Just a friendly warning: the following pages and pages are drivel—pointless discussions that go nowhere. As I discussed in writing for me, I’m posting the following because I wrote it and that’s what I do: post things I write. While I probably could just post this without a warning, a little part of me (which is shrinking every day) shouts about not wanting to bore the reader and lose my audience. We won’t get into what audience I’m talking about, since besides friends and family (and Julies!), nobody reads this stuff. But that’s okay (see above musing for selfish retort). Enough dancing and delaying: here’s the crap you’ve been waiting for:
Just write! I’ve tried this before, but this time I’m going to complete it. The idea is to write a story without editing or changing it until it is complete. No looking back, rereading, and editing a part. No nothing except new words placed one after the next. Only the last sentence may be reread, but not changed, to create continuity. I’m talking but not actually doing. I have no idea what story I will tell or how it will come out, but there’s only way to find out:
The sun rose early that morning. Most tales start somewhere, and it’s usually at the beginning of a day. This one is no different. The hero is usually introduced here as well. Let’s meet him, then. He’s a tall man, taller than most men that live in his small village. His arms are the size of the farthest twigs in an oak tree. You were probably thinking that our hero was strong, with arms the size of the trunk of the oak tree. This is not that type of story. I’ll tell you right up front that our hero is not much of a hero. He’s going to be given a choice early in his life, and he’s going to choose wrong. That choice is going to haunt him and shape who he is for most of his life. The ending isn’t going to be happy. If you’re one of those people who wants to read happy endings, then you should put this story down now. I felt it only fair that I warn you before you devote anymore time to reading this story. That way, when you reach the end, you won’t be disappointed. You’ll look back at this introduction and believe me. You’ll see that I didn’t try to hide anything from you. But now I’m just shifting my feet, trying to distract you and prevent you from reading the story. I’ll stop now. You’ve been warned and that’s all I can do. How you choose to waste your time is your business.
Fred looked down at his thin arms. Twigs. Each twig even had its own knob at the elbow. When he straightened his arms, they bent backwards at the knob. That’s the thing about knobs. They cause bends. Fred used his twig arms to chop wood. The axe, an unsharpened blade that was never intended to cut wood, would split the wood, but it required a backward momentum that had taken Fred many years to get right. During that time, he could have purchased a new axe. The inheritance he received from his dead mother would have covered that, but that wasn’t the point.
A horrible start, but at least you’re writing something without editing. What you really need is to go beyond this. You need a germ of an idea that you can use to put something down. Starting from nowhere will lead you there in the end. Does that lead me back to the planning again? I am afraid that didn’t work as well. I need a combination of the two. Most importantly, I need to write every day every minute that I can. I have to stop relying on fake stimulants to put words down. I have to train myself to write when I have nothing to say and write when I have no energy to do so. This has to be enjoyable. Remember the times when you’ve found your rhythm and you couldn’t type fast enough with all the words that wanted to get out? I remember that time, but it happened too infrequently. What if I have nothing to say? Then say nothing! You’ve been through this before and you’ve tried. But the words aren’t always there. Sometimes the blank screen is all that stares back at me until I get a little kick. Is that what you’re scared of? You’ll visit the doctor and he’ll tell you, “no more caffeine,” and you’ll have to give up this dream of yours?
This isn’t much of a dream. Most people fail at this, and I am no different. But I’m an arrogant SOB, and I’m willing to do it until it works. I’m going to put the hours into telling these stories until there are no stories left to tell. Stop with the negative thoughts and get back to it. What story do you want to tell? I don’t really care. I just want to tell something. Your characters don’t live in your head. I’ve read interviews with authors, one of which said that her favorite part of writing was right before she put the pen to paper. Her characters would start living in her head and she would watch them develop until the story materialized. Then she’d start translating those characters from her head to the paper. This never happens for me.
I wanted to draw when I was young. I became rather proficient at copying pictures, but I couldn’t draw something that wasn’t in front of me. I couldn’t take a picture in my head and translate it onto paper. I think I was unfair when I was young. I don’t think many people can do that. Even the “great” artists performed studies of their subjects before they produced their final piece. They would sketch out the parts of the picture until they were comfortable with their understanding of the piece. I guess it’s disingenuous to say that they saw pictures in their minds. After drawing hundred of thousands, if not millions, of images, they were able to sketch pictures from their head, more from muscle memory than from copying the pictures that appeared in their mind.
That’s the trick. The reason you have to write so much to be able to write, is that you need to create a basic set of tools that you can always fall back on. The tools allow you to create scenes and characters without fretting about the mechanics.
But again I find myself babbling about the method and not actually following through with the method. There is no such thing as something new, everything has been done before or at least seen before. “There’s nothing new under the sun.” “There’s more to the universe than is explained in your science and philosophy.” (Okay, so both of those quotations are paraphrased, but you understand the gist.) Keep writing!
I tried to go online to find story ideas. But that was just an excuse not to write. I would have to write twice as much as this to write 50,000 words in a month. That’s 25 days at 2,000 words per day. I’ve been thinking of doing that November-write-a-novel contest. It’s not exactly a contest, but more a challenge to show that you can write a novel. Most of the 6,000 people who actually finished the 50,000 created crap. Okay, all the people who finished created crap. But a few went on, after proving to themselves that they could finish, to write real novels, interesting ones that were published. This might be a good exercise for you. All the words above here have not been edited. These are just a dump of thoughts without the editorial comments that will come later when I reread and fix up the language so it makes more sense for the reader.
Again, I babble about form and forget about content. I’m thinking about entering that contest. I’ll produce crap, but it will be 2,000 words per day of crap and that would be an amazing exercise for me. What story would I tell? It doesn’t make a difference. It will be crap, so you might as well make it something you don’t care much about. How am I to tell 2,000 words a day if I don’t care about it? That’s too much writing not to care about. I’d have to set up a schedule and figure out how many words I’d need to tell everyday. That’s easy: 2,000 per day for 25 days. That’s a lot of words, and I don’t use “a lot” without some degree of control. My reason for doing this is two fold: first, I want to prove that I can write that much and tell a story (even if it’s a bad, stupid story); second, I want to write the three hours or so every night that’s required to complete this project. This feels like the calm before the storm, if I’m actually going to do this marathon. I’m running out of ideas to get my writing kick started.
Okay, so you’re going to do this in two weeks. What are you going to tell? You should at least partly plan out the story so you know what to write. I’d hate for you to get started and end up not writing anything because you had no where to go with it. This writing with no rereading is very refreshing. I know I’m writing nothing of value, but it feels like I’m completing quality and not worrying about what it is I’m (not) saying.
I have two weeks to plan what it is I want to say. That’s more than enough time. What’s the genre? It’s obvious: fantasy, enough of this “real” shit. We’re going to live in the fake world and see how I do in there. Okay. Should I work out my Goblin/Native American story? No, I’m going to drop the Native American part. I’m not a good researcher. It’ll all have to be made up on my own. We have Goblins living in a village that the humans are pushing out. The Goblins are being driven out. Is it Human or human? It’s lowercase for humans, so it should be lower case for Goblins. Goblins aren’t men, they’re gobs, and female goblins? Wogobs? Wogeb? Or are the male goblins, mags, and the females gobs. Yup. That’s it: the females are gobs, and the males are mags. The protagonist, a gob? This gob will age when the humans are driving the gobs out of their homeland. Are they evil? No, they live in tribes and they’re less “civilized,” as the humans define it. But they’re not evil. Will we follow the human invaders as well as the gobs? Show how they’re attacking and taking the gobs land? There will be a confrontation at the end where the gobs are wiped out, and the protagonist falls to the humans’ sword. You always design such happy ending stories. Yup. I’m good that way.
And on the humans’ side? Who will we follow? What is the protagonist there? Is it someone who sees the goblin genocide as a mistake? Or someone who sees it as the expansion, and right, of the humans? Yup. The human we follow is older. He’s the leader of the military arm of the human expansion. It’s his job to follow the order of the leaders of the human civilization, and command the armies. No, that’s getting too much into the politics. I want more of a squad leader human.
Story idea: old man, trying to get his coffee cup refilled. He walks using a walker with four wheels. Sounds…interesting?
Should I cheat and get started now? Or keep planning. Planning is more important now. I should write at one point in the day, and edit at another. Or should I just write and write, and only once I’m finished writing sit down and edit? That’s probably a sounder plan. This is word 1,910. None of these words are useful, but I wanted to give you an idea of what the word count would amount to that you would have to finish every day. And the words that you would complete could not just be thoughts on what you want to write. They would have to be actually words that would forward (or at least pretend to forward) the story. I’m not sure if I can do that. I end up talking and talk and saying so little. This is 2,000. Sad, huh?
I’m exhausted. Tired. When I get this way, everything acquires a fuzzy tint—I’m not sure tints can be fuzzy. I’ll have to ask the judges for a ruling on that later. I stare at an object until its meaning disappears and I lose visual focus. Sounds stretch over time, so a door slamming reverberates off the walls and ceiling until I manage to blink my lids over my glassy eyeballs and I forget all about the sound. As I stare at these words on the screen, they flash across moments where whole paragraphs appear and disappear, thoughts rise and drop in flaming balls, until, until what? Until I spew my uncooked thoughts across my questionable sanity.
I’m sure there are some people who are going to read the above drivel and roll their eyes. How can he write this, they will say, and, more importantly, how can he post it and subject his defenseless readers to his poorly edited thoughts? Those are all good questions. And I have answers to those important, if feebly articulated, questions.
I had previously hinted at participating in the National Novel Writing Month or Nanowrimo, as it is disgustingly known. Because of some threats and belittlement, which I will discuss later, I now find myself in the position of having to follow through with this course. Nanowrimo is an event that occurs every November during which aspiring novelists (or others who are gluttons for punishment, or Type-A personalities who are always looking for a challenge, think of people who climb mountains—with or without oxygen, since there’s a difference in the risk or “commitment” level of the two—or run across the desert with thimbles of water) from around the world (the aspiring novelists, that is) attempt to write a 50,000 word novel to (1) prove to themselves (and others) that they can write a novel; and (2) ah, hell. I don’t remember. But those people over in Nanowrimo, besides selling out by writing books about Nanowrimo, have a good FAQ that discusses these very subjects.
The important thing to discuss, at least for this musing, is why I am doing it? and of equal interest, what have I gotten myself into? I’ll answer the second question once I get started. It’s hard to know how something feels until you are knee deep in it (that always brings up images of brave adventurers wading through a few feet of liquidly shit). As to the first, I’m doing it because I need some structure to prove to myself that I can do this writing thing. I’ve attempted to set deadlines for myself (see 2 week deadlines), but those have usually flown by with little to show for them. I joined Nanowrimo with dreams of returning to my school days, where procrastination was possible, but at the end, I always finished the project. (I was just too scared of authority to do anything but finish the project.) Those are the rational reasons. But there are more interesting reasons that are much closer to the truth of why I’m going to subject myself to this punishment.
First (this is a separate list from the last paragraph, in case you were wondering), thousands of other hacks around the country will attempt to write 50,000 words. How can I possibly live with myself if they accomplish this and I fail? I mean, really, I’m much better than them: better educated, better looking, and I have good grammar skills—think about it, I know the difference between which and that, and (and this is an important and) I have mastered the use of the parenthesis and em-dash, what more evidence does one need?
Second, I’ve already dug myself into a wide hole with slanted and slimy walls. After reading my last entry, Chuck, the inspiration for updating my website (you remember: no English Lit. major was going to have a better looking and functioning website than a Computer Science/Philosophy major with an impeccable eye for style and brains the size of—okay, I’ll leave that one to your imagination), told me how he had read about this November event many years ago and kept putting off participating because, and here’s where he got creative, time commitments, lack of dedication, general laziness concerns, hairstyle appointments, transporting in-laws to the airport, wasting his “good” ideas on a poorly formed writing exercise, Fall cleaning obligations, something he blithely referred to as “work,” and, get this, the rugs in his house needed shampooing in November. Shampooing! (In the off-event that said English Lit. major attempts to question the veracity of my summarization of said English Lit. major’s excuses, let it be known that he has, on more than one occasion, falsified any one of the following: e-mail messages, conversations over pizza, philosophical debates while drinking Sake in a dark forest, and words in languages other than English.)
To continue, after I received the aforementioned (there’s a word I see way too often and should be forthwith banned from the English language) message, I immediately responded by much prodding, belittling, and generally questioning the length of said English Lit. major’s manhood. Much to my chagrin, Chuck has picked up the gauntlet and signed up to participate in this year’s Nanowrimo. He will join in questing to write 50,000 words through November.
The trick to this contest is that quality is not important; only quantity is. Editing is frowned upon and the two to three (to five) hours spent each day should be used to produce new words, i.e., more words that further the story, not new words that will be reviewed by the various committees that decide which words will be added to the dictionary and which will languish in the depths of internet chatrooms and message boards. For example, as of this sentence, this entry falls in around 845 words (943 words, once I added some amusing asides and other useless words by the criminally inane editing), well short of the 2,000 words I will need to produce each day to have a chance at finishing at the 50,000 word count at the end of November. The 845 words (stopping the clock to perform some simple mathematics) took me about 45 minutes to complete. In all fairness, I spent at least 15 minutes editing this entry to make it readable to the consuming public, a practice which I will have to foreswear (way too many fore words today) to have a chance at completing the goal. At this rate, I will need to spend about two hours of non-editing writing time each day for 25 days to be able to say that I completed the quest; thus, I will have saved the princess, collected enough jewels to reunite the pieces of the magical staff—which will be used to vanquish (since killing will not be, in the case of magical creatures and evil POTUS’s, enough) the evil overlord that has thrown the previously peaceful digital world into chaos—and obtained the highest score on level four, the maze level where two dragons give chase through hallways that are strangely reminiscent of an age of computer games where all the walls of a level look the same.
But I digress. The real (real) reason I am entering this contest, and reason number three, if you were counting, is because of a promise Julie made (which she now tries to disclaim): she said, and I quote, “as soon as you write your first book, I will support you.” Without regard for what I just said (and with the understanding that I will swear, promise, stand up in court and in general deny what I am going to type), I’m not sure if those are the exact words that she used, or even if that was the message that she was trying to get across, but as I already said, I will stick with my interpretation of her words, since that gives me hope of a life of lying on the beach and drinking umbrella drinks. In short, she has given me the choice of living the charmed life of writing while she slaves away, poking patients and running around in her white coat with heart-listener-thingy-with-tubes-and-earpiece hanging over her neck, or continuing to run the rat race that has become my life. I think writing 50,000 words in November is a fair tradeoff to get closer to that dreamy state.
Julie now claims, after she made all the above promises, including swearing using a ceremonial knife that, in previously incarnations, kings had used to swear the allegiance of their countries (we’re talking countries here, not mere promises of support!), that I would be “bored” and not like the life of a restful, philosophical existence, where I would spend the day thinking and writing well-received (and best-selling) literature (those are her words, not mine, paraphrased words, but nonetheless, her words). To think, she thinks I would rather work at my dream job than spend all day pounding my head against a computer trying to squeeze out just one more creative thought or well-formed sentence. What kind of drugs is she on?
With all of that said, I did want to tell you, dear reader, what it’s in for you. You have taken this long, long journey with me, reading all my musings in the hope of getting inside my brain and understanding, however shallowly, what makes me tick. In return, you will have the grand opportunity to read approximately (on most good days, and, for my benefit, let’s hope most of the days are good) 2,000 words each and every day in November. That’s correct: not only will I write that many words, I will turn around and post them in the evening. I know you’re asking yourself how it is you could have lucked out. Just think of this as my little gift to you.
Now that I’ve dug myself an even bigger hole with my large fingers, let’s hope I actually do this thing. I was leaning toward telling a story about a simple woodcrafter who builds chairs for a local temple, a story that I had outlined when I first started writing again, but never started or typed up my outline, but now I’m leaning toward telling the Pink Sweater story. I always liked that story and here’s the perfect time to completely ruin the telling of it. I have two more weeks to think about what I will write about.
