I hit the 18,000 mark today, and my story here is finally starting to take shape. I’m almost 10,000 words ahead, which puts me at 60-70,000 words by the time the end of the month comes along. I’m almost at what may amount to my favorite scene in the novel–where Stranger meets Charlie in the shipping container. I need to work out what they might discuss. 

There’s something magical about a typewriter. Perhaps it’s all the moving parts. With a computer, only so much physically moves–the rest of it is all 1’s and 0’s, electric currents moving along a path. Aside from some spinning fans, you can’t just look into your computer and see each part moving around, doing its job. Typewriters are different. You can see everything, each lever and gear is in plain view. Everything is tactile.

That’s the beauty of mechanical technology. The Underwood Ace at left is the newest addition to my desk. I plan on using it for at least a portion of NaNoWriMo. Typewriters are the perfect tool to use when writing a gritty noir novel. In a film noir world, mechanical technology is what you’ve got.

I bought it at a local antique shop for $39. The ribbon is running light, but I know a place I can buy more. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

The place was 405 Dead Tree Lane. The hour was a few too many past midnight. Maxwell pulled up in his Chevy, dimming the headlights as he brought the massive boat of a car to a stop. He pulled the key from the ignition, fingering the keyring in his hand. This was the place, all right.

Years must ahve passed since the last time he set eyes on the place. Yet after all these years, it hadn’t changed a bit. Sure, the paint job was new, and the shutters reattached, but the sight alone still sent a chill up Maxwell’s spine. He had died here, after all.

It was almost too cliche to think of. The night was just like this–early fall, with a brisk chill in the air. Too early for the leaves to be dropping, though, and instead they clung to their branches like hanged men. They swayed in the breeze. The noise reminded him of rain.

Locking the car door behind him, Maxwell stood and started towards the house. One foot followed the other, and soon he was almost to the front door. There was a wreath hung there, strung together with oranges and reds. It was fitting for the season.

Tilting his head, Maxwell paid the wreath no mind and stepped through the door. Opening it was not an issue for him as he passed straight through it, wreath, glass, wood, and all. Maxwell shivered. Passing through objects was not easy to get used to.

Only the light in the upstairs hallway was on, and, curious, Maxwell made his way up the stairs.

A girl was standing there. She turned, slowly, to face Maxwell.

“Susanna?” Maxwell asked of the girl, smiling. He reached both hands out towards her. “You’ve grown so much, honey. Do you remember me? It’s me, Daddy.”

The girl cocked her head, tugging on one sleeve as she walked towards Maxwell, but then didn’t stop and went through him. He turned and moved in time to see her stop in the mirror behind him to check her hair.

The colors are flying. The winds have changed. NaNoWriMo is in the air.