I won NaNoWriMo Camp 2023 during Disability Pride Month!: Fiction

So here's some more of my novel, y'all.

I did reset my goal to 55,000 words, from 60,000, because I have been struggling with my left eye. Blurred vision means no writing. And I do have to be kind to myself. I have my appointment set up at Duke University Hospital with the neuro eye specialist…for next January. Le sigh. Chronic illness and disability is in large part a waiting game and patience. For example, it took over seven years to receive my Social Security Disability. Yeah. And that’s my finale for Disability Pride Month: understand that when we seem to be doing nothing, we are trying to get the hold song from our specialist’s office or from the SS office out of our heads. It’s the most insidious earworm ever, and it’s been stuck there for years. We’re trying for zen and failing.

So. I met a more gentle goal! I am stopping now today at 55,314 words, because, if I don’t, I will keep going into the wee hours until I realize I am in a lot of pain and/or dizzy and/or ad nauseam. Pun intended. 17,943 words added to my novel, Watching the Detectives, plus inputting it into the Plottr app under the Horror Beat timeline/outline, also added chronological timeline to that outline, as well. Tags, places, characters, so much there there for every single scene. Plus I wrote each scene on a calendar for that year in my iPad, so I would have the days of the week, the holidays, and even the phases of the moon correct. So there’s a lot of important work added, not just words. I know exactly what needs to be done from here. It will be finished soon.

Plus, my horror work (is it becoming a novella? a novel? don’t know yet) with

Robert Ford

is at 7042 words, growing all this month through chats and emails and on the phone and a burgeoning file and comments back and forth on that file, and now a playlist, and we are both having the best time.

So that’s almost 25,000 words (some of those Bob’s, mind you :) ) written this month, not counting words written here all month, and starting our horror work from scratch, and growing my novel from the satisfying number of 37,371 to having a finish line in sight. Given that I cannot trust what my body is going to do every morning, that’s damn skippy.

I’ll say that calls for sharing another scene from my novel for everyone.

First the blurb, which I haven’t shared yet:

---

She's the all-American girl. She's disappeared. 

She's a klepto drama queen liar. She's disappeared. 

She's Daddy's little princess. She's disappeared. 

She's into sex games and sullen fits. She's disappeared. 

She's been taken. 

She's run away. 

She's staged it all. 

She's disappeared.

---

Then I’ll link the other scenes I have shared first:

Here’s the background, inspiration, and premise, with the prologue:

Then here’s a midway scene, before BeeGee (Beatrice Burchett) disappears, showing her relationships with some of her friends, The Peers, on the Stith College Settlers cheerleading team, a good look at her personality, and some foreshadowing. Did she make herself disappear? Endanger herself and get hurt? Or irritate the wrong person for the last time?

And now, a scene closer to the beginning, revealing BeeGee’s inner life and messed-up family for the first time. Her father, Amos, has no boundaries, and this is a huge part of the reason that Beatrice and her sister, Priscilla are the way they are…and are the reason they are named Beatrice Grace and Priscilla Alden. That would burden anyone. He especially has no boundaries with BeeGee, his prize project.

The fictional Stith College is close to where I live, in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, nestled there in the bowl of the Appalachian Mountains and the Massanutten Range, 30 minutes from nowhere (as they say about where I actually live), which is just how the rich and overinvolved parents of the students like it. Nowhere to go, no trouble to get into. Right?

They underestimate their troubled kids.

---

“Nice girls not a one with a defect

Cellophane shrink-wrapped so correct”

—“Watching the Detectives”, Elvis Costello

Her father, Amos, loved to tell the story of Beatrice’s birth, propriety of the audience be damned. Teachers at elementary school parent-teacher nights, Washington cronies over scotch and bourbon and cigar smoke and shiny mahogany power tables, again and again at family dinners.

Heard it before? Going to hear it again. Thank Baby Jesus, Melchior, Balthazar, and Caspar that it was a really short story.

“Doc told us that, being her first baby—“

If Martha were present—

and thankfully, more and more often she was not, having her own adult life, her own husband and her own children with their own thankfully mundane birth stories—

but if she were present, Martha would look away, biting her lower lip. 

In disgust? 

Chagrin? 