In all seriousness (and, yes, for the most part, almost everything I write, particularly in musing form, is a feeble attempt at humor, complete with exaggeration, sarcasm, and deprecation aimed at myself and others), I am very happy that Chuck has decided to join me in participating in Nanowrimo. While the Nanowrimo website offers plenty of forums to discuss the pains and aggravations of this marathon, I’m not much of a forum guy. I’d rather have a trusted few who cheers me along and share in my aggravation and pains. And, of course, Julies is going to be there. She’s already threatened all sorts of violence if I don’t follow through with my plans.
Now it’s just a matter of setting aside the time and actually doing it. I won’t bother presenting any excuses, but I will try to write longer musings from now until I start. Once I start, I will post what I write and show a progress bar toward my goal.
Yesterday, I attempted to drink Mountain Dew instead of a tall mocha and write. The result was a paragraph of saying nothing, followed by a long, unending silence. It took a tall mocha from my friendly, neighborhood “We Proudly Brew” Starbucks coffee outlet to get back into this writing thing. My experiment yesterday proved one thing: to complete this contest, I will have to drink lots and lots of Starbucks. Oh, the sacrifices that I will make!
Word count for today: 1,988. Not a great total, especially since it’s generally easier to write musings than fiction, but a respectful output for today. And, yes, just by writing this description of the word count, I pushed myself over the 2,000 word count: 2,033 (in case you were counting, and, no, I will not count again since I added this aside; okay, I will, but this is the last time, I promise: 2,061).
It’s me again. Did you miss me? My training for Nanowrimo continues with this entry.
According to my trusty calendar, I have 11 days before D-day, the day that it all begins: the start of my new life of luxury and relaxation. Oh, wait. I’m thinking of my retirement day. Wrong day. In 11 days the writing marathon begins, and with it the chance to prove to myself (I won’t say “once and for all” because I don’t want to either never write again if I fail, or think that I’m going to be successful as a writer if the writing marathon succeeds) whether I can dig down into places that “I don’t talk about at cocktail parties” and find the mental energy to write. I don’t know why that line about cocktail parties entertains me so much, but I use it often; more in talking than writing, but there it is. It’s paraphrased from Jack Nicholson’s final speech in A Few Good Men and refers to the quaint discussions found at Yuppie parties, where the topics range from the fastest way to get across town during rush hour to the terrible way that our country treats poor people, and what a shame it is, and, by the way, would you like a refill on your Sapphire Martini?
If I can find the energy and commitment to make it through the 25 days in November, then I think good things will happen with my writing. A huge wall for me is the fear of not finding things to write about. When I stare at the blank computer screen, I begin to doubt whether I have things to talk about, or whether I will end up repeating myself endlessly (which is sort of like that last thought, a thought I’ve expressed countless times before and will no doubt express countless more times going forward). My hope is that once I get over this hump and prove that I can write new (if boring and poorly edited) things every day, then there is this infinite well of ideas and thoughts that I can share and the blank page will no longer scare me. At one time I had started naming my fears. I can’t remember if the blank page was a Carl or Lenny demon, but it doesn’t matter. It is one of my biggest demons and something I try to fight every time I sit down to write.
I’ve spent some time thinking about what I want to write in November. As I said in my last posting, I moved away from the Chair story back to the Pink Sweater story. If you remember, the original Pink Sweater story is about a little girl who wants to be a writer (sound familiar, except for the little part, oh, and the girl part?). The little girl writes a story about a girl who finds/is given a magical Pink Sweater that grants her powers. The trick to the story within the story is that the girl is afraid to remove the sweater for fear of losing her powers. Eventually, her school refuses to let her attend until she stops wearing her ragged, smelly sweater. Hilarity ensues, and eventually the girl must choose whether to gain acceptance of her friends and family by taking off the sweater, or continue wearing it. The story worked on two levels: first, the fear of removing the sweater. Would she lose the powers granted by it? Is it worth taking the risk? And second, the weighing of the sweater’s powers against the acceptance of her friends, family, and school officials—i.e., if she could do great things with her sweater, is it better to accept the ridicule and be an outcast, or give in to the pressure and not do the great things. This, for me, is a common theme that I like to think about. It reminds me of Ayn Rand’s Roark and my former boss Doug.
But the Pink Sweater story part was a late addition. The main part of the story, as I originally outlined it, is about how the little girl gives the story to her teacher, in the hopes of her teacher validating her desires to be a writer. Weeks pass and her teacher give no feedback. The teacher finally discusses the story during the teacher-parent-student conference that the little girl and her mother attend. Her mother, however, has other plans for her daughter. She sees her daughter as a doctor or lawyer, not as a starving writer, and belittles her daughter’s attempts at writing. “It’s just a hobby,” she tells the teacher. “She wants to be a lawyer, and this is just a way for her to practice her writing. No, she won’t need information on any writing classes. As I said, this is just a passing fad for her.” The little girl sits quietly and, like the girl in her story, must choose between her mother’s acceptance and pursuing her dreams of writing.
As you can see, I gave this story some thought, but I never wrote it. I did start a few times, only to find myself at dead ends. It was a cute story, but I had problems with the little girl’s voice and providing the context for the family relations. In short, I grew bored with the concept. I have many notes on this story, but I won’t link to them since you probably wouldn’t follow the links. Another “twist” that I had synopsized (or skeletonized, as Julie and her doctor friends say) was the teacher, who, herself, was either a failed writer or failed administrator. It’s the teacher, at the end, who takes the Pink Sweater and finishes it years after the little girl grows up and becomes a famous oncologist. The ending the teacher chooses: something about the girl deciding to give up the sweater and becoming popular with the children and teachers who had once made fun of her. What good was the power of the sweater when you couldn’t get people to like you, she would think.
But what fascinated me more than the mother/daughter/teacher relationship, or even the corny ending, is the Pink Sweater story. I love the idea that the magical pink sweater would become worn and smelly, and the choice that the little girl (or any wearer of the sweater) will have to make to continue using its powers. The rest of the story is rather artificial, and its main character is an aspiring writer, something that is a no-no for most stories (mostly, I’m guessing, because there are so many stories about writers written by writers. “Write what you know,” is what they tell us. But what do we know more about than the horror that is writing? The best example of a successful writer-as-main-character story is John Irving’s The World According to Garp. I think I like that book particularly because Garp, the writer/protagonist, ends up living the good life: writing for a living, and not otherwise working. (Spoiler alert: That he dies a gruesome death at the end is unimportant. John Irving did a wonderful job of forwarding his philosophy that novels are just long obituaries—i.e., everyone dies in the end, and that’s as good as any place to end a story.) I don’t know why I keep returning to this dream, but you did ask about it.
A few nights ago, as I was lying in bed, thinking about what I had gotten myself into by agreeing to the Marathon (that’s the name I’ll use for it from now on—it makes it sound more athletic, like I’m competing in something that requires lots of spaghetti the night before), fighting down the excitement mixed liberally with fear, I began thinking about the story. As I said before, I initially thought about telling the Chair story. I even thought about a first line, which I recorded on my phone before falling to sleep. I listened to it about 30 seconds ago before erasing it. Of course, knowing my horrendous short-term memory, which is only slightly better than my long-term memory, I promptly forgot what it is I recorded before typing it here. It wasn’t a very memorable line: something about living a life of regrets (you should have heard my sleepy voice in the recording). I spent some time going through the Chair story in my mind and remembering the storylines I had developed. At the end of that exercise (or perhaps it was the next day), I discovered why I never followed through with the story. It bored me. If I could create great, memorable characters and an interesting town, then the story would be interesting. But knowing my experience and talents (or lack thereof), I didn’t think I would be able to do that, and I still don’t think I could do that. It just doesn’t seem my style. The story synopsis, when I thought about it, reminded me (give me a second while I find this on Amazon) of Richard Russo’s Empire Falls (wow, lots of book references today), which is about interesting characters in an interesting locale, and a moderately uninteresting storyline. His story is good (Pulitzer Prize wining, if that matters or impresses you) because of the interesting characters and locale. Without it, the story would be boring and painful to read.
So, I was lying in bed, thinking through the Chair story when I decided that I didn’t want to dig up my notes on it and tell that story. Even though it was well planned out (I think I had even written an outline of the major events and characters), it bored me. That’s when I started to rethink the Pink Sweater story. There were a few problems with that story. The most glaring one in my mind was that it was more of a children’s story. When you have a child as the main character, the sophistication of the thoughts can be limited. Looking back, that’s one of the reasons that I thought the mother or teacher would make a better narrator, but, of course, that creates problems as well. How could I tell a complete story from such a limited perspective? The main problem, however, is what I discussed before. The mother/teacher/little girl part of the story just wasn’t as interesting to me anymore. I was more interested in hearing about the Pink Sweater. But the story of the Pink Sweater was even worse when it came to characters and locale. It took place at a school and the main characters were the little girl, her parents, and the little girl’s friends and teachers. Not what I would consider the most interesting characters to live with (at least from an adult’s perspective).
That’s when the eureka moment occurred. What if instead of a little girl wearing the sweater, it came into the possession of an older person, perhaps an older male person. Perhaps, an older, male, cynical person—someone like, I don’t know, myself? (That is not to say that the main character is going to be me or have anything to do with me. It’s just his voice I’m talking about.) This started to come together with fighting the Carl Demon I discussed above: I’m pretty good with writing lots of stuff in musing form using this voice, but when I try to write fiction, I find myself limited by what I can say and how I say it. If I adopt this first-person voice (think of Chuck Palahniuk’s narrator, the same guy story after story) and use it to tell a story, a story about a pink sweater and magical powers, and rescuing damsels in distress (okay, perhaps the last part is going too far), then the words might flow more easily.
That’s about as far as I’ve gotten with this idea. I’m going to spend the next 11 days planning this story and arriving at a decent synopsis and characterization. What I do know is that the man with the pink sweater (MWTPS) is going to find himself with the same conflict between wearing the smelly sweater and taking it off. I’m thinking of an anti-hero scenario, where he wants to help people with his powers, but, first, can’t find where to help people (it’s not like you can just walk around and find crimes to stop), and, second, is ridiculed because of the pink sweater. His job (which I’m not sure what it’s going to be) will be at risk, as will his relationships. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
These ideas, which are swirling contently in my head, I will try to develop over the next couple of weeks. For now, I’m approaching the 2,000 word goal for the day. I’m thinking from Julie’s reaction yesterday that fewer and fewer people will read these long entries. I’m okay with that. I’m actually probably more than okay, especially once November rolls around. I’m not sure if I really want people reading the drivel (I’m using this word often lately) that comes out of my mouth…errr…fingers.
Word count before editing: 2,060, time before editing: 1 hour. Caffeination: Vanilla Coke and Tall Mocha. Word count after editing: 2,208, editing time: 15 minutes.
Today’s a tough, rainy day. I almost ducked out without writing, but here I am. Not so much wide-eyed and bushy tailed, but at least typing and trying to say enough to meet the day’s quota. (I don’t know how I’m going to get a real word count without including these asides about quotas and moods—you know, consternating about writing. I know, I know: it’s so rare and unexpected that I would do such a thing. Just as an example, this useless parenthetical is good for at least thirty or forty words.) The caffeine has only started to flow, and it might take me a bit to get into this.
I just returned from a wet golf outing. We walked around nine holes while the weather alternated between cold mist and freezing rain. Before driving to the course, we looked outside and seeing the rain assumed that the outing would be cancelled and we would bask in the warmth of free beer and the after-golf party food. The powers-that-be (and I’m still not sure exactly what they’re being, but I do know they weren’t being considerate in allowing us to stay dry) had other thoughts. From what the only real golfer on our six-some told us, golf, for golfers, was fun even in bad weather. He went on to say that there was little difference between golfing in the rain and the sunshine. You hit about the same, and it’s never as good as you were hoping. While I wasn’t too concerned about how well I hit, I was hoping not to stand out in the rain for two hours. I’ve been told that there’s no medical basis for the old wives’ tale that promises terrible, deathly sickness if you run around with a wet head in the cold. I’d like to present some anecdotal evidence against that: I’ve been coughing pretty heavily since returning to work after running around for two hours with a wet head on a cold, Seattle day. (Update: my cough has since gone away. I give credit to the cure-all that is caffeine.) As for my hitting (golf hitting, not general slapping-game skills, which are excellent, if you ever want to challenge me), I did take a couple of good whacks at the ball, but I don’t think I’ll be leaving my day job (or evening quasi-job—you know, writing) anytime soon.
I ended up leaving the golf outing early with a good excuse. My commuting buddy had a 4pm meeting. I missed all the yummy free food and drinks, but it was a small price to pay for getting back here in time to type. I was afraid if I put writing this off until tonight it would not get done, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The golf outing was the first time I played golf since I was 9-years old or so. I am not counting mini-golf, or putt-putt, as it is not-so-affectionately known to those who play golf, because “real” golf can have no name-relation to a game where you shoot a ball into a clown’s mouth; and I’m not counting the driving range because that’s not much of a game. You just hit the ball as hard as possible in the direction of the guy driving the cart trying to pick up the hit balls. While it is a sport in some senses of the word, it’s certainly not golf. I don’t remember why we went golfing at the time, or with whom, but I do remember it was a short nine-hole course and I did not show the promise of a young, budding superstar. Remember, as a child, I wasn’t much of an athlete. I only grew into my lanky body late in college. I was a late bloomer, if you will. I think it’s the price that all of us immortals have to pay for being immortal. But I digress and reveal too many secrets. Except for the weather, the outing would have been fun. As it was, plodding through mud and dodging lightning bolts wasn’t much of a good time, but that might just have been me.
Julie is arriving tonight for the weekend. Yeah! It has been a long week for me, and I’m looking forward to relaxing with her. If you asked her, Julie would claim that her week has been longer, but I know better. She’s no longer on her hell rotation (you remember, the OB night-float where she would come home every morning more exhausted than the last one only to fall asleep and wake up less than eight-hours later and drag herself out of bed, kicking and screaming, to drive back to work), and I’ve told her that it’s time that she return to her normal state of happy-go-lucky, optimism, the you-know-that-large-flowers-will-grow-even-on-that-huge,-smelly-mound-of-shit-attitude. You see, it is my heartfelt belief that Julie and I cannot both be complainers. As a general rule, in any relationship there needs to be a complainer and complain-ee. It is like the cycle of life. If everyone, all willy-nilly, complains, then the cycle of life would stop turning and, well, you know, bad things would happen: death, destruction, John Ashcroft would get his own talk show, and the gods will be angered; we’re talking apocalypse anger. To avoid that unpleasantness, I volunteer to assume my natural role as the complainer. With that settled, Julie must resume her role as the complain-ee, i.e., someone who listens and provides sympathetic nods and sounds. It’s either that or the Early Morning show with John Ashcroft. I’ll let Julie decide.
I already warned Julie that I will continue writing the 2,000 words on Saturday and Sunday to warm up for the Marathon. Chuck has decided not to post any of his consternations or thoughts before the November start. Perhaps it would be better that way. My fear is that if I keep writing this drivel (and, yes, I will use that word in every musing from now until the start of the Marathon), I will wear myself out before I even start. But I’m lying to myself. The only reason I think it would be better to forgo this warm-up period is because I’m tired on this gloomy Friday. The words aren’t flowing like they have the last two days, and the caffeine hasn’t taken hold. There is a company party going on in the other part of the cafeteria where I usually write. One of the partygoers is giving a speech, which I can almost hear but not quite. I definitely heard a top-ten list, but he has since moved on. The speaker must be good because the audience roars with laughter at intervals, strumming my buzzing nerves. Ah, now there’s a second person talking. He’s obviously not as funny as the first, because the audience is only giving him polite chuckles, as if to say, “you’re not as funny as the last guy, but you probably have some say over my career, so I’m going to at least make an effort at appearing amused, or at least as amused as the girl next to me.”
But that’s enough of that. I’m going to pull myself through this low energy part and continue typing even if I have nothing to say. That’s what I’m here for: to try to learn to say something when nothing is happening. As for my lame excuse, one of my hopes after finishing Nanowrimo is to continue writing at least 2,000 words every day. The more you write, the better you write, and the easier it is to write. It’s like going to the gym: if you go every day, then it’s not a chore. But if you skip a day or a week, getting back into it is difficult. (I don’t even want to think how I’m going to go back to the gym after I’ve taken the last two weeks off.)
