This is my first draft for NaNoWriMo 2016 novel Write What You Know. It's only a rough draft with very minimal editing and will, more than likely, contain, typos, grammatical errors, plot holes, or conflicting descriptions. It also includes notes to myself and excerpts from the novel the MC is writing that I try to indicate through various formatting that doesn't always translate well with my limited html skills. Furthermore, this particular novel is... there's no delicate way to put this... this novel is fucked up. So, especially in this rough draft crazed sort of NaNoWriMo way of writing, it may be difficult to read or follow. I'm still posting it here because I want to shed more light on the process of writing to encourage and inspire other writers or readers who are interested. To learn more about this project, or my daily NaNoWriMo postings, please read Day 1-7.
Write What You Know, Part 9
By Stephanie Thompson, 1, 475 words
Read: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
That’s all lies, by the way, but it sounds like the truth. A truth. Some truth. Could you tell which was a truth and which was a lie? Christie can’t tell the difference anymore. Nikki never could.
You should have smashed her head with that damn thing. I hate those things.
I would like to know what we’re going to do with no job and where we’re going to stay without the publishers covering the hotel.
We’re not going anywhere. They are going to come groveling at our feet. Begging for more books. And we’re going to renegotiate our contract.
I thought you hated the books.
No, I hate what you’re doing with them. I can do them so much better.
But you don’t write…
I fucking live it and you’re doing it all wrong. I have much better direction from them. And I’m not afraid to tell the truth like you.
The real reasons that you killed What’s his face. Plus what’s really going on with Bronx Daggers too.
I don’t know. I think you’re going to mess everything up. It’s not like we can reboot the franchise or something. You’re not Batman.
Listen, trust me. Like I said, everything is different now. We aren’t fighting, we’re on the same team. I’m going to take care of you. I was the one there. I know what happened and it’s way better than where you’re trying to go with the fiction. Let’s go back to the hotel. That’s where Stella will go to find you, when she can’t reach you on your cell.
Where is it by the way? I know you know. I really need that back.
No, you don’t need it. They can track you with those you know? You don’t safe gaurd your privacy well enough. Or your private time. It’s not like you need to be in constant contact all the time. You’ve got me for company, you don’t need anyone else. None of those tweeters or 'grammers no you like I do. No one could. They’ve never understood us.
It’s not like we make a lot of sense. You don’t give people enough of a chance.
I’ve had enough of people.
Less than 24 hours ago he was assigned a new partner and now that new partner was dead. Somehow Detective O’Ryan felt responsible for that. Lieutenant Hutchins made him aware new assignment yesterday and Wes had entertained the idea of going round to introduce himself, size up the detective, maybe even get on his good side and by him a drink but he didn’t follow through. He had some paperwork he could finish off. Polish off a few cases before starting fresh with these New York Ripper cases in the morning. He worked instead of being friendly.
If he’d done that, maybe he wouldn’t be looking at his partner’s blood and guts splattered, trailed across the what was probably a pretty fucking disgusting room even before he died in it. By all accounts, Bronson probably would have refused the offer anyway. Then again if could have just delayed his leaving maybe whatever eventually led him to this horrible place, this horrible place where no one should be, maybe Bronson would still be alive.
“O’Ryan, no one knows anything. No one has seen anything. Nobody sees anything around here.”
“Okay, let’s try to retrace the detective footsteps, let’s see who he called, where he spent his money, and how he got here.”
He was working with Gimlet and Malone today. They both scribbled things in their notebooks like it was any other crime scene. They didn’t share his guilt.
“Let’s go back to the precinct and ask around for what he was doing yesterday end of shift.”
He couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. Out of the whole derelict building. He was literally repulsed from the place like an invisible force thrust him into the street. Like the foul, putrid air I had palpable strength, like winds at it’s back. The putrefaction birthing him into a welcomed freshness of outside. The neighborhood wasn’t great but even hell would’ve been better than that place. Even the heroin junkies were too goo for it. It was no place, no way for a cop to die. It was the sort of place where a monster would feed.
Now that Wes was hunting this monster down he hoped he wouldn’t fall into it’s lair too.
Words flowed out of like never before. She wasn’t planning on writing. She hadn’t felt like writing. Not for months now. Nothing had changed. She was in the same hotel room, which was getting in quite a state since she’d stop letting housekeeping in, she was still surrounded by the same noise of Time Square and the same bombardment of voices in her head.
Still the words flowed out of her and she felt alive. Like she’d been hit by lightning and it’s power moved through her. She hadn’t written like this since her first Nikki stories. Not ‘NRaged there were volumes and volumes of words before ‘NRaged. ‘NRaged is what happened when Nikki got bored. When Nikki wanted to be unleashed unto the world.
She should have known that wouldn’t be enough for her. It never was. But for once . . . Just once Nikki was right. They needed to be together to work as a team like they did once before as short a time as it was.
Nothing had ever been clearer than right now.
There was a task force now that Bronson was the ninth Ripper victim and somehow O’Ryan was in charge of it. By default really since he had literally inherited whatever case there had been. But now, in front dozen or so officers, he couldn’t think of a single fact or lead to follow. He looked at the white board, the one file box of manila folders, and two dozen 8 by 10 glossy pictures, and tried to figure out how it could all lead to nothing.
“Ok, so, nobody knows where Jack went when he left the precinct. Nobody can track down the associates or family of half he victims or trace their movements either. And since Detective Bronson we’ve had another murder for a grand total of 10 victims and with no signs of this sicko slowing down. So somebody tell me what we have got.”
There was a lot of silence, shifting feet, and downcast looks. At least they already feared him so his authority wasn’t in question. But he wasn’t going to last long in charge if he didn’t get results.
“We have that cell phone,” someone finally said.
“But tech is so backed up we don’t have any information on it,” said someone else.
“But we are sure that it’s not Detective Bronson,” said the first someone.
“How are we sure?” Wes asked.
“It’s in a bright pink case, sir.”
“But there’s nothing else to indicate that it’s not his for whatever reason.”
“We won’t know for sure until. . .”
“Someone bring me this goddamn phone, I’ll figure it out.”
The story continues in Part 10. Thanks for Reading!