Shame because she was her father’s eldest, yet he spoke as if Beatrice were his Daddy’s girl, his oldest, his ride or die?

“Doc told us that, being her first baby, Busy Bea could take hours and hours. Those first babies love the dark and quiet in there, reluctant to come out, you see. Not her. Busy Bea Grace came into this world the way she does everything: quickly, on no one else’s schedule, taking command and screaming in our faces what she was going to do and how things were going to be done.” 

He always beamed across the dinner table at Beatrice at this point and half-raised his highball glass to her. 

“That’s our Beatrice Grace, either follow her or get out of her way, but don’t try to lead her or tell her what to do.”

“Funny, that”s exactly what that letter kicking her out of UVA said.” Priscilla—also born of a different mother and so as disgusted by the repetitive family story as Martha—

Priscilla would insert a chirp if given half a chance. “Isn’t that a fascinating coincidence?”

Beatrice would loudly counter that it was not her fault that Priscilla’s birth story was unknown to their beloved father, given that her whore mother slut White House intern had lied about Priscilla's existence until after her birth, some cutlery or easily pitched item of food would be thrown or threatened—

More than one baked potato had been sacrificed to this particular battle of birthright—

Then peacemaker Louisa, Beatrice and Henry’s mother, would raise her voice over the fray, would try to talk faster and louder than the eventual "Irish twins" comment, would state that she was everyone’s mother, try to beat Beatrice to her usual coup de grace—

calling Priscilla’s mother “Kneepads” or “Momma Lewinsky”—

and Louisa would clear the table and the room of Burchetts, flapping her arms and as sweetly as she could telling everyone to find their own corners, "the house is big enough, get out of sight of each other, I mean it".

Once their space were cleared of the human mess and left with the dinner mess, Louisa would quietly admonish Amos, trying to get him to match tone and mood, asking him why he must tell that story “when you know it pushes the girls’ buttons”.

“I don’t see the problem,” was his usual answer. “Martha’s mother is dead, God rest, and Priscilla knows who her mother is, and they have chosen not to have a relationship right now. That was a—tough time for all of us, and you’ve forgiven me. I think if my wife has forgiven me, then that is all that matters.”

Then Louisa would remind him that questions would always arise amongst the girls’ peers, how Beatrice could possibly be only seven months older than Pris. “Until they live farther apart, that is always going to be an issue.”

“Who says they are going to live apart? They are going to graduate, marry, and remain in NoVa just like Martha has. The Burchett name has been in Northern Virginia since practically the beginning of Virginia. They are just going to have to learn to get along to go along.”

Louisa would always sigh and say to herself as she cleared the table, "Thank God Beatrice was moved up a grade so they could have separate lives."

But they didn't. Not really. No thanks to Amos.

Beatrice looked like Amos, who called her, as freely as he told her birth story, his “best buddy”. The only thing they didn't share was height; her short height made her a nimble rock climber and a talented flyer on the cheerleading team. Priscilla, who had inherited his impressive height, was a base, supporting flyers and forming the bottom of pyramids and other such stunts.

Amos’ reddish-brown hair and red beard became Beatrice’s strawberry blonde horse’s mane, which slid into darker auburn at the tips. She amused herself by using her hair to chameleon: in this picture she was a lady, sleek Capitol Hill, pale-fronted chignon and pearls; in this photo she was wild two-tone curls and torn blue jeans, an experienced smoky-eyed neo-hippie at Lockn’ music festival in Nelson County; and here in this photo, with beautifully tamed waves contained in a big bow, and with perfected wide-eyed makeup, she was everybody’s fantasy of a young, strong cheerleader.

She alone shared rock-climbing and mountain hiking with her father. Amos and Beatrice would make pilgrimages to The North Face and buy fleece, paracord, and new boots like other daddies and daughters bought new school clothes and Barbies. From him she learned the tummy-dip of the terrifying challenge. Starting in the gym, with those toe- and handholds that looked to her like giant pieces of chewed gum, then moving to real natural granite outside, he would goad, tease, praise, and humiliate her to take the more difficult grip, the more dangerous toehold. In the beginning, she cried, but only silently, tears and snot running into her ears and down into the hollow of her clavicle, wetting the straps of her harnesses and making her face itch but she never rubbed her face no she didn’t she was Daddy’s brave soldier she was tougher than any old pedestrian temporary discomfort yes she was. 

