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Nanowrimo 2009

On the eve of the month of November we might celebrate all things scary as in Halloween, but there is nothings as scary as sitting down and penning the first words for a new novel – particularly when this is not your normal past time.

For the second year, I signed up to Nanowrimo, and for the second year I won. Although I kept a brief account of the experience on this blog, I focused on keeping a visual diary on Flickr.

Inside Her Drawers - A Snapshot

Excerpt: Inside Her Drawers

One seed lies dormant under a Jacaranda tree, while four seeds crack their casings. Hopeful shoots dig deeper into the rich vibrant energy of the earth. A block away, the high tide crashes onto the shore. Rocks lay scattered, disoriented and abandoned. As it has done for a millennium and even more, the sea, once again, has claimed its own. Disturbed from his sleep, he opens his smouldering green eyes, arches his back and resolute in action he leaves – never to return. There are secrets inside my drawers, dying to be revealed.

Some of us are pathological hoarders, reluctant to relinquish our treasures, and fearful that we could not survive if they were to be lost. We compulsively clutter our homes with seemingly useless possessions. Filling the empty spaces around our selves, is a symptomatic chronic but dire attempt to fill the empty spaces within our hearts. How can you breathe, when you leave no space? How can you learn when no pauses exist in your life for contemplation?

My name is Ms J. Duncan, not Miss, or Mrs – simply Ms. My family name has always been Duncan – an old fashioned Scottish name although my family has not always shared my name with me. “J” has stood for many things in the past – Joy, Jody, Jordie, Jordan but now I simply prefer J. Ms J. Duncan suits my purposes very well. I am too old for informality. There is nobody in my life that I feel a particular need to be on a first name intimate basis. I rarely need to be addressed by any other than Ms Duncan, for it is only the doctor and nurses, the postmaster and government correspondents that have the need to reference my name. They are all comfortable with officiousness and strictly no-first-name-basis rendezvouses. Mosely does not need to call me by name. He has other ways of ensnaring my attention.

“One seed. This one is for you, baby – the baby that kicked inside my womb. You paid a price greater than what you should have paid. It was not worth it. I am sorry.”
I do not dwell on the thought. I cover the seed, take my fingers to my lips, kiss them, then press them against the uprooted soil.

I move along the garden bed several paces. I kneel and poke my index finger into the soil. Taking the second seed from my other palm, I place it at the centre of the well.

“One seed. This one is for your baby, Granny May. The baby you never told me about. The baby you spoke of last night for the first time. I never realised your pain. I am sorry.”

I do not stray from my task, but with as much love in my heart as I can, I replace the soil and cover the seed. I move along another few places. There are still three seeds left in my hand. I am now so caught up in the ritual, I am not aware of the world beyond the garden, beyond these few metres of soil reaching up to embrace the seeds.
I make the third hole and plant the seed.

“One seed. This one is for the baby I cannot remember but I know was there. I have forgotten you. I am aggrieved. I am sorry.”

I quickly move on to plant the final two seeds. I do not want to be morbid, or sad.
I plant the fourth seed and with no conscious recollections murmur, “One seed. This one is for Sarah’s baby. I just know that I need to say I am sorry.”

One seed remains. I plant it closest to the Jacaranda tree. It hits me that I am leaving this house, this garden, and even though I thought I had said my last goodbyes, I have grown sentimental. I plant the final seed and decide that I need to dedicate it to new beginning.

“One seed. This one is for me and for new beginnings and for finally getting around to doing what I was supposed to do, a long time ago. It took so long. I am sorry.”

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