The Awake People

by Deneen Ansley

Writing began on 1 November, 2007.

NaNoWriMo 2007 Participant


30 Day
1 1738 1738 1738 1738 1666
2   1738 869 2607 1664
3   1738 580 3187 1723
4 1091 2829 708 3895 1787
5 1174 4003 801 4696 1814
6   4003 668 5364 1839
7 2663 6666 673 6037 1916
8   6666 589 6626 1884
9 923 7589 626 7252 1969
10   2019
11   2019
12   2019
13   2019
14   2019
15   2019
16   2019
17   2019
18   2019
19   2020
20   2020
21   2020
22   2020
23   2020
24   2020
25   2020
26   2020
27   2020
28   2020
29   2020
30   2020



The number of words written each day - the word count history loaded from your Nanowrimo profile.


The cumulative word count, computed by summing all of the word count history loaded from your Nanowrimo profile. Note A black line will be drawn each time the word count passes a multiple of 10,000, to mark the passing of a major milestone.

Average Pace

Computed as the running average of daily numbers of words written, with outlier values removed

Projected Wordcount

The projected wordcount takes the running average pace and keeps a running total. Using this value it's possible to guess how long NaNoWriMo will take, given any level of output.

30 Day Expected

Assuming that the aim is to finish NaNoWriMo in a fixed length of time, rather than sprinting for the finish line, the expected values in this column are the amount of words needed per day to get there. The values are adjusted up or down depending on how things are going, compensating for good and bad days of progress.


These are values that fall outside of the statistical range representing 95% of the population. Simply put, they're the truly exceptional days where the wordcount got a rocket boost, or things truly sucked! Outliers are shown in larger, bold text in the table.


She’s stunning. - And young. Too young.

Those eyes. Green. Or, are they blue? Hard to tell.

Long, lean legs. Blonde hair. Styled. Highlights. Probably spoiled brat, but…no. Too much wisdom, too much pain.

My God! She’s spotted me! She’s looking at me! Right at me! I’m caught!

She’ll know! People will see that I find her attractive. They’ll all know that I’m a woman who likes women! I must shield myself. My intentions. My thoughts.

My eyes! Must divert! Why can’t I control my damned eyes?

Where are her parents? For God’s sake, Darcy! Get hold of yourself! Is she even legal?


Darcy Dirk stood outside the ebony, ornate doors of the Sanctuary of Our Loving Savior Fire Baptized Baptist Church, the slight wind gently blowing back her cream trench coat, making it billow around her and flap in a way that resembled an injured bird trying to regain it’s use of flight. Her blonde hair whipped about her face, curling toward her lips, helping to enhance her sultry looks. She wasn’t even aware of the picture that she made, there on the cobblestone - standing legs slightly apart, grey A-line skirt pulled tightly against the outline of her form. No, Darcy Dirk was having another of her common conversations with herself. Variations on a similar theme. What were other people thinking? What were other people thinking about HER?

She worried about her mode of dress, her fashion sense. About her mannerisms. Her face. Darcy Dirk worried a LOT about her face. The way that it looked on the outside - and that part of herself that she presented to people.

Lately, she’d been worried about more than was typical. She was getting a LOT of attention these days. It was quite unusual for a woman in her thirties to suddenly have people flocking to her. Now, when she was the age of the little blonde, sure! She’d have expected it!

These days, though, she felt as if she WERE the age of the little blonde. People kept coming up to her to have conversations. People that she didn’t know. Happy people. People who liked her. People who wanted nothing from her. At least, nothing that she could, as of yet, uncover. Rich people. Poor people. Old people. Yes, and some young ones.

This made Darcy Dirk worry. Darcy Dirk worried a lot. You see, Darcy Dirk was crazy.

She was not “having a good time on Saturday Night” kind of crazy. No. She was certifiable. Borderline, they called it. Borderline Personality Disorder. No personality of her own. No self of her own. Even her laugh was borrowed. She had to adopt traits from others. Sometimes, the others weren’t the cream of the crop.

So, she’d gotten herself a couple of divorces. A criminal record. A therapy bill that was in collections.

Thank goodness she’d not been able to have children! She’d have probably screwed that up too! At least, that’s what she thought. That’s what everyone expected of her. At least, THAT’S what she thought.


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