NaNoWriMo Project: Ms. B, Beanie, and the Beat Up Bug

By the time December 1st comes around, I hope to have 50,000 words of my newest novel completed.

I am currently one week into in National Novel Writing Month. I’ve successfully completed NaNoWriMo in 2009, 2018, and 2019… so while I’m confident, I also feel a bit out of practice. Novels are hard.

The *tentative* title of this middle grade novel is Ms. B, Beanie, and the Beat Up Bug. It includes a cross-country trip, a shy sixth grader on the cusp of growing up, and an eccentric grandma who is reluctantly leading the charge.

Something about this project feels different. It feels scary.

For one, I’ve never written a middle grade novel before, and I have no idea why I thought it would be easy. (One week into November and I can say: IT IS VERY MUCH NOT EASY.) I had a clear vision of the start of the book and a clear vision of the end. The middle? God help me.

But also, this story has lived inside of me for a few years. I’ve played around with these characters for a while and have written multiple flash fiction pieces from their POV. Those always come easy to me, and I can feel them living just below the skin. The problem is expanding them into fully fleshed out characters and doing them justice.

My plan for December is to check out a handful of current middle grade novels from the library and read, read, read. Getting a sense for what books kids read now-a-days will help guide my re-write. More than anything, I want this project to be fun. I want to make my younger self proud.

Here’s a small excerpt from a part of the novel! Keep in mind that it is a very first draft. I hope you enjoy it.

***

As soon as I was out the front door of the school, I was immediately hit with the obnoxious sounds of a blaring horn, coming right from the beat up bug. Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!

My heavy bag bounced against my back as I raced towards it. “I’m here, I’m here!” I yelled, flinging open the passenger door. “Stop honking!”

“I have to show that front office staff that I disapprove of your behavior or else they’ll come after me,” Ms. B said, peering out behind me as if she were being hunted. She gestured for me to hurry up and sit, while harshly laying her hand on the steering wheel horn. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

I quickly ducked into the car, sinking low into the seat. I wanted to ask Ms. B how repeatedly beeping the horn showed that she disapproved of my behavior, but I was side-tracked by the iron sitting by my feet. I picked it up. “Um, why is this here?” 

She peered at me from the corner of her eye, a sheepish grin on her face. “I kept going back to the house thinking I forgot to unplug the iron. After the third time, I figured I’d just take it with me.” Beep-beep-beep.

“Makes sense.” Because for Ms. B, that did make sense.

“Seatbelt?”

“Check,” I said, clicking my seatbelt into place.

“Then kiss your school goodbye!” she yelled, pressing her foot down on the pedal. Hard. With a final beep! we zoomed away, the school disappearing behind us in a blur.

“I still have one more day of school,” I said after we were out on the open road.

“That’s what you think.” Ms. B laughed, a raspy harsh sound that came out in short gasps. Others laugh like ha-ha-ha. Ms. B laughs more like keh-keh-keh-keh.

I turned to get a good look at Ms. B. She was wrapped tightly in her lavender robe with her white hair in at least twenty rollers. Based on her outfit, you’d think it was early morning and not late afternoon. Ms. B was what you would call a “late riser.” Then again, Ms. B was a lot of things. 

I guess I didn’t do a good job of describing Ms. B earlier. I’m not sure how I can describe Ms. B… but for your sake, I’ll try.

To start, the fact that she’s my grandmother and yet I call her “Ms. B” probably says something, yeah? 

Ms. B is short for her first name, but I don’t know if that’s Beatrice or Bobbie or Beluga Whale. She won’t tell me. Whenever I ask her, she says, “I am Ms. B. End of discussion.”

According to legend (…or Dad…), that is the name she picked for herself whenever I was born. The story goes that Ms. B came to visit me in the hospital. There I was, all swaddled in blankets, probably red-faced and screaming. When my parents told her my name — Penelope Jean — she had scrunched up her nose. “Feels a little formal for a baby.” Dad had to remind her that I wouldn’t always be a baby.

When my mom asked her what she wished to be called, she said, “Ms. B.” 

To which Dad replied, “Why can’t you be something normal, like Nana or Gammy or Grandma?” 

To which Ms. B replied, “Because I am Ms. B.”

So I guess Dad and Ms. B have been arguing since the very start.

One thing is for sure: the B doesn’t stand for Brave. Ms. B was terrified of everything. You name it, she had nightmares about it. She put three smoke detectors in the kitchen because she was afraid of fires. When she turned seventy, she covered all the mirrors in our house because she was frightened of aging. She even got Dad to install security camera on the outside of her bedroom window because she was frightened of intruders – both the human kind and the furry kind. (Apparently, when she was around my age, a raccoon sliced its way into her childhood home through the screen in her bedroom window. She had woken up to it eating her Halloween candy… So I understand that fear.)

For the first few years of my life, Ms. B stayed within the four walls of our home. She wouldn’t even go to the mailbox and back, rattling off a long list of things that could go wrong. She could step wrong and twist her ankle. She could get attacked by a bird that built a nest in the mailbox. She could get stuck in a conversation with the neighbors.

But when my mom left us, that’s when everything changed. Ms. B stepped up. She agreed to take a more active role in raising me, but she would only ever leave the house on three conditions:

1. She was the driver.
2. She drove her beat up bug.
3. There was something fun that happened to make the trip worth it for her. (To Ms. B that usually meant: yard sales.)

In the winter, this itch could be satisfied through estate sales and thrift shops. But the other three seasons? Yard sales, yard sales, yard sales. We always had to clean out her beat up bug before we left for any trip, even down to the grocery store, because it would be returning to the house filled to the brim. Dad called it all junk. But to Ms. B, it was precious treasure.

***

I’m currently a little behind on the daily word count so excuse me while I hole myself up in my apartment for the remainder of the month. I’ll check back in December. Wish me, Ms. B, and Beanie good luck!

Header picture from Pinterest