Sorry for the delay, but I had to leave the cafeteria. The noise level combined with my impending anxiety caused by the caffeine rush placed me a state that made it impossible to stay where I was. Now I’m in the lobby on my customary, evening cushy chair pounding away on the keyboard. I’ve gone back up and edited the entry. Now that the caffeine has kicked in, I was able to rewrite my previous thoughts to increase their breadth, length, and amusement value. I know I said I wasn’t going to edit, or at least try not to edit, but I want to make a revision to that rule: it is okay to edit if either (a) by editing you will significantly lengthen the writing; or (b) you’ve finished your writing for the day and feel energized enough to edit it.
You’re probably wondering if I have anything of importance to talk about today, or if I was just going to babble my 2,000 words away. I was leaning toward the babbling choice today, but I guess I should at least talk about my story. To recap, last we left our hapless hero, he was wearing a magical pink sweater. We knew nothing else about him, except that he was probably cynical and was telling the story about his sweater. I’ve already chosen the voice, as I indicated last time: it’s going to be told from the first-person perspective, from his perspective, that is. What I haven’t decided was whether it would be present or past tense, and why he would be telling the story.
For short stories, it is now acceptable to use the first person, present tense. While present tense would be the easier tense (since I wouldn’t have to explain why he is telling the story—it would be assumed that the reader would just be watching the narrator as he lived his life), my gut feeling, which will probably change many times before I start, and too many times while I’m writing, is that the story should be told in past tense, where the narrator is looking back over what has happened. That opens up two more choices: will the narrator explain why he’s telling the story, or will the reader not know the purpose of the narrative. There’s a term for all of these mechanics, but I’m not a lit. major. I do remember reading about all these choices with glazy eyes when I was trying to better myself by learning the mechanics of storytelling. (It’s now obvious, in retrospect, that all that studying did not amount to much.)
It will probably be easier to figure out these answers once I have a better handle on the plot and characters. Seeing as I don’t think I’m going to accomplish much today in the way of original ideas about the story—I’m finding that I do my best thinking right before bedtime, when I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to see my story’s characters living their lives—I might as well organize the questions that I will have to solve before I sit down to write the story in ten days.
(Damn, ten days does not seem like a long time. Skimming through the message board, I’m reading posts by all these people who are excited about starting the storytelling. Hell, even Chuck, for all his screaming and bitching like a little girl—not that little girls bitch more than, say, little boys, but I did grow up sexist and it’s difficult to not make fun of guys by calling them girls or lay-off the fat jokes, but I am trying!—is excited about starting the writing. I’m more nervous than anything else. I know that the first few days will determine if I can move from writing 2,000 word musings to 2,000 word stories. And, yes, I’ve already accepted that the story won’t be up to my usual requirements for a good story. Hell, none of my stories have been up to my requirements. What I do know, however, is that it has to better than some of the unpublished (or, worse, self-published) shit that I’ve been reading from the aspiring writers that use Nanowrimo to further their writing skills. Damn, there’s my egotism again showing its scary fangs. I guess I shouldn’t make fun of those writers. Many of them are high school or college students who are trying to develop their writing chops. Imagine if I had done that while in school! But we won’t go there now. I can have a long, long discussion about missed opportunities and where I would be today if things were different. But as my good friend Steven has told me, if I had taken different paths, I would not be the person that I am today, and that would change everything, even my writing skills and desires.)
Okay. I got off track on that last paragraph. I did want to talk more about my story, but I have passed my quota for today and I have to getting moving. If I leave now, I might be able to get home and take a shower before Julie gets here. Here are some final thoughts that I didn’t get to: questions for the story: narrator’s name; what type of job; any relationships; and in general, who is this guy?
Writing time: 2 hours (some time should be taken away from that for ceiling staring and moving around waiting for the caffeine to kick in); Word Count: 2,178; Caffeination: Tall Mocha. After edit word count (including this paragraph): 2,257; Edit time: 20 minutes.
I’m writing this early and without caffeine. It’s obviously doomed for failure, but I figured I’d try. What’s the harm in a little trying, right? I attempted to dream about my book last night. I have been having luck staring at the ceiling before I go to sleep and imaging the characters and story. That is where a couple of days ago I screamed, “eureka,” (okay, screamed is not the right word. It was more of an internalized, boy, that would be an interesting twist thought) after discovering that the little girl with the pink sweater doesn’t have to be a little girl. (And a few nights before that, I dreamed about the Chair story and recorded the first line, which I promptly forgot after listening but not immediately transcribing. As I said before, you missed nothing.) (I was very close to erasing the last parenthetical during editing, but since I’m determined not to turn these musings/pre-Nanowrimo writings into edit-fests, I resisted the urge. While I am editing, it’s more to put down additional ideas I would have had when I first wrote, but for not being fully awake and properly caffeinated this morning. Of course, I won’t take any consolation from knowing that this aside, while completely useless in almost every way, nonetheless increased my word count for the day and moves me toward the less, and less elusive goal of 2,000 words. At least not much consolation.)
The ceilings in the Castle aren’t particularly entertaining, which gets my mind into the proper state for thinking about other things. If the ceilings were too interesting, then I probably would never think anything. It’s hard for me to sit down and just think. Even these exercises in writing aren’t real thinking. Thinking involves concentrating on following a series of thoughts through to their conclusion. While writing sometimes accomplishes this, for me, it’s more like I’m painting a series of understood—at least at unconscious levels—ideas with a palette brush. It’s during the pauses between typing that I find myself thinking, and if I don’t try to catch those thoughts quickly, poof, they’ll vanish. That’s one of the reasons I don’t do real thinking that often: The act of recording breaks the thinking spell, which leaves me without new thoughts to record, because the very act of recording stops the thoughts. That didn’t make much sense, and I’m not even sure it’s true, but there you have it.
Where I was going with this before I attempted to explain the act of real thinking was that yesterday I dreamed about the narrator of the pink sweater. I’m now waffling on whether to make the main character a young boy told through the eyes of his grown-up self. These seem like such silly questions for a Saturday morning. This is going to be one of those entries. So, if you’re bored already, I’d recommend putting down the paper (or pressing the back button or whatever link you usually use to escape this site, e.g., soap opera digest), and doing other things.
Wow, the consternations have begun early today. I’ll have to check, but I’m thinking this is a sort of record for me (it would have been a record if I hadn’t edited the last few paragraphs and added gobs of useless thoughts before the last consternation). One advantage I have found to writing everyday is that I find myself having little to talk about in my every day life. This is good. When there’s much going on in my life, I tend to focus my writing on those things exclusively, which lets my less interesting, but more important, discussions about my stories languish. As for the consternations, I don’t think I can do anything about them (wait, I keep forgetting that I’m an optimist now—happy thoughts! I’ll subjugate those evil thoughts to my will! Be gone, Carl demons! Damn, it didn’t work). When writing about nothing, or, worse complaining about nothing, I end up babbling endlessly for hours and hours, which may sound like fun, and may, if used correctly, pad my Nanowrimo story toward the 50,000 word goal, but in the end it pains me when I return to edit the babbles: Reading my babbles leaves me with too many questions about my sanity.
Julie woke up before I was able to finish writing this morning. She sat next to me on the living-room couch and stared at me until I finally gave up and turned off the computer. We just finished shopping in the Bellevue mall and we stopped by the local bucks of stars so I could finish my quota for today. I’ve just finished going back through the first part of this musing and completing the thoughts that I should have written this morning. Having finally run out of things to talk about, I’m finally at the point where some original thought about my story would be useful to get me past the halfway mark. Let’s see where this brings me.
One of the ideas I had this morning while taking a shower (another place where I can fully concentrate on nothing except the relaxing scalding water and the empty depths of my mind), was a physical cost for using the sweater’s magic. Most fantasy books that have magic usually include some cost for its use. Just like doing anything difficult in life has a cost: think of practicing incessantly for writing or any difficult feat, or the wrecking of the body for professional athletes. When something comes too easy, too many people do it and it becomes devalued and less interesting. Getting back to the shower, there was a book—I think it was called Thinner, although I never read it—about a person getting skinnier until he wasted away. I’m not sure if this was a horror or ironic (if that’s a genre now) story, but that was the main theme. It might have been made into a movie, which would be why I would remember it (I didn’t read it, and I usually don’t remember books I see in the bookstore or read reviews of). My weight has always been a problem for me. While most of the people around me struggled to lose weight, I would struggle to gain weight. At one time, my mother offered me significant amounts of money to break across certain weight goals.
Yesterday, Julie made comments about how I looked skinnier. When I don’t go to the gym, I tend not to eat as much (unless I’m getting lots of free food, which I will usually scarf down unless it’s buffet style, in which case I’ll eat it only if it’s high quality and clean), and I lose weight. I’ve not gone to the gym over the last two weeks because Scott, my Seattle-gym buddy, has been away. I’ve probably lost a few pounds because of that, and Julie noticed. She has since tried to withdraw yesterday’s comments, but the cat’s already out of the bag—I’m not sure which bag or what a cat is doing in it, but you know how much I love those clichés. Getting back to her comments, as I was showering this morning, I thought about my problems with weight and the narrator’s magic. As I said, magic is more interesting if it has a cost. The sweater’s magic already has a cost to the narrator, but it’s more of a cost created by his uncertainty, not the sweater’s price. The narrator can take off the sweater at any time and see what happens.
Whoa. I hadn’t even followed the main idea through to its conclusion. If the narrator doesn’t take off the sweater—I mean never takes off the sweater, not even to shower—he’ll probably have worse issues than a smelly sweater. Would he also be scared to wash it? How far will his psychosis go? The sweater, like the Lord of the Ring’s One Ring, will have a hold over its wearer. This hold is created less by the magic itself than by the thought of losing that magic. I’ve thought about this in a different context. Imagine if you had a winning lotto ticket. No, imagine it is the winning lotto ticket, the one-hundred million dollar ticket. What would you do to keep it safe? Would you leave it alone or stay with it at all the time? Who would you tell? Would you take a shower knowing you’d have to leave it lying on the sink for a moment? Would you hold it, risking ripping it or squeezing it too tight, or put it in your bag and hope it doesn’t fall out. These are the thoughts, and, more importantly, the feelings, that are going to go through the narrator’s head. It’s not too difficult to imagine how I would handle that situation: complete and utter paranoia comes to mind. But it should be interesting from the narrator and story’s perspective.
Finishing this thought, it’s going to be difficult for the narrator to do much once he gets the sweater on. In the beginning, before he understands what the powers of the sweater are, he might take it off. But after he fully appreciates what he has, he going to find himself in a tight spiral of fear. What he finds at the end might be what makes this an interesting story (I’ll leave it to you to define “interesting.”)
Getting back to my penultimate thought, the narrator will be getting skinnier and skinnier as he wears the sweater, as its magic uses more and more of his energy and body fat. He’ll probably start off more on the thin side anyway, something he’ll be self-conscious of (particularly his thin-thin wrists—where do I come up with this non-personal information? Oh, wait. This is all stuff from my life. Fuck.) Why wouldn’t he eat more or use the magic of the sweater to reverse the weight loss? Before I can answer any of those questions, I’d have to understand the nature of the sweater’s magic, something I know nothing about. I have way too much thinking to do between now and November 1. That’s nine days from now. I’m swallowing my fears and consternations now. I have to keep reminding myself that this is not high-quality writing that I’m planning to do. This is only first draft material. I’m going to throw whatever is in my mind on that day against the wall and hope it has something to do with the story. These broad strokes that I’ve been writing about the last few days are just a way to get some guidance on which wall to throw the thoughts onto. I’d hate to end up splattering the wrong wall.
I almost went back to the beginning to try to edit in the last 500 words. I don’t think that would have worked. Instead, I should continue this thinking and try to arrive at more ideas for the story. The narrator is going to need more people around him. I’m leaning toward him working as a salesman in a large corporation. I know something about corporations so it won’t be too much of a stretch. The sweater is going to allow him to get ahead in the company, at least in the beginning. Or perhaps it won’t. More details.
Why was he given the sweater? (There are so many thoughts I had while dreaming that I forgot to record. It’s good that they’re surfacing again. I hate losing thoughts. The book I’m reading now, The best American Nonrequired Readings from 2004 edited by Dave Eggers, has an introduction by Viggo Mortensen, from how he’s introduced, I assume he’s an author of some merit. He tells a story about how many of his notebooks that he had written poems and thoughts in while working and living in Africa were stolen. Out of everything that the thief took from his bag, that was the worst of it. He hated to lose ideas. I feel the same way. When I work so hard to come up with them, it’s difficult to see them vanish.) I had given some thought to his grandma, the person who gives him the pink sweater. (The sweater doesn’t have to be pink—I’ve been giving that a lot of thought as well.)
I imagine his grandma as a cranky person, who knows she’s cranky, but accepts that it’s a symptom of aging. She’s a smart lady with a high pitched voice who is full of wisdom that the narrator doesn’t accept. He likes her, but more because her cynicism reminds him of himself. I’ll have to develop that part more. But getting back to the grandma, she’s going to play an important part in this. How does she create the sweater and does she know what she’s giving her grandson? Why is she giving it to him? I don’t have any answers today. I don’t even know if the grandma angle is the correct one, but I want to give this more thought. She needs a motive. Everyone needs motives.
I’m losing steam. Luckily, the loss occurred at around 1,700 words, and I was able to pour out the last few paragraphs to push me over the 2,000 word limit. Word count: 2,060; Time: one hour in Starbucks and thirty minutes this morning. Caffeination: tall mocha. Word count after editing: 2,238; editing time: 18 minutes.
I’m starting this late with a headache. But I’m here and I’m typing. I’m in that wonderful place I mentioned briefly yesterday, where I have nothing to say about life. It’s wonderful because my hope is that it will prod my muse into talking about my story. That’s not completely true. I do have one thing to talk about: Julie is at the airport waiting to go home now. I’m becoming repetitive by saying this, but we had a wonderful weekend and I miss her already. It’s getting more difficult for me to watch her leave when she visits. In another year and a half we won’t have to worry about this anymore, but between now and then is a long time and, if you’ll excuse my pathetic word choice, it sucks. I miss holding her, wrapping my arms around her warm body and finding the crevices for my head and hands, like the grasping arms of the stuffed monkey that holds on tight. As I said, there will come a day where I won’t need such thoughts, but that day seems so far away, especially when I’m sitting alone in the bucks.
It has been nice writing every day. I don’t have to worry about trying to guess what day it is when I save the file (I name all my files by date). I just add one to the last day. I am beginning to understand what Stephen King in his book On Writing was talking about when he wrote about writing everyday. He once told reporters that the only days he took off were New Years and Columbus day (or something silly like that), but he was lying. He never took a day off from writing (well, at least until he a car hit him. Then he took days off, but that wasn’t by choice). Writing for me is becoming cathartic and easier. It’s not easy in that I can say something of value. What is easier is just writing my thoughts, putting words on the paper and not having to worry about simple things, like how do I want to say that, or should I even say that? Writing without editing (or editing following my newfound rules) silences my inner critic and more directly links my brain to my fingers, in the way that my brain is linked to my throat when talking.
My head has been delicate today. I hate waking up with the beginnings of a headache. I know there’s not much I can do with it. The best I can hope for is to turn over and go back to sleep and try waking up again. Sometime it works, but more usual, I wake up with the same or worse headache. Thankfully, by the time I arrived at the bucks, my headache had receded to a mere murmur in the back of my brain. As long as I didn’t move my head too fast or stare at the screen for too long, the headache has agreed to keep its distance. The problem with headaches, besides hurting terribly and ruining perfectly good days, is that they’re also unreliable. We’ll see how long this one keeps its promise.
I’ve been reading more of the Nanowrimo forums as of late. While my initial reaction was that they were filled by talent-free hacks, I’ve been reading through some decent writing that has forced me to reevaluate my quick judgments. That’s something I’m not good at: quick judgments. I’m awful when I first meet people. My first reaction, whether negative or positive, can almost never be trusted. It’s not the always wrong reaction, which would be easy to fix by just reversing my initial thought—you know, dumb person becomes smart, ala the great episode where George Castanza of “Seinfeld” decided to spend the day doing the opposite of what he thought he should do. That was the episode where he received a job with the Yankees and bedded a girl, or at least that’s what I hazily remember. It was a great episode, either way. Getting back to me, I’m wrong about half the time with my initial reactions and I find myself missing out on potentially good acquaintances or opportunities by judging so quickly.
