The printed and ebook editions will more than likely contain a disclaimer to this effect:
"Though based on a real life story, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, organizations or companies, living or dead, is purely coincidental."Many details have to be fabricated because, in many regards, I really do not know the "real story". In most cases I don't even know the real people, the real places, and the real history of events leading up the time period in which the story takes place. I am fabricating the details that I do not know.
I am, however, attempting to portray the very real emotions and events that unfolded as my husband and I dated, fell in love and married. That very real part of the story transpired over the course of sixty four days.
Fortunately for me, the necessary fabrications and filling in of the blanks renders "Made Perfect In Weakness" a work of fiction, which is good, because these are the rules to "win" NaNoWriMo:
If you are interested in following my progress, feel free to check my NaNoWriMo profile. Here are the stats for this stage of the project:The rules state that, to be an official NaNoWriMo winner, you must…
- Write a 50,000-word (or longer!) novel, between November 1 and November 30.
- Start from scratch. None of your own previously written prose can be included in your NaNoWriMo draft (though outlines, character sketches, and research are all fine, as are citations from other people's works).
- Write a novel. We define a novel as a lengthy work of fiction. If you consider the book you're writing a novel, we consider it a novel too!
- Be the sole author of your novel. Apart from those citations mentioned two bullet-points up.
- Write more than one word repeated 50,000 times.
- Upload your novel for word-count validation to our site between November 25 and November 30.
To pique the interest of my readers, here is an exclusive first draft of the first page!
"No Public Restrooms! It couldn't be more obvious if I lit it up in neon."
The restaurant owner mumbled under his breath as he wiped down the counter and straightened the toothpick dispenser.
George Levine was rushing past him to the bus stop and barely paused to say goodbye to the man at the cash register. It might have escaped his throat as little more than a grunt but he thought it had been a sufficient acknowledgement. He surely didn't notice when the man shook his head at George's departing backside.
The bells jangled, the glass shook and the hand painted sign wobbled as the door closed behind the man clumsily staggering as he made his way out the second door.
The owner wasn't truly angry. Every so often the man rushing out the door would stay and buy breakfast. "Even then, he's a lousy tipper." The owner muttered to himself as he headed back to the kitchen. Once again, he had avoided confronting the man about using the restroom without buying something from the menu.
George Levine was the disappearing figure of a man determined. His awkward gait as he hurried to catch the next bus caused him to weave from side to side across the parking lot. In his rush, he began to topple into a sharp turn at the end of the drive. Somehow remaining upright he rushed along the edge of the sidewalk to the intersection. He was oblivious to the traffic rushing by, mere inches from his left hand that he swung at his side in a wide arch, as if propelling himself forward. With his head bowed to the ground he appeared be travelling headlong into the light pole and the crosswalk request button. He stopped just short of disaster and looked up, a little.
His right hand was drawn up to his chest in a fist, as if ready to throw a punch. He muttered to himself and began smacking the crosswalk request button with his left hand. Palm flat and fingers straight out, he pounded the button, demanding an immediate response. He breathed rapidly and deeply as if he had sprinted to the corner.
Traffic finally stopped and the walk sign began to blink and chirp like a bird. George started forward, nearly stumbling over his own feet, into the crosswalk. His attempt to move quickly accentuated the disability in his right leg. The red hand lit up, rapidly blinking and then stopped before George ever reached the centerline.
An anxious driver began to inch forward for a right hand turn across George's path. It only served to stop George dead in his tracks. He stared straight at the driver and began to raise his right fist while his left hand shot forward as if he had the strength of a super hero to stop the oncoming car."What are you doing?" He yelled at the driver who mouthed an apology through the windshield. Infuriated and sent off balance, George continued across the street.