By high school, she demanded his aggressive pushes, and relished every single bruise and scrape, every cheek rash from newly ignored fear tears, every fingernail peeled back beyond the quick, every toenail rubbed down by the top of a steel-tipped hiking boot as it shoved into an unforgiving rock crevice again and again. These wounds made her feel like some ancient pagan earth goddess, arising forcefully to be worshipped from the earth…but she still carefully covered them every single one artfully with makeup and jewelry and professional manicures. Perfect public face with volcanic fire underneath. Pele with an Aphrodite face. She always smirked to herself when playing Tori Amos' third album in her car. Boys for Pele, indeed. Bring them. Bring them to her fire.

Her public and private stories were like her appearance—strangely fluid. Public Beatrice Grace Burchett was the second daughter in an established Northern Virginia—NoVa—family, born in 1994, yes, seven months before her younger

half shhhhh we don’t talk about that

sister, Priscilla. Her family was well-behaved, wealthy, and photogenic. Big white teeth, big white smiles, and big white trust funds. She was raised in a gated bedroom community in Virginia’s horse country with her father, mother, younger brother, and two sisters, the eldest of whom was from a tragic first marriage 

whisper: cancer. 

She was tough, fierce, yet gracious and also that ever-present Southern cooed compliment “sweet”. Bless her heart. Always sweet. She knew from sweet. Sweetened iced tea ran in her veins. During high school, she completed extra credit and bonus points on her college applications by teaching patients in the hospital pediatric unit to knit and crochet.

Sweet like hard candy that cracked molars and ruined expensive veneers. Sweet like jawbreakers. People didn’t necessarily gravitate to her for the normal reasons—her smile, the sound of her laugh, her beauty—but rather her determination and drive. She made people want to be taught and led by her...but they didn’t necessarily like it—or her. But they learned from it, yes they did, and they climbed that ladder of success, and that’s what they wanted. BeeGee took people places. The Burchett name took people places. Friendship was for preschool and the rest home. BeeGee wasn’t here for that shit. She only held hands during games of Red Rover, when she could clothesline an innocent child and knock them down. 

Red Rover Red Rover send Priscilla right OVER

Red Rover Red Rover send MARTHA RIGHT OVER

And when she had to fake the pageantry while waiting to receive a cheerleading award. And people accepted that, and took what they could get and didn't pitch a fit. Her charisma and her bright smile was too strong for them to do otherwise.

She was raised to excel, and so she did: cross-country team, dressage, academic competitions, cheerleading competitions, and rock climbing with her father. She relished heights, more of a high she could ever gain from long-distance running or jumping horses, so those fell away. Plus Priscilla wasn't ever interested in rock climbing, so that was a bonus.

Beatrice honed in with ferocity in public on cheerleading, and became, by hook or crook, every team’s main flyer, the girl who was tossed into the air farther than the rooftops, higher than the treetops, for everyone’s focus. For that one breathless moment every routine, everyone only watched that high flyer, and she knew it.

She could die each time, and she relished that tickle. She knew she mustn’t, it might break her concentration, her tight tuck and her what-next in the air, but, as she reached the summit, she loved to look down, down at the now small teammates that were the only thing between her and shattered bones

10, 12 feet in the air higher next time higher

and think I am so much more powerful than you I can fly I could fly away look how small you are I could purposely land on you I could deliberately crush you I could kill you you know kill you

And then another perfect catch and dismount and landing, to a cheering screaming crowd.

She did the same thing in private, both having sex, and climbing with her father. She would look down at Root from the team or Timothy from UVA and think 

I could clench my thighs right now and you might not be able to breathe I could wrap my hands around your neck and crush your windpipe right now I am in complete control I could kill you right now kill you

you have your eyes closed you stupid fucking little boy you don't even know me 

You could flip me over and break my neck right this second no one knows I am here you could kill me 

did you want to kill that girl you think I don’t know but I do know do you think about her while you’re inside me you could kill me right now 

and she would come aggressively and with a soaring feeling she couldn’t achieve otherwise.