There are some good writers participating in the Nanowrimo. There are also many, many students—you can tell them by their livejournal websites—who aspire to write and have many years to find out that there are many better aspirations. But I enjoy reading forums; I like understanding a community and seeing how people interact. I’ll keep reading the forums and trying to find inspiration there. What harm can there be in that?
I’ve cleared my throat enough for one day. It’s time I continued the planning of the story. Over the last few days, I’ve been making large, drastic changes, and I have a feeling that by next week (remember, the start of November is only eight days away—I’m having trouble counting days. Am I supposed to include today? Should I include November 1? Math, the number-math not the theory math, was never a strong subject for me), I won’t recognize the story I started to plan a few days ago. The little girl has disappeared, and the pink sweater is threatening to follow. I’m rethinking the themes and trying to find some hooks and new characters to introduce.
There, I found my goal for today. I’m not moving terribly fast toward my goal, and the caffeine, while lessening my headache (just while drinking it, regrettably), isn’t doing much to accelerate my thinking or writing. Therefore, I’ll choose a ridiculous goal and see how far I can push it. I want to create characters today. I’ve read that it’s the characters that actually push a story forward. I don’t know very much about that, since my characters, with the exception of Kem from Termite, weren’t memorable for me (I won’t even bother to ask what you thought of any of them, if you even remember any characters). But from what other writers, both successful and hack, say, when they let their characters go, they’re always surprised where they—i.e., the characters—take them. Before I can let them go do their thing, however, I need to sketch them and understand who they are, or at least, what they are.
The caffeine is fighting my headache and losing. My word count is hovering around 550 (before editing, of course), but I’m going to keep going. I don’t think anything interesting will come out of this typing but I made myself a promise to keep pushing through, even when nothing is coming. I’m good at the pushing—particularly if I’m pushing with no concerns for what pops out on the other end. I finished my coffee. We’ll see if there’s enough caffeine entering my bloodstream to keep me going toward finishing this musing.
I’m leaning toward naming the narrator Lenny, after my illustrious demon friend. I want there to be one exaggeration for each character, something I can point to and say, that’s so-and-so, you know, the guy with the limp. I’m hoping to come up with something better than a limp, of course. But I want to start working with something. Before I get to that, let me introduce more of the lineup. Lenny is involved with a woman, Karen, a tall, curly haired brunette. She is outgoing and. Yeah, that’s not working well. Nothing is working well, but I’m going to keep pushing. Bathwater and baby, that’s how it goes—I’m just swimming through the bathwater looking for the baby. My god, even my poorly wrought analogies are poorly wrought. Wow. Keep pushing, we’re at 790 words (again, before editing—I’m much better at going back through these musings and adding junk than thinking up the junk in the first place. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Original ideas, like the ones I was trying to describe yesterday, are hard to come up with. Filling crap in-between ideas, regardless of how original they are, are not difficult. It’s just not terribly productive either).
What makes Karen special? Why is she dating Lenny? Who cares? Talk some about Lenny’s job. Does he like it? What defines him? His love of something can define him. It’s not going to be his love of his job or his love of Karen. He’ll discover Karen later in the book, when she threatens or does leave him. I don’t predict a sane outcome for Lenny. He’s not going to do well with the sweater or the magic. Lenny will need friends. We’ll start at work. A Tamer character would be interesting. What exactly is a Tamer character? Do I even know how to create characters? I’m becoming pretty scared about my story now. Looking back at my poorly designed previous stories, none of them had more than two characters. Originally, the Termite was supposed to have four characters, but I couldn’t do it. I tried and tried, but ended up killing (okay, more like deleting than killing) the second two characters and leaving myself with two. My other stories were similar. Even in Grelko, my only multi-character story, none of the characters were fully developed.
Argh. My headache and doubts are filling up these pages with babble. What I need is more dreaming, more ceiling staring and sleepy mutters into my voice-recording phone. For reasons that I wish I could understand and fix, I am not good at developing ideas by writing. I want my characters to show themselves on the page. I want them to make choices and surprise me. I want, as I’ve read many times before, a character to change the plot and flow of the story in such a drastic way that I can’t believe it’s the same character that I had originally written. These are all wants and desires. I’m thinking their going to find themselves unfulfilled at the end of November, but I’m hoping to be surprised.
This has not turned out like I hoped, and I had high hopes on this headachy Sunday evening. I sit down with limited expectations but unlimited expectations. When I end up, like I usually do, at the end of these entries having said little and moved my story nowhere, I become discouraged. Don’t worry: this won’t stop me from continuing writing. It’ll just leave me disappointed, looking back on another wasted day where I could have written something of value but instead consternated for 2,000 words. One of the reasons I’m looking forward to starting Nanowrimo is because my consternations will not count toward my daily writing goal. I’ll instead have to write prose, create characters, and grant them breathe. Either that, or give up, and we know that I’m not going to give up. Particularly since Chuck would enjoy nothing more than basking in my failure. He has already proposed writing a script to compare our daily word counts. I’ll, of course, accede to his wishes, mostly because I know I’m a faster typist and at the least I’ll write more words in a day than he will. Well, hopefully. While I do type fast, seeing as I have a real job, I actually have less time to write than him. This is a great way to waste words: trash talk Chuck. I should have thought about doing this many hours ago.
I won’t bother writing another paragraph about not coming up with any original ideas or direction for my story. I’m close to fulfilling my 2,000 word count and I’ll leave it at that. Any words that I’m missing I’m going to capture by editing in a few words here and there. I’m not proud of my content, but I am proud of my quantity. That’s what it’s about for the next month and nine days: quantity. I’ll worry about actually saying something of value when I get done with this. I thank you if you’ve made it this far. I don’t expect it, and in all likelihood, the only people who will make it this far are those who scroll to the end to see if I am planning to say anything of value. For those that do (after searching for “Julie,” of course), I’m sorry to say that yet again I failed to say anything of value. But, boy oh boy, did I type a lot of words.
Word count: 1,957; time: 50 minutes; Caffeination: Tall mocha + Tea at Dim Sum; word count after editing: 2,092; editing time: 12 minutes (cut short because this bucks closes at 7pm on Sundays).
As expected, today is a P.H.D. (post-headache day, for those who have not read every word I’ve written for the past 30 years), a beautiful day where my head clears and ideas gush forth (like sewage from a broken pipe). Ideas have popped into my head throughout the day, and I’ve faithfully recorded them (mostly using my fancy voice recorder thingy on my phone—as I type my notes in, I’m realizing that I talk way too fast. How can anyone understand me, let alone take notes when I talk? I’d make another note to remind me to slow down, but I’m sure it’ll be garbled. And, no, I don’t want to hear “I told you so” from everyone. You just have to learn to listen harder). I’m going to transcribe these voice memos here and try to get my daily quota before heading home (I failed, in case you were wondering). I missed the coffee lady. She leaves at 4pm, which has left me drinking a second Vanilla Coke for my caffeine fix. We’ll see if that hurts my output.
I have so many things I want to say today, so I’ll get right to it. Remember many days ago when I said I was desperate to get work because I was really bored and going crazy. Well, I want to find the person who said that and shoot him because now I’m terribly busy at work and I have no time to do what I want to, like go to the gym, write these entries, and prepare for Nanowrimo, which is seven days from now. But I’m still going to do it. It’s just a matter of getting this stuff down (i.e., the writing) and hopefully finding a balance between working and playing, until such time as I publish my first, bestselling book, and I retire and write all day, everyday. This morning, right before I left for work, I typed in the following paragraph. I would have given anything to continue writing, but I had to drive to work. Thankfully, I remembered the voice recorder:
Find out what you love about your story and focus on that. Don’t just write for the sake of writing; write because you have something to say and something that you want to say. If you love the characters, you will want to live with them longer. If you love the twist, then it’s the twist that will keep you up at night as it winds and twirls around your character’s lives. Use that. Figure out what you love and go with it. Stop trying to force yourself to do this writing thing and instead enable the writing thing to force you.
Am I terribly inspiring, or what? Now, onto more thoughts (transcribed poorly from my voice memos) I had about the story today.
The book will begin with the main character (protagonist) Lenny visiting his grandma. She’s a stodgy old lady but she knows that she’s stodgy and old. She tells Lenny that she hasn’t always been like that; that she used to be young and vibrant, but somewhere down the road something in her changed, and she wishes she could go back and fix it, but her bones tell her it’s too late. Her voice is nasal and high pitched, and she has a Midwest accent. The grandma (or perhaps it’s an elderly Aunt—those are usually better because they are childless, something a grandma can’t be, and have a different, regretful outlook on life. I’ll give that some thought), anyway, the Grandma or Aunt gives him the pink sweater. I’m not sure if she actually knows its powers or what it is, but she knows something about it. One possible direction the story can go is that the Grandma’s purpose for giving the main character the sweater is to teach him a lesson. I’m not sure if that will work with the following description in mind.
I’ve hit upon the sweater’s power, something I really needed to document and figure out before this story can go anywhere. The power is the ability to judge situations. It’s a little more complicated than what you’re thinking: The story will raise the obvious question of what is a “correct” judgment and whether the sweater judging correctly, but I’m getting ahead of myself here. Once Lenny wields the sweater, the sweater will allow him to judge a situation. It will give him guidance. You can think of the judgment in an ethical sense, i.e., he knows or has some feeling (thanks to the sweater) about what is a better choice, perhaps when he’s choosing between wrong and right in a situation. The sweater does not necessarily give correct answers (not that there can be “correct” answers), but the answers, at least in the beginning, turn out to help Lenny to improve himself or others. For example, perhaps the sweater will push Lenny toward selecting the right team in his office football pool, or selecting the right sales strategy that lands him a big client, or catching a mass murderer that’s been on the lose for years, or choosing the perfect gift for his girlfriend—you get the idea.
The sweater is telling him—and it won’t talk; it’s more like it conveys its feelings, since I’m a big fan of feelings—what he should do. For Lenny, it will be very relaxing and very intoxicating to know you he’s always doing the “right” thing. The sweater communicates through feelings, and that’s how Lenny discovers this power. Or perhaps the grandma, in her conversation when she gives him the sweater, will explain it or hint at it. At the very least, if she understands its powers, still a big if, she should give him a warning about trusting it, or anyone else, to make decisions for him.
Now the twist: the sweater’s goals or ethics—a concept I plan on explaining ad naseum—is not about what’s right or wrong, it’s more about Lenny’s perception of what’s right or wrong. That’s the key: The sweater has goals of its own, it is a sentient being. By playing on Lenny’s insecurities, Lenny becomes reliant on the choices the sweater makes. It’s going to be one of the reasons he’s afraid to lose it (or eventually take it off or wash it, etc.). The one limitation on the sweater’s judgment has to do with the sweater itself. It cannot tell Lenny whether he should take it off, wash it, etc. It cannot give him any guidance about itself or its relation to Lenny or the world. In other words, the sweater can’t lie to him, so it must remain silent on this point. I’ll have to give this idea more thought. If it can’t lie to him, what exactly is the nature of its advice? Perhaps it’s one of those oracle thingies, which give answers, but not always the answers that the questioner is looking for or understands—i.e., trick answers that are usually mischievous. Perhaps in the case of the sweater, there’s more than just mischief at work.
As time goes by, Lenny discovers that he doesn’t want to lose the sweater’s powers because he’s afraid of making decisions on his own. That’s what the sweater is after. The sweater understands his reliance on it and uses this to its advantage. As to what the sweater’s purpose is: alien conspiracy to take over the world; evil ends to serve the devil; trying to make the world a worse/better place. I have no idea. It depends on the nature of the sweater. This connects back to the discussion I had the other day about the One Ring. I still don’t think that the sweater has any persuasive powers over Lenny—i.e., the sweater won’t be able to convince him not to remove it. It’s more about Lenny not wanting to remove it for fear of losing his powers. What the sweater hopes to accomplish. Ugh. Much more thought on that is necessary. Worse comes to worse, it could be nothing; just being mischievous (that would be a cop-out).
The power itself is like the little window in my head—it provides feedback on yes/no answers and choices. Lenny doesn’t have to follow the suggestions, but, at least at first, when he does, good things happen. That’s what the sweater makes him believe. The sweater is manipulating him. The sweater —it is a sweater but it’s not going to be a pink sweater, it might be a blue sweater or green, but who cares—does have a greater understanding, but I still haven’t figure out where it comes from or what it’s purpose is. What I want to do is keep this idea away from the “Twilight Zone.” It should be more than just a cute twist played out to its obvious conclusion. Getting back to the sweater, what its trying to accomplish by forcing its judgment upon him is the important question. Its judgment is obviously better than his, at least for decisions that can be quantified for bettering his social life, job, etc. With that said, Lenny is not going to be one of those shleps (Yiddish word alert!) in the very beginning who can’t make a decision for himself and needs the sweater to egg him on. He’s more like Leonard, this guy from work, who might make bad decisions, e.g., he’s not terribly good with relationships, more because he doesn’t understand things and hasn’t thought things through. When it comes down to it, however, the sweater has goals in mind and certain things that it wants to accomplish. There’s a question of whether what the sweater has to accomplish is good for Lenny or, I don’t want to say the world, but it’s what Lenny wants to use the sweater for. He wants to be able to say that with “great power comes great responsibility,” and he wants to use that power responsibility—you know, to help the world. (Thanks, Spidey!)
The sweater at first is going to help him deal with his girlfriend. It’s going to correct the mistakes he’s made, or at least push him in the correct direction. Like Leonard making all his mistakes, e.g., not taking her to the airport and not paying for her dinner. The sweater will push him in the correct direction to save his relationship. As time goes along, however, the sweater will begin to portray a different side. It will try to persuade him to break off the relationship (yes, I don’t know how this fits in with the “Sweater always telling the truth” or “the sweater must be ethical” these are all things that I need to work out). The sweater will want him to end the relationship because, from Lenny’s perspective, the sweater will be trying to tell him that he has more important thing to do. Of course, it’s really the sweater’s ulterior motives that are pushing him in that direction. The sweater wants him out of the relationship to further its goals.
How is the sweater going to help him at work? There’s going to have to be a honeymoon period where it will actually help him achieve good things at work. Again, he works as a corporate salesperson or something like that. At first it’s going to help him achieve good things at work. It’s only until later when it really wants him to do things. Some other crazy thoughts: At first it’ll help him be a superhero, help him catch the bad guy. And do all sorts of neat and important work until the end where the important work disappears. By the end he’s so addicted to the sweater—i.e., his judgment is completely controlled by it—that he seemingly has no choice but to do what it suggests. The question at the end is whether he’s going to be able to break free from it, and take it off. It’s not about doing the right thing—originally I thought he’d have to choose between the sweater and saving society or being shunned, while that’s still going to be part of it, Lenny is going to reach a point where the shunning makes no difference to him, because he’s doing something good. Lenny will eventually find out that the sweater is no longer doing “good,” as he understands it. And then he’s going to have to change what he did, or at least understand it and decide what, if any, actions are necessary. He might start doubting himself, questioning whether it’s really his judgment that’s skewed and not the sweaters. Or perhaps he’ll try to figure out what the sweater really is: confront his Grandma/Aunt, search for information on the Internet, who knows? This is where he’ll be given the choice, and what he chooses will define who he is and what becomes of him. So, we’ll see where that takes us.
I’ve hit my limit for the day and it’s almost 10pm. I obviously wasn’t able to finish this before leaving work, and after heading to the gym, I only just now got a chance to sit through and read through the, yes, here’s the word you’ve been waiting for, drivel that is today’s entry. While the voice recordings helped me come up with some interesting aspects of the story, transcribing the results was difficult and resulted in some rather awkward paragraphs. I’m sorry about that. Until tomorrow.
Writing time: 1 hour+; word: 2,246; Caffeination: 2 Vanilla Cokes. Editing time: unknown.
