The morning after the night before

So, like a good little Nanowrimoer, I stayed up till twelve last night, turned on the laptop, settled into this armchair where nine hours later I am sitting again, and tapped out the first 1071 words of my story. Whoo!

I am trying desperately not to edit it. I should be moving on, onwards, upwards, beyond! This urge to edit is a classic procrastination technique. It doesn't add squat to your word count, and you're only doing it because you don't know what happens next. Well, I don't know what happens next. I've left my main character to wake up in the morning after the night before, totally unoblivious that her dad has gone on a murderous rampage.

Io had a dream. Her puppy dogs, all nine of them, had drowned in the river, and she was wandering aimlessly up and down its banks, wailing like a banshee. At long last, distressed and dishevelled, she came across a man sitting comfortably on a log in the sunshine. The man was stocky and dark, with big strong arms. Into these he gathered her, and consoled her, using a piece of toast as a graphic aid to explain why the puppies had to die. Io felt the man's stubbled chin scratching against her forehead, and knew she was safe.

Then a tree growing by the river decided to drop one of its branches and it killed them both.

It was freaking one o'clock in the morning! I was tired. Perhaps tonight my characters will enjoy a happier end to their miserable lives.