She would reach a dangerous or crucial point in the climb that required all her attention, and she would deliberately look down, risking her safety, risking Amos’ safety, her limbs quivering from exertion, vertigo molesting her edges, trying to reach under her lizard brain’s skirt with its clammy hands

and think 

I can fly I could just jump look how small everything else is I could kill us both I could just let go I could kill you malefactor big word for a little girl maybe I’ll fly I am in complete control I could kill you you know kill you

BeeGee loved those suspended high-air private moments of being a secret psycho. With her team. With her lovers. With her father.

BeeGee was only BeeGee with The Peers, her clique of friends at college. She had been Beatrice in school, sometimes experimenting with the Italian pronunciation of  it—Bea-ah-TREE-cheh—once she started reading Machiavelli and Dante and about the Borgia family. But now she was BeeGee. And she liked it—it was tight and precise, just like her. But only with The Peers. 

Everyone else—acquaintances, professors, new friends, new dates, knew Beatrice, the Beatrice of drive and iced tea, grace and ferocity, Beatrice who took no shit from any one, but who would also let and expect a gentleman to open doors for her. They had just better. Beatrice was a debutante who had a silver pattern picked out. Beatrice had gone to Daddy-Daughter dances. Beatrice had a Purity Ring that she had accepted in front of a room full of fathers and daughters, wearing a white dress with her beloved Daddy.

(Beatrice had then proceeded to lose her virginity at thirteen wearing nothing but that Purity Ring and that fluffy white dress, in a cloakroom of her posh private school, to an eighteen-year-old, because she found it amusing, and what would Daddy think?) Beatrice Grace was a true blue old-school debutante, yes she really was, announced in all the newspapers.

BeeGee…BeeGee was the secret psycho in the air.

BeeGee was always secretly afraid, carrying apprehension and dread in this tight kangaroo pouch behind her sternum and stomach, expecting a Phone Call or a Letter or a Visit from Father, or from the Great Yet Unknown. 

BeeGee was afraid she wouldn’t push herself to fly higher on that next toss, and was afraid she would. 

BeeGee was fearful of fucking the next guy on the first date, and she was afraid she wouldn’t. 

BeeGee was afraid she would keep fucking her friends, and she was afraid they would stop fucking her.

BeeGee was afraid that she would never fully figure out and solve the lovehate pushpull envious relationship she had with her sister, Priscilla, and she was afraid she would.

BeeGee was afraid she would never again take that glorious X buzz cocktail that Alexandra had discovered—one X plus one purple pill that Ex wouldn't divulge just trust me plus one Benadryl—that made BeeGee’s fingertips numb and her pubic hair electric, and she was afraid she would. 

BeeGee was afraid that cocktail would kill or damage her one of these times, and she was afraid it wouldn't.

BeeGee was afraid she might die the next time she snuck off solo hiking, and she was afraid she wouldn’t.

BeeGee was afraid she liked and hated food more than she liked and hated men.

BeeGee deeply envied everyone else for not having this constant push-pull within them. She deeply envied everyone else for not having a sister shadow that pushed ahead and led like an older sister and pestered and festered like a younger sister. She looked at Bendy Gwendy and KateBait and Root and Rock and envied them their self-ease. They just sat there without their insides eating their way out. Without wanting something else. Without envying anyone else anything. She sometimes hated them for it. She sometimes felt closer to Ex for her inner chaos and anxiety attacks. 

BeeGee hated herself for needing Ex to be more messed up than she was herself, and she was grateful that she was.

BeeGee did not even completely know BeeGee. She didn't know Beatrice. And she knew it. And it frightened her more than anything else ever had. And she shoved that knowledge deeper, deep behind the kanga pouch, in the musty, uncharted dark of her self, into the depths of the dormant volcano. No defects. Pele is perfect. Aphrodite is perfect. Not one with a defect. No Burchett with a defect. Daddy said so.

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And, I’ll share the secret behind Stith College, and a little more besides. I’ll put it behind the paywall because, well, it’s kind of a secret, but I’ll add the 7 days free button. Help yourself. This will allow you to access the podcast on here as well. Have fun, then cancel, as you wish. Or don’t, and put me that little bit closer to upgrading Giles, the oldster MacBook running Catalina. (Don’t tell him, he is as sensitive as his namesake Rupert.)