Well, I didn’t get 50k words during last month’s NaNoWriMo, owing to my compulsion to smooth and refine my previous day’s work, to the effect that by the final week of November, I had become Penelope, unweaving by night what I had woven during the day. To complicate matters, I awakened a few days ago from a sound sleep and said, “I left something out of Book Two and I have to rewrite it, now, before it’s scheduled to update,” so the final day of NaNoWriMo was a total bust as I spent it editing instead of writing.
Oh well. There’s always next year.
In the meantime, I have managed to write better than 38k in a month, not too damn shabby, as well as find forever homes for two of the four kittens bestowed upon us by an uncaring Cosmos. Still two to go and hopes are high, although Christmas is a lousy time of year to adopt out animals.
And Friday snuck up on me again, dagnabbit. I went all day thinking it was Thursday, just hanging out with the fam, watching movies, shopping, drinking pumpkin chai lattes without a care in the damn world, until to suddenly have it brought to my attention that I need to post a chapter on my FNAFiction, Everything Is All Right, Book Two: Mike Schmidt and the Long Night. So instead of midnight pancakes and cocoa at the local IHOP, it’s home to a roomful of rambunctious kittens I go, to rapidly edit, polish, and post, all the while asking myself how the hell I’ve let HALF THIS FRIGGING BOOK GO LIVE BEFORE THE THIRD ONE IS EVEN FINISHED!!!
I have made a resolution to get Book Three done, beta read and edited by the end of the year, and unlike my New Year’s Resolutions, if I don’t live up to it, there will be consequences.
So in the meantime, if you’re reading along, head on over to Fanfiction.net or, if you prefer, Archiveofourown.org to check out the latest chapter, and if you’re still on the fence about whether to give my silly little fanfiction about animal-shaped robots haunting an abandoned pizzeria where children were abducted and murdered a read, please enjoy this excerpt!
Ana heard a sound like a muffled thump or banging in the night and thought it made her dream of thunder…or maybe she dreamed of thunder and just thought it made her imagine she heard a sound. This was especially confusing because she sure thought she woke up when the noise first started and saw Chica and Bonnie. At first, she thought they were talking, because they were facing each other, but there was an awkward amount of distance between them, if so; she wasn’t sure what made it seem that way, just that it wasn’t conversational. Once she noticed this, other oddnesses revealed themselves, like shadows in fog, taking shape while still remaining insignificant. Bonnie appeared to be leaning sideways against the rear wall. He had a hand up, motionless, not frozen in some stage-gesture as she’d first thought, but resting on the wall for balance. His head might actually be pressed up to it, cartoonishly eavesdropping, but on what? The door to the parts room backstage did not open. Nothing could be back there.
Ana closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Bonnie said something. She couldn’t tell what, but his voice, even in whispers, was distinctly his own. She smiled.
Chica did not answer, which was nice, because she didn’t have much in the way of volume control, but she did start walking, the wheezes and clanks of her leg mechanisms as distinct in their own way as Bonnie’s whisper. Ana listened as Chica shuffle-dropped down the three steps to the floor, thinking foggily that she needed to check her email when she for-real woke up, see if anyone had responded to her Craigslist ad yet, because patched was not fixed and those pumps were going.
More static, louder than before, other noise that reminded her in her half-asleep way of an old-timey landline dialing up to the internet—all beeps and bongs and scratches—followed by a distant roll of dream-thunder. She opened her eyes again and saw Bonnie onstage and Chica in the middle of the room, motionless, their glowing eyes aimed up at the ceiling. So it wasn’t all a dream; there really must be thunder. Was that worth waking up for? She wasn’t sure she could. Even the idea of the roof falling in on her could not penetrate far into the leaden fog filling her skull.
“Is it raining?” she mumbled or thought she mumbled, but dreams had a way of twisting time out of linear order. And she had to be dreaming, because she could have sworn she said it, and then Chica went waddling past and into the kitchen, where she apparently tried to shuffle together two stacks of pizza baking trays like they were playing cards. The resulting clatter slapped the clouds right out of her head, however, waking her fully and immediately to a state of high alarm.
She rolled over to yell, “Jesus Christ, really?!” and promptly slipped off the air mattress again, although she managed—barely—not to fall off the table too.