NaNoWriMo: Day 1 complete. 1706 words. Most of them are incoherent ramblings. My brain feels like it has been forcefully removed from my skull, trampled on, and stuffed back in through my ear. It would be nice if my muse worked, but that would be cheating, right? 29 days to go!
I did, however, manage to write an opening I don't mind.
Little Grindlog was known only for two things: being the birthplace of the Water Edict of 1016, and secondly, as home to the renowned authoress Thorberta Ivytoes. In all other respects it was an ordinary, unremarkable village nestled in the Red Valley with barely a dot to show for itself on a map. It had a village square, like any proper village should, with a small market of ordinary, unremarkable goods. Not like the market in Clayster’s Crossing at all. There one could purchase jewelry fashioned from dragon scales, berries from the Coast, ceramics from the northern factories, clothing spun from fine elven threads, or anything a gnomish heart could desire.
But this story does not begin in Clayster’s Crossing. In fact, the stories worth telling quite often begin in places like Little Grindlog: small, ordinary, and unremarkable. Places, usually, very much like our own.