NaNoWriMo originates in the United States, while The Three Day Novel Contest is a Canadian tradition that occurs on the Labour Day weekend in September each year. I did the latter once as well and ended up with 90 some pages. There is a prize for this one – a committee of judges chooses the one they like best and it gets published. I didn’t win, but the process was interesting. A long weekend of writing and very little sleep.
Recently I posted several chapters of my fantasy novel Queen of Fire on a Harper Collins site called www.authonomy.com. For anyone interested in reading what I’ve got up there, just go to the site and type the title of the book into the search space. After I’d done that I wondered about my NaNoWriMo novel (I hadn’t looked at it since I finished the draft), and decided it had some merit. I actually liked the first section and decided to spend some time revising it, see what happened. Then I thought some people might like to read some of Diamond Cat, so I’ve put a bit here. If you want to read more, let me know and I will add to it in the future.
Diamond Cat Beginning:A dark-skinned man stands alone at a downtown bus stop. In the west the sun has just sunk behind the buildings and shadows are growing. The man is staring at nothing in particular, or perhaps merely contemplating a partially completed spider web in the corner of the bus shelter. The web is dusty, but glints in the light of the occasional passing care. The man squats to study the web more carefully, to find the spider, but all he sees are a couple of dead flies. He stands again and steps out of the shelter to glance right and left. There is no sign of any bus.
A scream cuts through the peace of the summer evening.
The man looks around, his shoulder-length platinum hair fanning out as he moves his head. There’s nothing unusual to be seen. A puff of wind scatters dust and bits of paper. The man watches the direction of the debris and screws up his eyes against the dust. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone or hand-held device, taps at it, and studies the result. After a moment or two he turns to his left and walks north.
It’s the middle of the week and most people have gone home from work; there’s not much traffic on the streets. The man soon reaches a set of row houses. The dirty yellow brick walls and stone basements proclaim their age, but the dark green painted doors, steps and porch columns show that work has recently been done to improve them. Without hesitation, the man enters the path of the second unit to his right. When he reaches the door, he doesn’t pull out a key, however, but knocks hard and long instead. A short time after he stops knocking the door opens, though it’s held by a security chain.
“What do you want?” A woman’s pale face stares at him. “Are you a police detective?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I called 911, and I know the Police Station is only a few blocks away, but you responded awfully quickly.”
The man tips his head to one side. “There was a scream.”
“Yes, someone tried to get in at my back door.”
“It was locked?”
She nods. “Of course. I’m not a fool; I keep my doors locked and I don’t let strange men enter.”
“But you stand at the door and talk to them.” He grins. It’s an engaging grin, lighting up his face and warming his brown eyes.
Her lips twitch as if she wants to smile back, but stops herself. “If you’d show me some identification, I’d be much happier, and I could let you in.”
He reaches for a pocket. The woman pushes against the door so that merely a crack remains open. The man pulls out a wallet, extracts a plastic covered card.
“A private detective’s license,” he says, holding it out. “Of course, I might have created it myself. Could probably do the same with a police badge.” There’s no response from behind the door. “Look,” he continues, “I heard the scream, thought I’d come and offer help. I can take a look at your back door, if you like. There must be a way to get to the rear of your unit without going through. Or if you prefer, I’ll just leave.”
Pale fingers reach through the crack and take the card. There is silence for a few moments. Then the man outside hears steps walking away. He waits, wondering whether he should go, too. But she has his card. He glances around. No one is out walking in the streets, though now and then a car passes. There are lights on in a couple of the other units. After a while, steps return.
“Inconclusive,” he thinks he hears her mumble. The door opens to the chain width. She hands out his card. “All right, why don’t you take a look at the back, since there’s no sign of the real police. To your right, then left around the corner until you come to a brick path along the side of the building.”
He follows her directions. It’s less attractive back there than in front. Painting hasn’t been kept up. A dented and slightly rusty blue car is parked near the door he assumes is hers. By the outdoor light, he can see a large planter of white flowers beside the door to the left. There’s a sweet scent he can’t identify, probably coming from those flowers. That unit doesn’t have a car, though there’s a lit window and as he glances at it, the curtain moves. He thinks a woman’s face draws back into the shadows, but isn’t certain – it could have been a man. One of the other units to the far right has a parked red truck and a bright window; the rest look dark from here.
He takes out his hand-held device, flicks a switch and shines the resulting narrow beam of light along the ground in front of the door. He leans forward, bringing his face down. Being careful not to tread too close, he moves the light over the back door. There are long scratches around the knob and lock. He examines these particularly closely.
The lock clicks and the handle turns. Light spills out and down several stairs. Above those there looks to be a small kitchen. This view is partially obscured as a large, dark figure moves forward. The woman’s voice comes from behind the figure.
“This is James Hunter,” she says, “a friend. James, this is a police officer.”
James doesn’t show that he’s startled by the lie, or by the fact that she read his card carefully enough and remembered his name. He merely nods and flicks off his light. The police officer unclips a very large flashlight from his belt and turns its beam onto James, who lowers his eyelids against the glare.
“Was it you trying to get into this lady’s house?” the officer asks gruffly.
“What?” the woman says. “Of course it wasn’t him!”
“Please, Miss, um Jakob, let me ask the questions and let him answer for himself. Well?” the police officer barks, lowering the flashlight slightly so that James can see the glowering face above the beam.
“No,” James confirms, “I didn’t try to get in. I’d guess something with claws did. Those scratch marks look fairly fresh.” He points.
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