Brain Fertilizer

No one bothered to remind me that NaNoWriMo was upon us.

I did think about it last week, but have been too busy/stressed to get around to it, and don't really feel up to fixing last year's novel or starting over from scratch with it.

But what the heck, nothing is ever lost from making the effort, so I'm starting off again, but this time with no earthly clue what the heck I'm going to write about. I just started writing and did 700 or so words in about 30 minutes. I figure I need to 2,500 words each day to catch up, so I'm going to shoot for 3k today. Only 2300 more to go! I have no idea what's going to happen, because I'm going to read this as I write it, just to see what crap comes out.

So, anyway, here's the crap so far:

It’s never pleasant waking up to the sensation of cold metal pressed against your skin. It’s even less pleasant when the scent of cordite and lubricant makes you realize a gun is being pressed firmly into your temple. Once I opened my eyes, however, what bothered me most was that from that angle, I couldn’t tell what kind of pistol it was.
I could see him, though. Or rather, her. She seemed a little young to have such a grim look on her face. On the other hand, she was grinding a firearm into my head. In our present anti-gun society, that takes a little bit of personal courage, or experience with firearms.
“You awake?” she asked.
I took my time in answering. She was fairly tall, which meant she’d top me. Blonde hair, but eyebrows dark enough to assume the blonde came out of a bottle. Green eyes, the kind that can change color according to mood, or the weather, or the clothes worn. Slender, probably, but it was hard to tell much, becuase she was wearing a leather biker’s jacket, complete with zippers and chains and studs, all a bright kelly green, which would account for her eyes. Her pants were gray, a soft velvet made tougher by some buckles near the cuff. She was dressed for show, not for business. Could I assume the pistol was part and parcel of the image?
I could not. No matter what else, it only took a few pounds of pressure to cause the hammer to fall, and if it struck a chambered round, all it might do to her is sully the image with some clashing red drops spattering on her green jacket. It would have a much more profound and long-term effect on my state of mind, so to speak.
Now, a knife would have been different. You’ve got to really know how to use a knife to make it effective, and I would have known instantly from the way she was holding it if she was any good...
But it was a pistol, not a knife. I’d have to bluff with the hand I was dealt. Luckily, I was good at bluffing.
“You know it’s unloaded, right?” I said.
“Nice try, Mr. Bond,” she said.
No, my name wasn’t actually Bond, James or otherwise. But I use that name a lot, because I’ve found that little mind games like that can give you an advantage, no matter how slight. You get them thinking about the possibility of your name actually being the same as a famous movie character, and they stop thinking about the story they’re trying to keep straight, or they stop paying attention to something else they might normally notice, like, say, that your left hand was out of sight and readying a weapon. I desperately wished my left hand was doing just that about now.
“Okay, you have me at a disadvantage. What can I do for you?” I said.
“That may take some explaining.”
“Fine. Do you normally start explanations with a gun to the head?” “Not always. Sometimes with a knee to the groin. Would you prefer that?” She enjoyed that, I could tell, by the little pixie grin that flashed across her features. It made me realize she had a fairly cute little pug nose, lightly dusted with freckles. Suddenly, she looked Irish.
“Not really, thanks for offering me the choice. But how about you put the gun down and we talk?”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Bond. May I call you James?”
“As long as you hold the gun, you can call me Bertha and make me write bad checks.” She enjoyed that one, too. If it weren’t for the lethal instrument directed at my head, I’d think I was doing fabulously well with her. I’m sure there’s a lesson about women and romance in there somewhere.

646 words, to be exact. And I have no more idea of why she feels she can't put the gun down than you do.

Isn't writing fun?