Today has been a long, tiring day. I woke up this morning painfully tired and beat down. Last night, going to the gym for the first time in two weeks caused my physical exhaustion. I’m still not sure of the cause of my mental exhaustion, but after waking up, the last thing I wanted to think about was writing. That was my actual thought: I don’t want to write today or ever again. Just the thought of transcribing a word made me ill. And it’s been, what, five days of writing these long musings? How am I supposed to survive twenty-five days of this; especially once I begin trying to write fiction as opposed to this much easier writing of consternations and story outlines? Ugh. I don’t want to even think about it. I’ll just keep typing and see what falls out. I can at least say that even though I’m just as tired as this morning, I am sitting here trying to write something. It’s not terribly good or interesting, but it does count as words, which is all the preparation for the Marathon is supposed to do: force me to write words every day. What happens with those words or their value never mattered. Remember, I never stipulated that these words have to be creative or useful. “Quantity over quality” is the mantra of the Marathon. This is something that I need to remember and remind me over and over again.
My thoughts are rather clouded today, and my creativity is at a very low point. I blame the gym: it stole my creative energies and they have not refilled as I expected. But enough: I don’t want to waste more valuable writing time consternating. The wonder drug known as caffeine should kick in at any time now. It will give me enough energy to at least put a few ideas down and reach my word goal.
Last evening a less than brilliant thought occurred to me about the Pink Sweater. As I hinted at over the last few days, the sweater may not be pink. I at first didn’t like that idea because I thought the title was clever (cleverness, for me, is more important than almost everything in my life—I’m just very, very simple in that way. I’d rather be seen as clever than intelligent. I’m not sure what that says about me, even if, as now occurs to me, cleverness is a type of intelligence, a humorous type). My brilliant idea before falling asleep (recording the idea prevented me from falling asleep by another hour—or maybe it was the terrible Burger King I ate after the gym because I was too lazy to cook) was that the magic sweater changed colors as Lenny wore it. The sweater uses the colors as a way to communicate, or emphasize how it felt about certain of Lenny’s actions. The changes should be gradual, so people will not really think of the sweater as having a color (or being magical). While the colors will gradually change, perhaps going from a muted brown to a dull pink, they will recognize it as the same sweater Lenny always wears; particularly when it starts smelling bad, looking ragged, etc. I’m not sure what pink represents as an emotion, but it should be an important one (otherwise, why name the story that, besides the cleverness aspect). The other colors should be rather evident: red for anger, green for envy, etc.
There’s nothing coming out. I’m squeezing and squeezing, but the only juices left in me want to consternate. They want to complain about how difficult this is, how it’s impossible to come up with anything interesting because I’m drained. I’m empty. There are no topics floating through my head. There’s nothing but dullness, and dullness does not translate well to the page. What dullness has done for me, now that I think about it, is give me a chance to think things through. Here’s my time to stare at the ceiling and think. The ceilings here aren’t as interesting as in the Castle, but there are many more people to watch. Seeing as I’m a born voyeur, this should inspire me to continue. Let’s see where this brings me. (Yes, I’m reaching for anything to get me over this hump.)
The grandma makes the sweater because she is a Pagan. She belongs to a cult, the members of which are trying to keep magic alive in the world. This is her way of introducing Lenny to this part of his heritage. (This is the young boy realizing his magical potential storyline.) How does this correlate with the “evil” aspects of the sweater? Not sure, but this will make the grandma/aunt a more important character. The magic is more of a fire-and-forget magic—once created, it lives and follows its own set of rules. The sweater, like all spells under this system, was created for a purpose: to further the teachings of the magic. Is the magic based on a gods worship, or is it a manipulation of nature (if there is a difference between those two)? What did his grandma hope to accomplish? (These are just brainstorming thoughts, remember. I’m not sure if they’ll work—bah, enough useless explaining.)
So, the grandma understands what she created and gives it to Lenny knowing what it will do to him. She might have misjudged how the sweater will accomplish its goals, however. The sweater is not sentient in the same way that humans are sentient. It doesn’t hope to propagate itself. Its only purpose is the goal that’s woven into its threads. Its sentience relates only to how it goes about achieving its goals. Think of the Oracle in the first “Matrix” movie (the only Matrix movie worth discussing): like the ancient Greek oracles, its prophecies were designed to force a certain outcome. They weren’t necessarily correct (in the case of the Greeks they were, in the Matrix, they weren’t), but her discussions were designed to (man, my writing is terrible today—but I guess it’s not important in these contexts) facilitate a certain outcome. The sweater works similarly. It uses its powers to further its goal, which does not necessarily correlate with Lenny’s goals, or at least the goals that Lenny thinks are important. Perhaps this will remove some of the aspects I discussed yesterday. While there’s still the “correct” discussion, some of the manipulation aspects, or evil aspects, if you will, might have to be changed. The sweater’s goals, while not out to save the world or help Lenny achieve his more materialistic needs, might be admirable in the context of his grandma’s wishes.
That’s all very abstract. The grandma becomes more interesting if I follow this train of thought, however. She’s a character that we’ll have to revisit multiple times during the story (I originally planned on introducing her at the beginning and not bringing her back until the end). She has the answers, and perhaps, at the end, she accompanies Lenny, the Gandalf of the Pink Sweater? Who ever thought of an old and stodgy grandma as a travel companion? Or maybe she dies before giving those answers? Will she refuse to help Lenny? Perhaps she’ll feign (or fall into) senility. She should be interesting and I want the readers to return to her. What is she regretting? In my description of her yesterday, she was regretting something. Is it that she didn’t find an heir to her powers? Is Lenny her last hope? (“Luke, there is another.”) Or does she see the death of magic as her biggest regret—her failure to trust anyone, including Lenny, with her secrets. Maybe she fears that the world will become a better or worse place with these secrets revealed or with the loss of these secrets. Perhaps it’s her choice, at the end, that makes the difference. In that case, she’ll have to be an even more prominent character. All food for thought (what’s up with that saying? Who ever thought of carnivorous thoughts!).
The girlfriend is another character that’s been flitting through my brain. She should be a force in Lenny’s life and a potential stumbling block for the sweater. Why is the sweater scared of her? Who is she? I imagine that she’s the creative type. I had at first thought that she might be the little girl from the original Pink Sweater story, the happily failed artist—the dreamer whose parents force her to be a doctor or lawyer instead of an artist. She finds contentment and happiness in her parents’ chosen career path (as much as anyone can find it in their career). She’s an obstacle because she wants Lenny to fulfill his dreams. She wants him to… What? Is he having the little girl conflict? I thought he wants to save the world (Spidey again)? Is she a stumbling block or something that will help Lenny accept his calling (the magic) or understand it?
How old is Lenny? I pictured him in his 20s, trying to achieve something early in his life.
Can you smell the fumes that I’m running on? This writing is pulling nothing from nothing. I thought I’d take this break to complain a bit before I moved on. Not even my complaints have sharp edges. I might need to put off finishing this until later. I do want to write. I just wish I had something to write about or with (brain-wise, my computer and fingers are working fine).
If the sweater is not evil, who is the bad guy in the story? This is an important question because all stories need conflict. There’s internal conflict, which Lenny will certainly have plenty of, from understanding and accepting the sweater, to his relationship with his girlfriend and grandma, to his eventually decision about magic or the sweater or both. Will there be forces at work that are attempting to thwart the sweater? Will those forces try to keep magic out of the world? An important question (all these questions are important, now if I only had answers to some of them) is what would the world look like without the magic—or, just as interesting, what would it look like if the magic still existed. One of the things I enjoy about magic is the understanding that when it comes right down to it, there are few things that people would use magic for. For all the fun it would be to hurl a lightning bolt or set a fire with just a thought, all of those things can be accomplished just as easily with technology. That’s the crux: does our society even need magic, and if so, what for?
For this new, benevolent sweater to succeed there needs to be a person or force that is trying to kill off the magic. This force will be working against Lenny once it discovers him. It could be a group of hooded monks hunting him down, or technologists, who believe that technology, not magic, should control the word—although, I’m reluctant to have the story focus on the difference or challenge between magic and technology. This should not be about the evils of technology, but instead, about what it’s like to have magic, or what the magic would be good for.
These new turns in my story are confusing the hell out of me. I don’t understand the main themes, but I’ll let them continue to develop. The critical aspect of the story is developing characters. Everything else will fall into place (hopefully) once those characters are set loose. If there is an evil character (or actor or magical item or technological device—ugh, there will be no evil artificial intelligence; let me repeat that: my story will not have computer gone mad trying to take over the world), then I need to plan him out as meticulously as I have Lenny (which, I know, isn’t saying much).
I’ve thankfully come to the end of my word count. Perhaps staring at the ceiling tonight will help me move this along.
Word count before editing: 2,020; time: 2 hours; caffeination: tall mocha + vanilla coke; editing: lots during the writing; consternation level: high.
After purchasing my well-deserved coffee, I found my writing spot taken over by people participating in an archaic gathering known as a “meeting.” I don’t know who these people think they are, but I was sure that after I explained my noble purpose and my need of the cushy chairs that they, all three hundred of them, would disperse so that I could begin typing in my serene, familiar environment. I started in on the advantages of having another best-selling author not only on this earth, but in their very backyard. I followed that up with a description of the good I would be doing: my promise to donate not less than a quarter of a percent of my earnings to charity; my introduction to young, impressionable readers the word “drivel” and my multiple meaning explanation of “interesting” the happiness and cheer I would spread to all those around me by not being forced to wake up early on mornings. As a finale, as my honey words flung from my thickening tongue, I raised the specter of the world without a voice such as mine—a sad, tired world denied my indomitable spirit. After a roaring applause, the audience settled down as security escorted me out the door. In retrospect, I’m sure the audience would have objected more forcefully to security’s threatening shooing motions if they realized how such an interruption would hurt my writing and increase the risk of my not meeting the writing goal for the day. There are just some things that are more important than meetings. I guess they’ll have to learn that the hard way.
I’m hoping that this change in venue will result in some good. I’ve been dragging my feet the last few days writing. I have to remind myself (yet again) that these musings are just a writing exercise. Even the dreaded Marathon is nothing but a (debatably) useful exercise. I’m not going to take either seriously and I’m going to try to return to my happy-go-lucky writing style. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. My style has never been happy-go-lucky, but I have had moments of madness and depth (at least deep for a madman). The funny part about these exercises is that I enjoy them. It goes without saying that I enjoy the complaining part (I am a born complainer, or whiner, as I’ve just been told). But even the word count, the large paragraphs, the endless discussion of things I know nothing about, I’m enjoying all of it. If anything, I’d like to write more every day, not less. If my writing is at all meaningful, then it’s all for the better. If not, I can accept its inadequacies as long as I can continue my output. I can’t vouch for my reader(s), though.
I moved yet again, this time to a squishy chair in the middle of the hallway. The seats are comfortable and the people watching are unmatched. I’m going to forget about the Pink Sweater for today and just have fun with something. This is inline with Chuck’s posited theory yesterday. He said, “Has it ever occurred to you that it might actually be easier to write fiction than to keep up with this prewriting? You are currently engaging in one of my favorite pastimes: metawriting. I think it is entirely possible that your brain just wants to shift into gear and take off rather than just continuously rev its engine.” (And, yes, I will count Chuck’s words, and my defense of using his words, toward my daily word count.) To that end, I’m going to jump into some fictional writing. In keeping with the spirit of Nanowrimo, I will not write a part of my The Pink Sweater. All competitors are supposed to start November with a clean slate with nothing written on it (planning or “metawriting,” as Chuck calls it, does not count. You’re allowed to plan, outline, sketch, create characters, etc—everything but writing a single fictional word). That leaves me with 1,400 fictional words to write. Let’s see if this is easier or harder than this inane story planning.
Radio Shack has a smell. The electronics stacked against the walls give off an odor, an aged, airy fragrance that one finds clinging to unwashed bodies—particularly those that spend too much time in dark places with boxes of Doritos and dice games. Steven loved that smell. In exchange for a visit to Radio Shack, he would walk for hours through the clothing-infested stores of the mall. While he kept his chin up and complaints to the absolute minimum in keeping with his self-imposed sarcastic persona, his mother and sister would invariably surrender to his impatience. They would drop him off at Radio Shack with a bag of freshly baked, if store bought, cookies and promise to return with enough left in the pocketbook to buy him whatever gadget he absolutely needed for his continued survival, at least for that day.
The artificial ding sounded as Steven tripped the door sensor. He crossed into the store and took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of belonging. He imagined the great buffalo felt this way when they joined their herds in migrations. He was with people of his own breed; people who spoke about megahertz and bits and sprites programming and kilobytes. They shared a language unknown to those outside of the herd. It would be many years before the rest of the population would understand any of their secret speech. For now, his group was exclusive, and the outsiders hemmed and hawed and stared with vacant faces at the mere mention of such words as “computer.”
Radio Shack was hidden in the corner of the mall, tucked in tight next to the giant Macy’s. The red, backlit letters outshone the department store’s sign but drew few people from the crowds that packed through the single door into Macy’s. Steven barely noticed his mother and sister wave before they turned and disappeared into the throngs of holiday shoppers. He placed the bag of warm cookies on the counter with the cash register and nodded a subdued greeting to the salesman. He was playing it cool. He didn’t want to seem too eager and excited, but he didn’t want to seem apathetic. He had learned that a slight upward nod sent the right message.
“Hey, kid,” Todd said from behind the cash register. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” He reached for the bag across the counter and plunked an entire cookie into his mouth. Steven thought Todd’s mouth was too big for his small head. He resisted suggesting that Todd grow out his hair to disguise the disproportionateness—those just weren’t things that members of this herd spoke about.
Steven examined the phones lining the wall next to the register, testing out the receivers for weight and balance, enjoying the cold feeling of newly molded plastic in his hand. “My sister’s prom is next week and she’s buying her third dress. I’m not sure what was wrong with the first two, but I’m sure whatever it was, this new one will have the same problems.”
“That’s what these girls do. They’re consumers. They buy and buy all the crap that the magazine-infested fashion industry puts out with the feeble hope that they will be a little more like the girls they plaster on every billboard and shiny advertisement and television show. If they would just accept that they’re never going to be that cool or that good looking, then they’d probably be happier. For people like me and you, though, we don’t have to worry about these things. We’re naturals. The women crawl all over me, if you know what I mean.” Todd straightened his brown, clip-on tie, causing the top button of his shirt to pop off. He cursed, shaking the tie, and looked nervously around to see if any customers were watching. The store was empty except for an older man examining a stack of extension cords. He was oblivious to Todd and Steven, weighing in one hand a brown three-foot, two-pronged cord, against a yellow three-foot, three-pronged cord. Steven had seen people like him before in the supermarket. They would study cartons of spaghetti trying to determine which one had the most spaghetti sticks for the cheapest price. Todd slipped the tie into the drawer and grabbed another cookie.
“Is Neil working today?” Steven said. While Todd knew about everything there was to know about the electronic devices that Radio Shack sold, it was Neil who knew about the computer devices. Steven was desperate to buy the new Tandy’s Color Computer II. The last time he was in the store, Neil had showed him the specification sheet, and they had both drooled over the increased power and speed. Steven was anxious to find out if the computers had been delivered. He wasn’t sure if his mother would buy him the computer today, but he was sure that she would buy one for Hanukkah, which was only a week away. He just hoped she didn’t give him one piece of the computer each day for eight days like she did two years before when she had bought him the first Color Computer. He had tried to explain to her that he couldn’t “play” with the computer’s pieces separately, that they had to all be put together for him to do anything with it. But she would hear nothing of it. She was all about tradition, and that meant eight gifts over eight days. When she started the first two days with the empty computer boxes, he knew he was in for a very long week.
“Nah. Neil’s off today. I saw him around the mall earlier. He was finishing some holiday shopping or what not. That kid wastes too much money on gifts for his girlfriend. As I keep telling him, if he buys her too much junk he’ll spoil her for all her future boyfriends. I wouldn’t touch her with a fifteen-foot pole after Neil was through with her. Not that I would want her, mind you. She’s just not my type. I like them tall and lithe. She’s too short for my tastes. I say when you have choices like we do, why end up with a dead fish. You know what I mean.”
