I have mentioned Nanowrimo. I can’t explain it again. I’m too heart-broken.
I have decided against participating in National Novel Writing Month this year: I have too much to do with my Irish Lit class’ huge paper (which I am started to panic about a wee bit). This kills me, as my little sister is doing it, and I’ve done it for the past four years, and… and…. Grrr. I’ve dubbed this November NaPaWriMo: National Paper Writing Month. The idea is that I write a page and a half of my Irish Lit paper each day. My progress so far? Negligible.
Still, I couldn’t resist writing a little before breakfast this Monday, on November 1. For your reading pleasure, my completely unedited, auspicious, to-be-unfulfilled Nanowrimo. Call it a tribute to a Nano novel unwritten. Don’t judge. I hadn’t had caffeine yet.
The ancient Peruvians were known far and wide for their hot air balloons. This is a little known fact nowadays, but in their time they were quite famous. Ballooning can be quite technical; ballooning manufacture can be quite complicated. Above all, ballooning requires no small measure of bravery: A single man, aloft in the sky, at the mercy of the winds, with only ballast and fuel supply to determine his way. Ballooning requires a certain, shall we say, sensitivity. Once up, you cannot push off and steer too much. You have only the power to influence the forces already acting on her. Ballooning is above all learning to cope with what you have, learning to go with the air flow, as it were.
That is what our hero was telling himself as he floated high above the trees of his hometown in a stolen air balloon with very little ballast. It had been a quick getaway; he had not had time to outfit his chosen ship properly with sand. Sand was heavy. Very, unexpectedly heavy, even. A man on the run is not going to place much sand in a stolen hot air balloon. A man on the run with a rather, shall we say, lofty figure, is not going to stop and check over each supply of ballast.
He had made a quick getaway, at least. Little ballast, a blast from the fuel flare, and he was up above the canopy cover of his hometown, floating free as a bird.
Freer even, since he had not idea how he was going to descend.