over him.

Harold snuggled in next to her, “Yes, I’ll become a miracle worker.” Before turning out his lamp, Harold leaned over and said, “Margo darling, please be sure the alarm is set for seven. Vidor’s life depends upon it. I need to be at my writing desk early to perform this miracle.”

Turning back to her newspaper she patted his back before as she reading her newspaper. “Yes dear.”

Julie Hill 2010©

A damn stubborn word that,
It sticks to the tongue and refuses to be spat
The word is known quite well by me,
Now what can that damn sticky word be?
It stuck in my mouth like peanut butter
Not a syllable of the word can I utter
I learned the word when I was young
I know what it is it’s on the tip of my tongue.

Come out you damn word
So you can be heard
Don’t stick or stop or stall
And off my lips you’ll easily fall
Now stop playing this shy little game
All I want is to speak out your name
But instead you stay where you are hung
And I can’t get you off the tip of my tongue.

Forget the damn word I cannot recall
Forget this one word, forget them all
I cannot remember or say the word clear
In my mouth it will stay not reaching the ear
But hope yet arises when a tingle I feel
In my mouth as the word that holds fast starts to peel
Then by lightening I’m struck and jolted and stung
As the word pries itself from the tip of my tongue

©2010 Julie Shumway Hill

I have to find the perfect name for the character I just created.
The name Christine would be just right, but she’s a girl I hated.
So on with the search through the name books for something I like better
While the pages I have to write upon just go from white to whiter.

Then comes the research of the past to fill in the blank spaces,
But not so fast I want to be sure I find all historical traces.
These facts will help to make my book interesting and engaging,
I know that I can make it so if I win this war I am waging.

The dogs bark to be let them out and then to be let in,
While pure white sheets of paper sit in the printer’s bin
To take me away, my boss calls to say, I must work some overtime
So now I’ll admit I have not a jiff to write even one good rhyme

Now Girl Scouts meet at 4:15 and choir starts at 8:00,
And if I stop for just one word I know I will be late.
The telephone rings, the kids come in, and everything’s sidetracking.
My head so filled with everyday things my characters all are packing.

Returning to my writing spot I find I cannot win,
The poet in me has left the house and my writer’s in the gin.
I wish that I could join her there, but still I’ve yet to write.
It would all be so simple if a name would come to light

©2010 by Julie Shumway Hill

Has anyone else participated in NaNoWriMo before? Did you meet the goal? Did you work up a plot and develop characters beforehand or did you fly by the seat of your pants?

Revising is like looking at your pictures of your trip and deciding which ones to include in your slide show. I look over each scene and analyze the good and not so good in each.  Would this picture be better with a little cropping or should it just be discarded?  Should the scenes be placed in the order in which they were written or should I mix it up a bit? Does the scene have the right objective, but the wrong outcome?  Are the obstacles too big to overcome or are they too small to be of interest?  Using all of these observation and analysis skills drain my brain of energy and I walk away feeling it.  But in the end I hope to have a manuscript that makes the exhaustion and the headaches seem trivial, and a story ten times more interesting than any vacation slide show I’ve ever seen.