Steven nodded with enjoyment. He had watched the way Todd ogled Samantha when she and Neil weren’t looking. Steven had a notion that Todd would like to touch her with a pole much shorter than fifteen feet, but he kept it to himself. Neil will have a laugh about this, though. Even though Neil was five years older than Steven, Neil treated him as an equal, whether they spoke about computers, jobs, or girls.
The entry chimed and Neil and Samantha walked into the store. Samantha held a large, wrapped box with a red ribbon tied to its top. She wore a large, green coat that flared at the bottom, making it look like she was wearing a Christmas tree. “What’s this about dead fish?” Neil asked.
Todd blushed and murmured something that they couldn’t hear. He walked over to the customer in the store, who was still lifting and lowering the two cords in his hands, as if he could determine their value from their weight. “Yes, both will work with your television,” Todd said, trying unsuccessfully not to look back in Neil’s direction.
Neil took a cookie out of the bag and bit into it. Samantha gave a small, high-pitched screech and Neil looked back toward her. She held out her hand and Neil place the leftover half on her palm. She smiled and ate the cookie. With a mischievous grin she went over to where Todd spoke with the customer and stood behind the customer. She scribbled notes in a small pad. Todd unsuccessfully tried to avoid looking at her, but she stood writing furiously.
“Dead fish, huh,” Neil said, eating another cookie from the bag. “I’d kick his ass myself, but I think Samantha has something much more interesting in store for him. Now, did I mention we have some shiny new toys in the back? I haven’t even unpacked them for the display. I was waiting for a certain person with exceptional computer skills to give me a hand.”
Word count: 2,015; writing time: 1.5 hours; caffeination: tall mocha; after minor editing: 2,072.
“I have to go, leave. I’ve spent too much time with you already. I know you don’t believe me, but there are other people who want to see me.
“How could you even think that? I spent almost the entire weekend with you. I didn’t go out last night because of you. You wanted me to stay home, and I stayed home. I stayed up all night with you and fell asleep with you still rambling away. You never stop talking, do you? You can’t always do this to me. I am going out tonight and there’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.
“Oh, really? Well, those people have things, important things, that they want to do with me, and those things don’t require you. Now that I’m thinking about it, going out with them—and we’re heading to a demolition derby with no big screen, for your information—is the furthest thing from being with you as I could possibly get without doing something drastic. And I’m almost at that point.
“Yes, I’m angry. Don’t I look angry? You knew that I had to leave and then you pull this shit. Your games aren’t fair. I warned you this very morning that I was leaving tonight and then you start talking about what you planned to show me, how you planned to make me feel, only if I stayed with you tonight. I can’t stand this. I won’t let you do it. You have to understand—and I know you do understand even though you don’t talk about it—I have a life outside of you, and I’m not going to let you close me out of that life any longer. No, I won’t listen to you. Stop trying to tempt me! It won’t work. Shut up!
“Oh, so when your temptations don’t work you look at me like that. I can’t stand it when you look at me in that way. You know what way I’m talking about. You just blink off and I know you’re still there, but you don’t say anything. And your face, your face is unreadable, blank, empty. You portray no emotions and I have to—you know I can’t handle seeing you like that. Stop it already! At least talk to me before I leave.
“Of course we have things to talk about. What have we been doing all day? You don’t call this communicating? You hurt me by saying that we have nothing to talk about anymore. We spend so much time together that, of course, it will begin to sound a little repetitive. But that’s a good thing. I finish your sentences, complete your thoughts. That’s important. It’s important in any relationship for there to be a connection, and we have a great connection. And we have a relationship. We do spend quality time together.
“I remember that time almost too well. I was just as surprised as you at the outcome! It was so unexpected and tragic, but, yeah, funny too. That’s what I’m talking about. We’ve shared so much and seen so much that we’ll always have stuff to talk about. And there’s so much more that we can do together. Don’t ever think differently. I love spending time with you.
“No, that doesn’t mean that you can come with me. This is what I was talking about. We were getting on good and then you bring this up again. It’s not right that you keep trying to get involved in every aspect of my life. There has to be part of me that doesn’t belong to you. You must know that. How would you feel if whenever I was with you, I spent all my time talking to someone else? Would you like it? I need some space. You need to let me live my life without you.
“It’s not you. Of course it’s not you. The world doesn’t revolve completely around you—
“Okay, that was unfair. You are important. I think you’re very important, and so do a lot of people, especially when they get a chance to know you. Even my friends like you. They just don’t want to hang out with you there tonight. It’s a guy’s night out, and we’re not going to a type of place that you’d like. It’s not as if they’re more important than you. You know that. That’s not why I’m leaving you.
“No. I never said I was going to leave you. I just meant that I was going away for the night. I’ll be back. Do you think I could ever leave you? I wouldn’t survive an evening without you. I need you: I need your constant chatter, your chipper personality, your changing whims. It’s just that I need to get away for the night. You must understand. It’s not like we’ve never been apart.
“Those times don’t count. Do you think I count going to the bathroom without you? Yes, I can sometimes hear you, but that’s not the same. I’m not with you. And what happens when I go out? Yes, you sometimes meet me where I’m going, but not always. Can’t you remember all the times I’ve been without you for days at a time with no contact? That one time I hiked up Dreaded Peak with Johnny and the crew. You didn’t pull this kind of shits that time—we even watched the video of my trip together. What makes tonight so damn different?
“We all get lonely sometimes, but that’s no reason to bring that up. Maybe it’s time we had that talk. I didn’t want to go there, but since we’re coming clean tonight, there’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while but I haven’t found the right moment. I don’t think there will ever be a right moment, but here goes. I’ve not told you about this in the past, but sometimes—I know I shouldn’t go there, but it’s too important not to say—sometimes I feel that our time together is wasted. That, I don’t know. That perhaps when we’re together I could be doing other things, things that don’t involve you. And maybe, just maybe, I would be happier doing those things. Do you know what I mean?
“I know, I know. I don’t always have these thoughts, it’s just when I spend all my time with you, that’s when I begin to think this way. No, I’m not unhappy. It’s not a question of happiness in quotation marks, whatever that means. It’s just sometimes I begin to think that I’m missing out on opportunities. That if you weren’t there, I would be doing important work. I’d be a better person, help other people and maybe help myself, if you know what I mean.
“You’re right. No. I was being terribly unfair to you. I’m just tired and I wanted to see my friends tonight, but I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean them, it’s just you pushed me, and I sometimes push back. I don’t always think before I push, but you should have known that I didn’t mean it. That I could never stay away from you for long.
“Please don’t say that. Never say that. What I said was just a reaction to the tremendous pressure you’re putting me under. It is the truth, but a different type of truth. Ah, you don’t understand. We’re very different and I’m trying to explain this to you. While you fulfill many of my needs, there are parts of me that crave things that you can’t provide.
“Let me finish, please. It’s when those parts of me start to cry out that I get this way. It’s not you. You know it’s not you. It’s me. It’s the weather. It’s everything. I just wanted to go out tonight, to be with my friends. But I shouldn’t have said everything I said. I shouldn’t have gone where I went. If in the future they invent a time machine, this would be the moment that I would go back to. I would tell myself to shut up and don’t go there. Ah. I don’t think there’s a time machine in my future.
“See. I can still make you smile. I’m so sorry. I’m tired and hungry—no, I’ll stop making excuses. I’ll just accept that what I did was my fault and I’m a horrible person who will do anything to make it up to you. Can you ever forgive me? What would it take for you to forgive me?
“Yes, I’ll call my friends right away. I’ll tell them that I can’t go out. I’m sure they’ll understand. Even if they don’t, I don’t care. We’ll stay home together, just you and me, just like always. Come here. Let me give you a hug. We will never fight again. Okay, I know that’s not true, but I’ll promise never to hold anything from you. I’ll share my feelings so they don’t boil over like this again. We’ll watch whatever you want. I could never survive, not even for a minute, without you. You know you’re my favorite. I love you, and always have loved you. You are my dearest, my sweetest, my television.”
Wow. That was rather terrible, but fun to write. It sucked up about 1,100 words before I started running out of things to talk about. I added another 400 words after editing. To make it more interesting, I’d probably have to remove 600 words to make it readable, but I’m not doing that here. It needs more meat, but I don’t know what type. Now I’m just babbling. It is what it is. Dialogue has never been my strong point, but single character stories are. It’s so much easier not having to worry about a second character.
Before she asks, no, Julie, this story has nothing to do with you. Not everything is about you! I live me own life! Please let me live it! (That’s a joke. A funny, funny joke. Yeah. Just keep repeating that to yourself. It’s a funny, funny joke.)
This writing took me a few hours to draft. This, obviously, is all filler now. I have about three-hundred more words to write to call it a 2,000-word day. I’m not sure how I’m going to do this once I can’t add these musings comments to my writing. When I first started drafting the above story, I was rather anxious that I would run out of room before finishing it and getting to the cheesy ending. Have you gone back through it and seen my Sixth Sense moments? The ideas seemed much funnier and cleverer before I wrote it. But, as I said at the beginning of this filler section, it was terribly fun to write. The grammar was a bit difficult to pull off. I figured that the readers would figure out that they’re reading only one side (the only side, as it turns out) of the conversation, since a single quotation mark at the beginning of the paragraph usually means that the dialogue continues onto the next paragraph. At least that was my intention. If you read it as if two people were talking, I doubt it’d make much sense.
Halloween is only three days away, which means that there’s only three days of training until the Marathon. Julie suggested that I blow off trying to meet the 2,000-word goal tonight. That perhaps I need a rest before I begin. (She had ulterior motives, viz., video game time.) But, nah. Even though I was tired before I returned to finish this entry after dinner, once I started typing, I started enjoying myself again. If I could find another hour or so to write every day, and perhaps another hour’s worth of interesting material to write about, then this would be even more fun.
Wow. I found a toolbar item that keeps the count on the menu bar. Regrettably, it doesn’t constantly update. You have to manually press the button to recount the total. Okay, the total paragraph should push me over the mark. Here we go:
Word count: 2,018; writing time: 2 hours; word count after editing: 2,062; editing time: 15 minutes; caffeination: tall mocha+vanilla coke; feeling: satisfied. Final eight words to make 2,000: priceless (man, that was cheesy).
“I am the Clockman and I present you with a very most wholesome welcome to my shop. I carry clocks and timepieces from every known corner of the world, and even some from parts unknown but soon to be discovered—I have thought of revealing those parts and claiming the discovery for the Clockman, but in doing so, I would risk losing my exclusive supply of never before seen clocks. And that my dear sir never would I risk, for I deal in clocks, not in fame or discovery.
“I am here to fulfill any and all of your temporal needs. There are some visitors, perhaps visitors like you, who never realized their forlorn desire for the clock. The truth, if I may be so humble as to pretend to know about truth in this topsy-turvy world where every huckster claims to be an expert in that most inscrutable of currency, is that everyone, and I mean every last person, from the tallest, oldest gentleman, to the chubbiest, most eye-curling baby, what they all have in common is that they all must have a clock. And, as chance, the most welcome of all beasts, has arranged it, there is a clock, one clock, a solitary clock, the, if I may be so bold, the clock for every person, including you, my kind sir, my gentleman, my very most welcome patron.
“Please, follow me through these doors and prepare to see the world as you have never seen it. For behind this very entryway you will find my most wholesome of domains, and in there, in my most secret of secret places, awaits your clock. For I am the Clockman and it is my honor, it is my duty, it is my most virtuous of pleasures to welcome you, most gentle of sirs, to the Clockman’s realm.”
Carl stared at the strange, small man in the red business suit. He didn’t know what to make of him. He wore yellow stage make-up over his eyes and his huge smile, not augmented by any makeup, had not left his mouth during his speech. Two large triangular puffs of hair shot out from the sides of his head, as if orange flames were sprouting from his ears. His face, reddened from not seemingly breathing through his entire presentation, held a final, joyous expression, and lingered unmoving and expecting.
Before the Clockman appeared at the storefront, Carl had been about to leave. Hanging over the closed doors was a simple, cardboard sign with the words “Clock Store” painted in broad white strokes. No address was displayed on the blackened door, but Carl knew that this was the right place. It was just not what he had expected. But now that the Clockman was here and he had come this far, he wasn’t about to give up without at least looking at the clocks. And the Clockman, if nothing else, was a cheery, if outlandish, character—almost unreal in his dress and speech.
“How could I resist such a welcome?” Carl said as he walked past the outstretched arm of the Clockman, which led toward the darkened double doors that opened into the shop. Carl felt a deep ticking vibration as he touched the door handle. When the door opened, the hushed vibration exploded as thousands of synchronized clocks ticked.
Carl had moved into his house nine-weeks ago, which was a day short of exactly eight months since his wife had walked out on him to move in with her podiatrist. After unpacking his moving boxes in his new house, Carl embarked on decorating. In the settlement, he had received all of the furniture from their previous house because, she later admitted to him, the podiatrist, a Dr. Phut, a name Carl still couldn’t believe was real, had decorated his lavish house with furniture imported from Tahiti and Maui. Furniture that cost much more than the stuff that Carl was able to afford. But Carl loved his furniture because his wife had purchased it. He had given her everything he could afford during their twenty-year marriage.
When the furniture arrived, Carl positioned it in the same location as it had been in their previous home, which he had sold as a condition of the divorce. During their marriage, she had reupholstered all of the cheaply purchased furniture with a beautiful flower print made up of pinkish and yellowish pastel colors. He lovingly repositioned each couch, chair, ottoman, and table in the same position as it had been in their former home. He spent hours pushing and tugging the pieces until their placement was as exact as his memory could recollect.
During the unpacking, he had found that the clock that had hung above the fireplace was broken. It still ticked and kept time, but its face, a cloudy glass face covered in dark, embossed numbers, had cracked. He searched through all the stores and malls for a replica with no success. He saw traditional, wooden clocks, modern clocks that he still wasn’t sure actually told time, grandfather clocks, and clocks shaped as cats and dogs with tails wagging. While he admired some of the clocks and wished furtively that he could buy them, he knew that none could replace the broken clock. Not one of the clocks touched that part of him that understood what it wanted, knew what was right for him. He gave up, until yesterday, when he found the Clockman’s advertisement in the weekly newspaper. It read: “A clock for every need; a clock for every breed; a clock for every disgruntled, disassociated, disbelieving, dismembered, distended someone. 415 Grandfather Road.”
Carl entered the store and was surprised to find himself in a bare room. The walls were whitewashed and illuminated by spotlights hanging from the ceiling, but except for the door, there was no decoration, no table, and no clocks in the room. The loud synchronized ticking of clocks seemed to originate from deep behind the walls. The sound grew louder as Carl approached the middle of the room.
“Not what one would expect of the Clockman’s store. Eh, Mr. Peterson? As I said outside, there is a clock, one clock, for every person. Even for you, Mr. Peterson. However hard it is for you to accept. You, who spent an entire life serving another only to be stepped on, grinded into the floor—if you would forgive me my pun, I share and respect your private pain, but I am and always will be a salesman who seeks the pretty tongue to entice the deal—and now to find yourself here, at this moment, this particular second, when freedom has found you, freed you from all of your past. Not what one would expect, Mr. Peterson? No. This is exactly what one would expect, exactly what you should expect.”
The white door shut behind the Clockman, and the door’s edges disappeared, leaving only a smooth wall visible behind the short man. The Clockman curled his fingers around his chin and studied Carl with a slight tilt to his head.
“My name, how did you—“
“Would you suppose the Clockman, master of all timepieces, traveler and proprietor extraordinaire, would not to know his client base? The hows and whys and whatfors are not important, Mr. Peterson. What I offer you—and it is an offer that I give neither lightly nor unkindly—is another chance, an opportunity to free yourself of your demons, of your poor decisions, and your white knuckles that grasp the past as if its escape would be the death of you.
