50,000 Words In 30 Days

Dear Neighbors:


I am participating in National Novel Writing Month, thanks to my friend...the hermit. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in the thirty days of November. So far, I'm on track with 18,775 words on day 11. I'm enjoying the hell out of this; I've never pushed myself to stay on a writing schedule before and it's just what I need. As for my story, I've had it in my head for years and finally decided it was time to start writing it.


In short, it revolves around a half-woman, half-alien (????) named Violet. And for your reading pleasure (I hope), I'm going to give you a preview.


A Sample of Cliffs of Violet:


 

     Wednesday, February 18, 1970

     I have a daughter. Or, what appears to be a somewhat human female. I wish my wife could explain what happened on that night so many months ago, because it might explain what was delivered from her body last week. Sophie grew so large that I began to fear for her health, but I was more worried about her sanity.

     On Monday, February 9, Sophie’s blood pressure skyrocketed to the point where her obstetrician had no choice but to perform a cesarean section. He allowed me in the delivery room, which was both a blessing and a curse. I saw a larger-than-average blue baby being lifted out of Sophie’s stomach and I panicked, rushing forward and insisting that they get some air into the newborn immediately. The scrub nurse turned to me and said weakly, “David, she’s breathing normally.” Once the baby was examined and cleaned, it was determined that she was indeed a girl. Other than that, we weren’t entirely sure exactly what she was.

     Her skin was a bluish-purple, almost violet in color. It was scaly and rough to the touch. While her hands and feet were normal sized, her fingers and toes were mere webbed stubs. I looked down at her on the examination table and she looked back at me – as if she knew that even though I wasn’t her biological father, I would be her future. I found it difficult to hold her gaze, as her irises were a demonic red. “Well, she doesn’t have my eyes,” I joked helplessly. I nearly jumped when she reached for me, her tiny webbed hand making contact with my gloved one.

     My tone became deadly serious when I ordered the scrub nurse to block the operating room door and for everyone to remain where they were. Sophie’s stitches were finished and they were bringing her out of the anesthesia, the baby was swaddled and in my arms, and it was time for me to lay down the law. “No one can speak of this, do you understand?” Slowly, they nodded their agreement. “If anyone finds out about this, about her – “ I gestured with my head to the bundle in my arms, “—this hospital will be surrounded with reporters. The war will play second fiddle to a real, live, alien baby.” I didn’t mean to add that last part, but I had to emphasize the importance of keeping this birth a secret. “Her name is Violet. Violet Newsome. And she’s my daughter.”

     The only person who wasn’t shocked by little Violet was Chloe. I had brought her home less than 24 hours after her birth. It was far too difficult to keep her away from the nurses who wanted to ooh and ahh over the new addition to the hospital family. Chloe was residing in the spare bedroom, and she didn’t hesitate to set up half of the room as a nursery. Even without saying so, she intended to be her niece’s caretaker. I was relieved and touched by the crib, rocking chair, changing table and tiny clothes that occupied part of the bedroom.  When she held Violet for the first time, she took to Chloe immediately. She relaxed, cooed, and seemed to snuggle closer to Chloe’s body. “She likes me already,” my sister announced proudly. After the initial surprise, she had no hang ups about Violet’s alien features whatsoever.

     Unfortunately, Sophie didn’t feel the same way. The birth pushed her over the edge. When she was finally lucid afterwards, I carefully described her daughter to her. Sophie screamed and cried and insisted that she would never want to see her. “Keep her away from me, do you understand? I will kill her! No, ‘it’. I will kill it, David!” Even though Violet thrived on formula, Sophie would not provide breast milk for her. She wouldn’t feed, wouldn’t pump, and became violent anytime someone entered her hospital room. She attempted suicide twice within twenty-four hours, and left a nurse with a broken nose for asking if she needed anything.

     It’s unlikely that Sophie will ever return home to me. Today, I had her committed to a psychiatric hospital. I simply don’t know what else to do. I told her parents that she delivered a stillborn; I just didn’t know how to describe or explain Violet in a way that wouldn’t scare the living daylights out of them.

  

     Monday, February 23, 1970

     In every way except her appearance, Violet is a normal baby girl. She cries when she’s wet, when she’s hungry, and sometimes for no foreseeable reason at all. She wraps her little webbed hands around my pinkie when I’m giving her a bottle, and she can burp like a full-grown man after too many beers. Two weeks old and I’m already in love with her. Chloe and I have to be careful, however. Violet’s skin is so rough and scaly that she can leave us covered in scratches. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to find baby clothes with long sleeves, so Chloe has draped a few of my sweatshirts over the back of the rocking chair as a reminder to “gown” ourselves before we touch her. I refuse to wear gloves because I won’t completely deny my little girl the pleasure of human contact. Neither does Chloe.

     I’m not allowed to visit Sophie for another few weeks. Her doctors want to stabilize her and get her into a routine before she’s allowed visitors. I get daily updates; most of them disappointing. If she’s not sedated, she becomes violent. It doesn’t matter who is in the room and if they’re asking her about her feelings about the baby they think she lost or if she’d like an extra blanket – Sophie’s world is pain, pain, and more pain.

     I wish she could enjoy our daughter the way I do. I wish she could see that under the bizarre appearance, she’s just a baby. I’d like to show her the blood tests that prove that Violet is type O positive – just like her mother, and that when Chloe sings to her, she falls asleep much more quickly. If she were here, Sophie would laugh and insist that Violet is just faking in order to get Chloe to stop. Joan Baez she is not.

     The chief of staff, Dr. Meeks, asked if I would consider training in pediatric surgery. He admires my attention to detail and thinks that my abilities are being under-utilized. I discussed this with Chloe since the extra training will require more hours at work, more studying, and more time away from my daughter. The only problem, of course, is finding childcare while I’m at work and Chloe is at school. The training program doesn’t begin until April first; I have just over a month to figure it out. If Violet was a normal baby, I would be vetting babysitters according to experience and age; instead, I have to worry about finding someone who can handle caring for a baby with blue, scaly skin and is obviously not entirely human. Someone who can keep a secret. My secret. Violet’s secret. I don’t know what I’d do without Chloe.

So...how am I doing?


Writing, writing, writing,


D