NaNoWriMo: Day 24 and some disappointment

Sigh.  This is a difficult post.

I had to abandon "Tangle" as my NaNoWriMo project.

I got to about day 22, so that was all right, but as I kept writing, it just kept getting more and more depressing.  I shouldn't have been surprised that that happened, since it is a fairly depressing story - one of the characters dies and another can't remember two months of her life - but I think it got away from me.  It's that kind of thing where something slightly sad happens, so then the response is sadder, and then that gets even sadder, (and then there's lesbian sex), and then things get really depressing and then I need to take a break.

Don't think I'm giving up on "Tangle" altogether.  I still think this was a good exercise, and I did write about 36,000 words in it.  Now I've at least got a (very, very) rough draft that I can come back to in the future, once I've had about a month to let it sit.  In the meantime, I'm filling out the rest of NaNoWriMo by working on a sequel to "Thicker than Water," whose working title is "Thinner than Smoke."  It's actually been really satisfying these past couple days, since I've been thinking about this particular sequel in the back of my mind since NaNoWriMo started.  I considered using TTS as my NaNoWriMo project instead of "Tangle," and I kind of wish I had, but now at least I've got 36,000 words of "Tangle" that I wouldn't have had otherwise, and a fresh look on TTS.

On that thread, here's a short excerpt I wrote yesterday for TTS.  A little context: after an assassination attempt on the queen and the prince, a member of the Guard has managed to whisk the prince away from danger and is now trying to find a place to hide until it's dark.

“Come with me.”

I lead him further into the heart of the city, more guessing than anything else; this type of establishment wasn’t noted on my maps of Verivore, no doubt so the other members of the Guard wouldn’t get ideas.  The streets grow narrower and darker, even though the sun still burns bright overhead.  Dinger, maybe, is a better word; everything in this part of the city seems to be covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime.  Ander presses closer to me, and I can hear his breath coming quicker with fear.  I smirk humorlessly.  If this is what scares him, it’s a wonder he thought he could take on those soldiers back at the close. 

At last, I catch sight of what I was looking for.  I head for a battered-looking building sandwiched between two others that have clearly seen better days.  The windows are all covered by dark curtains.  A red glass lantern with a large crack running through it – it’s a wonder that it’s still in one piece – hangs outside the door. 

Ander stops again, nearly making me spin about.

“No.”

“Look, we need to get inside somewhere, and there’s no way they’ll ever think to look for you in there.”

Ander sputters for a moment.

“I don’t care!  I’m not going into some – some – house of ill repute,” he insists in a whisper. 

I almost feel like laughing at his phrasing.  Almost.

“It’s a brothel, my good prince.  Let me assure you that your ancestors somewhere have visited one.”

His pale cheeks turn a blotchy pink, and I can tell he’s about to argue, so I jump in.

“Come on, we’ll be safe inside, and we can stay until we figure out a better plan.  We’ll leave as soon as we have a plan, all right?”

Ander hesitates, the distaste plain on his face, but ultimately he nods. 

“Fine.  But as soon as we have a plan, we’re gone.”

“Fine.  That’s all I want as well.”

I take a step toward the brothel, but then Ander grabs my arm and pulls me back toward him. 

“If my mother ever hears a word about this,” he breathes, trying to act intimidating, “I will see to it that you never hold another post in the Guard for the rest of your life.”

“If your mother ever hears a word about this, that would mean you both survived,” I say dryly.  “I think the fact that you hid out in a brothel for a few hours would be the least of her concerns.”

After checking the street one last time, I follow Ander through the door.  We immediately find ourselves in a poor imitation of a fancy sitting room, complete with a stained sofa and a chipped tea set poorly painted with roses.  As soon as we enter, a woman in her forties with an ample bosom and a too-tight corset that is nearly squeezing her breasts out of her dress approaches.  Her face is caked in a thick layer of makeup. 

“Welcome to Lady Delia’s House of Pleasure,” the woman, presumably Lady Delia, simpers, and I’m amazed she can draw enough breath to say those few words considering how tight her corset is.  “What kind of lady can I interest you in?  Someone for each of you?  I do have a few lovely girls of your, ah, persuasion, miss,” she tells me, tipping me a hearty wink. 

“Actually,” I say, ignoring Ander, who looks as if he’s about to pass out on the incredibly questionable rug, “we’re looking for a girl to share.”