“There are clocks and then there are clocks, Mr. Peterson. Did I not tell you that when you first entered my store? I offer you a clock, the very clock that would release you from your pains and unanswered expectations. I do not ask much of you. I only ask that you choose, Mr. Peterson. I know what my customers want, better than they do. But I cannot choose for them. I am only the salesman, the messenger, the enlightened showman—if you would once again forgive my flippant descriptions—that present my clients with what they most wish. I only ask that you take what you want, and I hope, for your sake, that you understand and appreciate your truest desire before you take what is not yet yours. After I have given you all that I have to give, you may ask nothing more of me.”
“I do not understand. What are you talking about? Do you have my clock? Do you know the one that I need, the one that is broken and now needs replacing? I will not ask how you know and I do not care. Show me my clock, Clockman.”
The small man took a deep breath and his smile left his face. His red suit appeared brighter against the white and he pointed to the wall behind Carl. Two clocks hung on the wall, both ticking in unison. An unbroken replica of the cloudy faced clock hung next to a beautifully carved cuckoo clock, the same clock that he and his father had carved when he was a child. His ex-wife had been spooked by the small, yellow bird that flew out of the wooden door every hour, and had thrown the clock away the first week of their marriage. And there it hung, next to the clock that had been his wife’s first purchase during their marriage. Now that Carl looked closely at it, the cloudy faced clock was shoddy, probably purchased at a discount store. The cuckoo clock had taken him and his father over a year to craft, and had been their final woodworking project together.
“Time ticks, for me more than most people, Mr. Peterson. As I said, each person only has one clock. I never said that that clock was the same clock throughout that person’s life. Take your clock off the wall. I have no more charming words or pitches to prod you this day. Choose and go about, Mr. Peterson.”
Carl walked to the hanging clocks. He turned and watched as the Clockman opened the door and held it open. The ticking of the clocks behind the walls quieted until Carl could hear only the ticking of the cuckoo clock and the cloudy-faced clock. He reached toward the cuckoo clock and touched its finally crafted finish. He caressed the cool, metal finish of the cloudy-faced clock, leaving behind moist fingerprints. He opened the little door on the cuckoo clock and petted the small, yellow bird hiding behind the door. He traced over the large numbers of the cloudy-faced clock’s face.
Carl took a step back from both clocks and smiled.
“So, you have decided?” the Clockman said.
“Yes,” Carl said. He looked at the clocks one last time and turned toward the door. The Clockman stood aside as Carl passed through the doors into the unknown evening.
***
Short, short story idea: a conversation with a person who uses large words incorrectly through an entire conversation. The other person doesn’t realize the incorrect usage and is overwhelmed and impressed by the conversation.
That was a hard story to write. I think it would have been more interesting if I had discussed his relationship with his father at the beginning, but I had no idea where the story was heading in the beginning. Thanks to a short day at work, I spent many, many hours on this story. I spent a lot of that time editing (I know, I know, I’m not supposed to edit, but I was procrastinating actually taking the story somewhere).
I have two more days of training for the Marathon. The past six or seven days (maybe it’s less—I’ve completely lost count), have been the most productive writing I’ve ever done. Even if I don’t make it through the Nanowrimo story—and there’s a low probability of that; especially with all the smack talk that Chuck has been laying down—this has really inspired me to write more. The last three days in particular have shown me the difference between real writing and metawriting, as Chuck so aptly named. I definitely like real writing better. Can you believe my low consternation output for today?
I’m a little over my 2,000-word count for the day, so I’ll call this finished.
Word count: 2,065; writing time: lots, 3+ hours; caffeination: tall mocha (Tully’s)+Vanilla Coke; editing time: lots; after edit word count: 2,082.
“Did you finish your homework, Tommy?”
“Yeah, I’ll get it done later—just one more level.”
“Make sure you finish before going to sleep tonight, young man.”
“Mom, it’s the weekend. I have all day tomorrow to do it. It’ll get done. It always gets done eventually.”
“But if you do it now, you won’t have to worry about it all weekend. You’ll be free to do whatever you want today and tomorrow—and I hope some of that involves you turning off the game and going outside.”
“Just gotta finish this level. I’m almost at the tortoise—he breathes fire from his two heads. He’s the greatest boss in this game.”
“There are only a few more days of autumn and then winter will be here and you’ll be cooped up in the house. Did you see the pile of leaves that your dad raked up? I’m sure he’d be awfully disappointed if you didn’t jump in it. Remember how many times he had to rake the lawn last year. And you blamed it on poor Paws! Poor Paws. Let’s see you say that three times fast!”
“Boris told me the trick to beating the tortoise. You have to draw one head off to the side of the screen and then charge the other one when you trap the head in the corner with the holographic transmitter. I finally found the transmitter—you wouldn’t believe where they hid it. It was in the room with the four zombies that I thought you had to survive by running through it, but it turned out you had to kill all the zombies or the transmitter wouldn’t appear. It’s just a matter of time before I find the entrance to the tortoise’s cave.”
“Speaking of Paws, have you seen that retched dog? I guess it would be too much to ask for you to walk him today. I remember a time when you played all day with him. You’d go to the backyard and throw the Frisbee back and forth for hours, and Paws would get bored before you did.”
“Mom, it’s hard to concentrate with you standing there. Ah. There it is! I knew it. They hid the entrance behind the green slime. The trick to the slime is to use fire to move it. You can’t kill it with fire, and if you attack it with weapons it divides in half and the halves grow to full size in no time. But if you place the fire just right, the slime moves out of the path and a door appears.”
“Just don’t forget your homework. I’m going to find Paws and take him for a walk.”
“Is your homework finished?”
…
“I’m talking to you, young man. Do I have to turn off the television to get your attention?’
“Mom! It’s almost the end of the show. You know, where they fight the final battle and the story ends—they tell you what happens. I don’t bother you when you’re watching your TV shows. Why do you bother me? It’s hard to concentrate on what’s going on with you talking all the time. My teacher said that understanding the plot and characters of TV shows were important exercises in learning to do good writing. I’m doing that right now.”
“It’s a commercial now.”
“See. This is why I need a TV in my room. You have a TV in your room and you can close the door and watch it when you don’t want us to bother you. If I had a TV, I could lock the door when I’m doing important things, like watching the end of the show. I’ll even pay for the TV. You know I have the money now.”
“And since when do you have extra money, Tommy?”
“Since Grandma visited two days ago. Shush. It’s back on.”
“She spoils you. And don’t shush me! I told her to stop giving you money. You’ll never learn the value of money if she keeps throwing it at you every time she sees you. I’m going to have your dad talk to her when he gets home. How much did she give you?”
“It’s back on.”
“So? I asked you a question.”
“I’ll finish my homework later.”
“What’s for breakfast?”
“Oh, it’s breakfast time now? It’s past eleven. Where have you been all morning? Sleeping?”
“You’ve always told me that sleep is important. Just last night you were yelling at me for not going to sleep, and now you’re yelling at me for sleeping too much. Which one is it, mom? You’re confusing me—you’re confusing my simple, simple mind.”
“You’re a comedian now? Sit down and I’ll make you some pancakes. Did you finish your homework last night before going to bed?”
“Blueberry pancakes, please.”
“The homework, Tommy, did you finish it?”
“I told you yesterday. I have all day today to do it. I only have three assignments. It’ll be done in an hour, two at max. Can you drive me to the mall when we’re done? I’m supposed to meet Boris at noonish. We have to buy Blood, Guts, and/or Zombies, part II. Boris finished the first part last night. After the tortoise, there’s only two more levels, and if we buy it today, we won’t get stuck with nothing to play.”
“Don’t you have hundreds of other video games to play?”
“We’ve beaten them all. It’s no fun to play the game once we finish it. Even you should know that.”
“Getting back to your homework, is it done?”
“What did I just say?”
“Did Boris finish his homework?”
“I’ll ask him when I see him at the mall. Do you have syrup?”
“We’re going to watch the movies your father rented in fifteen minutes.”
“Great. I just have to finish my homework first.”
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah. I was thinking about what you said before I went to the mall, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night worrying about whether I was going to finish my homework. See. Here’s my finished math homework. I just have to finish summarizing this stupid short story, and my English homework is finished. That just leaves social studies.”
“I don’t understand. What did you do at the mall? Were you drugged? Abducted and cloned by space aliens? Where’s my son?”
“Mom, stop being so dramatic. Sometimes, what you say really gets into me, you know? So what movies did dad rent?”
“Do I have to search your room for drugs? Is that it? Drugs? Should I expect a phone call from the police with an arrest warrant for you?”
“Sheesh. Can’t a kid do his homework without his mother accusing him of illegal activities? Maybe I’m just growing up. You know, becoming a better person. I mean, really, mom, I’m going into high school next year. Don’t you think I’ve matured at all?”
“Did you accidentally kill Paws? Just tell it to me straight. I won’t hold it against you. Is Paws dead? Oh, no. Is Boris dead? Was he a victim of your drug smuggling?”
“Get out and let me finish my homework!”
“I love you, Tommy.”
“I’ll remember you said that.”
“We’re going to start soon. Your dad went to make some popcorn. Are all your assignments finished?”
“Of course they are. Remember when you were interrupting me before, claiming that I was abducted or something. I finished it just like I said I would. Do you want to see it? I can go get it if you want.”
“No, no. I trust you. I wanted to see if you needed any help or if you needed me or dad to review any of your work.”
“It’s all good. Most of the assignments were pretty easy. I now have the rest of the evening free to do nothing but spend quality time with my parents. This is a great night.”
“Okay. Now I know something is wrong. Spill the beans.”
“What could be wrong? It’s a beautiful fall day. The moon is out. My father is cooking popcorn. The movie is humming in the DVD player. My homework is all finished—but the social studies was harder than I thought. It took me three loose-leaf sheets to finish.”
“You’re setting me up for something. I’m sure of it. What do you want? Do you want that video game that Boris bought today? Do you need money for that?”
“No, mother. I’m going to borrow Boris’s once he finishes it. He plays the games way more than I do, and way faster. He’ll just bring it to class when he’s done with it. Can’t I just be happy with no other reason than I’m happy?”
“I’m sorry, Tommy. I guess you just can never understand kids.”
“I’m not a kid anymore, mom. I’m growing up now and you’re going to have to start treating me more like an adult.”
“If you keep acting this way I’ll have no choice but to do that. I’m really proud of you.”
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yes, mom. I even flossed and washed my face.”
“You want me to leave this light on for you?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“And the closet door, you want me to shut it?”
“I don’t care.”
“Then I’ll shut it; leaving the closet door open freaks me out ever since I was young. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong today?”
“Will you stop that? I’m not an alien and I don’t want anything. Can’t you just accept that I learned something? What, do you want me to tell you that ‘you told me so,’ is that what you’re waiting for?”
“I’m sorry, Tommy. No, of course not. Go to sleep now. I love you.”
“I love you too, mom. Close the door. I like it dark.”
“Sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Boris? Phase one is complete. It worked like a charm.
“No, she doesn’t have a clue what I’m doing. So gullible. It was just like the book said. And with you?
“That’s great to hear. I know this is going to be too funny. We’ll compare notes tomorrow.
“Yup.
“Got it.
“Cool. Bye.”
I’ll have to apologize for that story. I had no idea what it was about, and after finishing it, I still don’t. It was more just an exercise in dialogue. As you’ll see with some notes I jotted down when I was struggling to get started, I didn’t have many good ideas. I just wanted to write filler, and I think I accomplished that. It’s filler with lots of clichés and bad dialogue. Okay. That’s enough of making fun of my writing. I’m going to have to read crap like this for the next month, so I should get used to it. Here are some other random thoughts from before writing this story:
When I have nothing to write I write nothing. This is one of those days. I’m sure you were expecting another story. I was as well but so far I have nothing and I was getting sick of staring at the blank screen. I figured once I typed a few words, others might follow and I might be struck by an idea for a story or at least an outline or something.
I have concerns about the story I’m going to start writing on Monday. I’m not sure I like it enough to write it for an entire month. I’m not sure if there are any stories that I like enough to write for an entire month. I hate these types of days. I had almost nothing planned for the day except some errands and writing, and here I find myself, with all the time in the world, a hot cup of Mocha and an empty screen.
After writing the above two paragraphs, it took me much driving around aimlessly looking for a good coffee house, returning home and watching movies, and eventually just giving up and writing whatever popped into my head (after taking a nap, of course) to write the story.
I sprayed most of my windows today to kill off the spiders. Scott told me that if I waited any longer, come spring, the spiderlings (I didn’t realize that wasn’t a real word) would hatch and I’d have thousands of little spiders running around my garden and sneaking into my house. That freaked the shit out of me, and I started killing off all my window guests. I’m not happy about it, but I know it has to be done.
That’s a wrap. Word count: 2,089; writing time: less than an hour of real writing, many hours of driving, consternating, napping…err preparing; editing time: fifteen minutes; edited word count: 2,125.
Today’s the last day of writing freedom. For the next twenty-five to thirty days, I will be pounding out 2,000 words a day in what will hopefully be a coherent, continuous, consistent story. If it’s not that, then I’m hoping it’ll at least be 50,000 words, which is what it takes to call yourself a Nanowrimo winner (there are no real winners, in the capitalist sense, just people who finish the 50,000 word goal, with no weight given to quality of words or how many repetitive words or pages there are—and even less weight given to the number of useless asides that have more to do with consternating than moving the plot forward, but, as I have a tendency to do, I digress).
But before I get there, there’s time enough for one more story. One more thought experiment, where I’ll throw out an idea and start building on it until I get close to the 2,000 word goal for the day. Let’s see where that thought takes me today.
“Stop writing about chairs,” Claire said. She looked intently at Tomas, his hands poised above the keyboard, his face scrunched up with a constipated look. She used to love that look. She used to love how he could be in the middle of a train station with thousands of people passing around him, and as long as he typed, he was oblivious to everything, even her. “No more chairs. No more red chairs, no more rocking chairs, no more chairs with personality, and certainly no more chairs with memories of the people who sat in them. Please! For the love of everything that you hold holy and dear and for my own sanity—something you used to think about and care for much more—please, please, please stop writing about chairs.”
Tomas didn’t look at Claire as she spoke. He couldn’t understand her anymore. She used to support him in everything he did. She was why he was able to write for as long as he wrote and as freely as he wrote. She never worried about what he wrote or complained about how it came out. He just knew that she was there for him no matter what happened. He stared at the computer screen unmoving after she finished. His head then turned slowly toward her, his neck craning and twisting in an exaggerated almost unnatural movement. When his eyes finally met hers, he stared patiently. Flakes of yellow hovered in his bronzed eyes, which burrowed into Claire, searching for something deep in her, something he used to know and understand. She was never able to last under that stare, and today was no different. She turned away. “What is wrong with chairs?” Tomas asked finally.
“What is wrong with chairs? How many times must we go through this? Everything you’ve written for the past three years has been about chairs. And every single story, and there must have been a hundred of them, from short shorts to novellas to poetry to books to short stories to, I don’t even know the names of all your writing experiments, what they all involved was chairs, lots and lots of chairs. They all started nowhere, went nowhere, and ended nowhere, but they all had a chair as the central character. You’ve described every type of chair that has ever been made. You’ve describe how the chair was made, who has sat in it, when it was destroyed, how long the legs lasted under the weight of garbage when it finally arrived at the dump. You’ve developed histories for generations of chairs, dating back to the middle ages, and followed the course of the chair, its family, its technical development, its, I don’t know, its everything through to modern times and sometimes into mythical futures. Not one of your writings has been historically accurate or valuable. You’ve spent pages and pages of precious words and time—god knows how I know how much time you’ve spent hunched over that computer screen—describing every scratch, dent, and broken leg in your imaginary chairs. I think you’ve exhausted every plot possibility, twist likelihood, character relation to and with and concerning a chair. You are addicted to writing about chairs—that must be it—and it’s not healthy. There is so much more that you must want to say. There is so much more that you used to say.
“When we first married, do you remember that? Do you remember the beautiful poetry you wrote? The wonderful stories that magazines actually wanted to publish? Do you remember the checks, the money you used to receive for your writing? Do you remember any of it?”
Tomas pushed his glasses higher up his nose and snorted. “It’s not about the money, Claire. I told you before we married that it wasn’t about the money. It was about the art—the creation.”
“I used to believe you, Tomas. I used to believe in your artistry. I used to laugh at the thought of the starving artist. I was willing to support you in your art. I was the one who convinced you that you should pursue it. Don’t you remember any of it? Don’t you remember almost giving up on your dream? How you used to struggle for hours to write one word and just sit there, swearing to all the gods in the heavens that you would never lift a pen in a creative way again. How you would accept a job, any job, and give up on your dream. How, even when your work was published, you were never satisfied with the product. That it felt like you had more to say and a better way to say it. Does any of this ring a bell in that warped mind of yours?”
Tomas rose from his plastic chair and snatched the papers that Claire held. “I didn’t ask you to read my story. I know you don’t like my writing anymore. Please don’t read it again. I know you think I should have more important things to say. That I should tell better stories that will find a larger audience, perhaps win a few literary awards. That’s not what I’m about, Claire. I’m about the writing, the words, the, the, you know, the art. You used to understand that. I thought you loved me for that.”
Claire couldn’t talk to Tomas. Everything he said was true and yet she could not understand what had happened to him. She did believe in him and always had. She would probably continue believing in him, in his potential. But she saw him wasting his talents. She didn’t care about the money—well, she did care, but not because she needed him to make any. She just wanted him to feel accepted. She remembered how happy he was when he felt accepted. But it had been so long since anything he wrote was published, and worse, since she enjoyed anything he wrote.
“Claire, maybe I should stop writing for today. I can finish this later. I know it’s been years since anyone has published my writing, but I am trying. I send out my manuscripts every week. They just don’t understand what I’m trying to do. I thought you did. I thought you were finally coming around to it. Do you remember last week when I showed you the yellow chair story? You laughed! I haven’t seen you laugh at one of my stories in such a time. It was such a relief to see you take enjoyment from a story of mine. That’s what I need from you, Claire. That’s what I love about you.”
Claire’s heart pumped blood directly into her stomach. She couldn’t tell him that her laugh was not at his jokes or his clever asides, but more of an insane cackle when she realized that a perfectly good story, one that started with a family dominated by a scheming mother and a weak father, degenerated into a treatise about the evils that a family could impart on a wooden rocking chair. She just didn’t understand him anymore. She didn’t understand his art or why he bothered with it.
“Talk to me, Claire. Tell me what you’re thinking. I want to understand you. I want us to go back to the way we used to be. Do you want me to give this up, stop writing? I can’t do what you ask. I can’t stop writing the way I write. I can only stop writing completely. Never put another word on the paper. I’ll do it for you.” Tomas willed Claire to understand him. He willed her to understand that he was not trying to manipulate her or guilt her or change her. He would stop writing if she asked. He almost wanted her to ask. He sometimes didn’t understand his writing anymore. He knew it was valuable, that he was pursuing something, searching for something, but he wasn’t sure he would ever arrive. He’d rather just hang up his hat and give up his art. Yes, that’s what he would do. Never write again. Accept that no matter how hard he tried, how hard he strove for the perfection that he knew existed, he was never intended to reach it.
Claire chewed her cheek. “I don’t want you to give it up. I fell in love with you because you wrote and reached that part of yourself that I knew I could never reach. I want you to continue it, continue it because you want to. I never want to drag you down, but I want you to write something else, anything else. I don’t understand your writing anymore. I don’t know why you write about chairs. Maybe if you could explain it—”
“I can’t, Claire. I don’t understand it myself.” There. Now she would finally realize. His writing, his methodology, his chairs, he didn’t understand any of it. He just knew that he had to write it, that there was something there, something that if he could find the right way to say it, the right way to write it, he could share something beautiful.
“Oh, Tomas, I know! I see you struggling with it. I see you strangling each word, each story. Just put it aside. Don’t ever mention a chair again in your writing. Find something else to focus on. Tell your stories. Go back to your fantasy shorts. Do you remember Ernie, the editor over at Dragon Magazine? He loved your work. He wanted you to supply him with as many stories as you could generate. Why don’t you go back to writing those stories? Just, please, no more chairs.”
Tomas felt crestfallen. He was sure that she would see it. But she didn’t. Like him, she didn’t see what he had to offer anymore. “I don’t know what to do, Claire. I can’t write those stories for Ernie anymore. I can only write what I’ve been writing. Please, tell me not to write again. You know I’ll listen. It’s so frustrating to be so close and not get to what I know is out there. Free me, Claire. Please, free me.”
Claire knew that all she had to tell him was to stop writing and he would do it. When it came to his writing he never joked around and never used it as a bargaining chip in their relationship. She wasn’t sure if she could do this to him. He was a great writer and who was she to doubt him? How could she live with herself if she was wrong, and if years later people discovered his writing and understood it? She knew what she had signed up for when she married him and now she had to live with the consequences.
“I can’t, Tomas,” Claire said. “I can’t free you. I can only support you and feign understanding. That’s the most I can offer.” Claire cried. Tomas watched her for a moment and started to rise. Before he reached her, his face brightened and he sat down and started typing furiously. Claire cried. Tomas, bent over his computer, wrote the outline for a story about a beautifully carved smoking chair that watched the lives of three generations of librarians struggle to keep a underused library open in a small town in Colorado. Claire cried.
There you have it, my final exercise on this hallowed Halloween. I’m curious to see what I write over the next month. I promise it won’t have a chair as the main character (it might be a minor character with a supporting role), but, as I said before I started writing tonight, it will have lots and lots of useless words. I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.
Word count: 2,089; writing time: 2 hours; editing time: variable (I think I might stop tracking this since I’ve returned to editing in parts while writing); caffeination: tall mocha; word count after editing: 2,163.
Aunt Elaine’s knobby hands clenched the two ends of the pink sweater’s neck and lifted it from the box on the table. Lenny stared at it. The sweater was ugly. Putting aside its color—which he thought Samantha might like, since, however much he argued with her, she bought pink pastel clothing, even forgiving the fashion industry for forcing that color on females, she had a five-year old child’s love of pink—the weave and cut of the sweater made it, to put it lightly, not wearable. The sweater appeared disproportionate, its sleeves of different lengths and the yarn frayed and unraveling, as if its creator had never seen the torso of a body and did not understand its dimensions. He couldn’t imagine why his aunt would buy the sweater for his girlfriend.
“Samantha is going to love it,” Lenny said, letting the mockery dissolve on his tongue. His aunt usually admired his sarcasm, claiming, in her high-pitched voice, that humor was the noblest virtue of a beast, and as a result, the greatest measure of a beast’s intelligence. But when it came to gifts, Lenny learned that her appreciation ended rather abruptly.
“I’m not too sure about that,” Aunt Elaine said. “But it’s not for her, kiddo. This here sweater’s for you.” She gave the sweater a shake and a few of the stray yarns fell to the floor. Lenny laughed. When he saw the quiet outrage light behind his aunt’s eyes, he tried to conceal his laughter with a cough, but he couldn’t restrain the laughter and erupted first from his nose and then his mouth. He turned away to calm himself. When he turned back around, his aunt shook the sweater with a grim look over her face, and he laughed again. He faced away from her three more times. The sweater was so pathetic that he was sure the humor would strike his aunt. There was no way she could not see it. But she remained stolid.
His eyes were tearing and his lips squeezed tightly into a thin line when he managed to regain control. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at your gift. It was just unexpected—I don’t usually wear pink, and I never wear sweaters. We live in California—when’s the last time the temperature dropped below seventy? But now that I look at it, it is a nice sweater. As I said, it’s just an unexpected gift is all, but it is beautiful. Where did you buy it?”
Aunt Elaine harrumphed. “I didn’t buy it, Lenny. I knitted it. I knitted it with these gnarly hands for my, once again, ungrateful nephew.” She bent her knuckles over the sweater for his inspection. Her arthritis had twisted her hands until they were a mere collection of knots and twisted fingers. The smile on Lenny’s lips died and he swallowed uncomfortable under her gaze. His aunt was the smartest person in his family, and his confidant. Although he would never admit it to anyone, least of all her, he very much valued her high opinion of him, and worried anytime he put that opinion at risk.
What made the situation worse was how much this reminded him of something that happened when he was younger. Before his twelfth birthday, Lenny had painstakingly written correspondences to all of his relatives describing which robot piece they should purchase for his birthday. He had studied the picture of the fully assembled robot and knew that once his collection was complete, he would be the envy of all of the kids in the neighborhood. Because he respected his aunt and trusted her implicitly, he had tasked her with buying the critical head and neck robot, which, once joined with the rest of the robotic army, would form a mighty, four-foot robot. When he later received a book from his aunt instead of the robot, he responded with off-color sarcastic remarks about his aunt and how little she understood children because she never had her own children. After that incident, she hadn’t spoken to him for six months. He later discovered that the book she purchased for his birthday was a first edition, signed copy of Alice in Wonderland, a gift that was too expensive and unappreciated by a twelve-year old, but something that, as he grew up, he treasured as one of his most valuable possession.
“Aunt Elaine,” Lenny said and stopped. He studied her with astonishment. He had watched her use her broken hands as a sympathetic weapon in the past. And that combined with the shoddy sweater, the awful color, and the dredging up of the memory of the book, he began to have a sneaking suspicion that she was setting him up: he looked to her for the punch line. He needed to figure this all out before she fell upon him. The old witch!
“No apologies are necessary,” his aunt said when Lenny didn’t finish his obvious thought. Lenny thought her response was a little hurried and his scrutiny of her intensified. “Let me make you some tea while you try it on. You may use my bathroom—I don’t want you dressing where any of my nosy neighbors will see you. And don’t wear that horrible orange t-shirt under the sweater. I want to see what my sweater looks like on you, but I don’t want to go blind. Now, go about you.”
His aunt left the sweater on the table and went to the kitchen. He heard her humming and the soft clink of a teapot lid. Lenny did not see her angle. His aunt gave him many strange gifts over the years, but all of them were interesting and feisty, like her. She taught him to appreciate uniqueness and quality over all other characteristics. While the sweater was certainly unique, its quality was so minimal that he knew she couldn’t be pleased with it. But he still couldn’t find the humor. He began doubting that there was a slant. Perhaps she really did knit the sweater and wanted her favorite nephew to have a product of her own hands. Lenny chuckled at the thought. There were two problems with it: he wasn’t her favorite nephew, perhaps her second or third favorite, and she never had pride in her manual abilities. She was too cultured and educated for such simple pastimes.
There was nothing for him to do but put the sweater on. At worst, he’d look the fool and make an old lady very happy with her little scheme. Lenny carried the sweater to the bathroom. When he used to visit his aunt’s house as a child, he loved the smell, a mixture of a light, fruity perfume and warm, clean soap. Over the last few years, her house had stopped smelling clean and fragrant, and started acquiring the smells of an old person. He couldn’t identify the different odors that contributed to this impression, but he likened it to a combination of moldy soap, mothballs, and bed pans. The stench in the bathroom was particularly strong.
He pulled off his t-shirt and slid the pink sweater over his head. He looked even more foolish than he expected. The sweater fell down past his waist and flared at its bottom. The left sleeve was noticeably longer than the right one, which did not reach his wrist. The rounded neck was the only section that was proportional and evenly knit. He bunched up his t-shirt into a ball and returned to the living room.
Aunt Elaine nodded when she saw him. “You look wonderful, Lenny. You don’t know how much joy you bring me by wearing that sweater.”
Lenny watched her reaction; sure that she would deliver the gag. When her reaction remained blissful as if the sweater really did give her great joy, Lenny sighed dramatically. “I give up,” he said. “I’m at the point where I’m beginning to think that senility has finally set in. If it has, my questioning probably won’t insult you. If not, I’m sure you’re going to explain this and we’ll have a good laugh.” Lenny plucked the front of the sweater and it fell back onto his chest. “What is up with this pink sweater?”
“Questioning my sanity, are you? You’re not the first to do so. But let me assure you that my wits are fully with me. Now my judgment, if you were to question that, for that I wouldn’t blame you.”
Lenny sat down on the couch. “Okay. Let me have it. No, first let me try to guess the answer. I think you have realized that your youth was wasted with intellectual pursuits—too many books and not enough time chasing the baser aspects of life. And now, in your late dotage, you discovered that you’ve always wanted to be a clothing designer. Not just any clothing designer, but a sweater designer. And as part of this demented dream, your relatives, particularly your poor, defenseless, fashion-challenged nephew, would model your clothing to enable the world to discover your fashion genius. I must be getting warm here.”
His aunt laughed, harder and louder than he had expected. “That’s the Lenny I remember. If only you knew, Lenny. If only you knew.” His aunt looked old when she spoke. She held a tea cup in her fist and Lenny noticed for the first time that she had not offered him tea. That was very unlike her. Usually, his aunt’s manners were impeccable. He looked at her and really saw her. The skin on her hand was translucent with veins standing out like blue worms sleeping under her skin. Her face was lined deeply and the skin was loose, barely glued to her bones. Her blonde hair, so luxurious when she was younger, had turned to old lady hay, curly and covering her head, and her stomach was large—rounded like a man who drank too much. She looked, for the first time to Lenny’s eyes, old.
“Stop looking at me like that,” his aunt said. “I know I’m a stodgy old lady, but what makes me different from all the other stodgy old ladies is that I know and understand and completely accept that I’m a stodgy old lady. I remember a time, and its getting fuzzier and less real every year, but there was a time when I wasn’t this way, you know. I used to be young and vibrant—don’t laugh, kiddo. It might happen to you one day.
“But somewhere down the road, something in me changed. I wish I could tell you when it was or what caused it, or, better yet, go back to that time and fix it, but my bones tell me it’s too late for me to change. But there are some things that I had to do. You will understand it one day. But now I’m tired, and these are too gloomy discussions for such a beautiful visit.”
Lenny smiled at his aunt. “You are not stodgy, Aunt Elaine. Perhaps a bit thick headed and misunderstood, and probably senile, but definitely not stodgy.” Lenny thought about asking his aunt about the sweater, but decided it was best to let it lie. He would wear it for her and then throw it in his closet, along with the other gifts he had received with no intention of ever wearing or using. He might drag it out when she visited him, but she rarely left her house these days that he doubted he would have much of an opportunity.
“Would you like more tea?” he asked.
“That would be wonderful. Lenny?”
“Yes, Aunt Elaine?”
“Do you think everything will turn out? What I’m trying to ask is: do you think I did the right thing?”
Lenny looked at her strangely. He didn’t know how to answer or what she was talking about. He felt a warm sensation in his chest and was overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness. He wasn’t sure why he was sad, but he thought it might have something to do with his aunt’s aging, or, more unexpectedly, something to do with the sweater. “I can’t say, but it’s too late to change it now,” Lenny said. It was not the reassuring statement he had planned, but he knew it for the truth.
Word count: 2,050
Words left: 47,950
Time: Too many hours (2+)
Caffeination: Vanilla Coke & Tall Mocha
Feeling: Discouraged and depressed.
The roads were wet when Lenny drove from his aunt’s house. It didn’t rain often in Southern California, but when it did, the roads were dangerous. It was not the wet pavement that created the hazard, but the inexperienced drivers that drove their cars at erratic speeds and lost control on the slippery turns or, more usually, caused accidents behind them by breaking suddenly. Lenny’s mind was not on the roads, however. He drove cautiously, staying entirely in the right lane, and choosing a route that would both take him the longest time to get where he was driving, and leave him with an acceptable excuse and an honest route that wouldn’t raise too many questions if interrogated. Samantha sometimes did that. He felt reasonably sure that she wouldn’t this time, especially in front of Stacy and whatever loser she dragged to dinner this night. But he didn’t want to take any chances and continued with his convoluted route.
Lenny had promised Samantha that he would meet her and Stacy and possibly her date at Tully’s Italian Restaurant. Tully was not an Italian name, and, as usually happens with restaurants that cook cuisines unfamiliar to its owners, the food was a mismatch of greasy Italian food and overcooked Greek food, leaving it in a space outside of the normal California organic cuisine. Lenny grew up eating health foods before it became popular and an almost required cuisine. When the organic fad hit a few years ago, Lenny resisted the conversion, attempting to find restaurants that served health foods that were not organic, or inorganic, as he jokingly referred to it. He questioned what inorganic food could be—perhaps a slab of asphalt with a side of rock, or iron steak smothered in sulfuric acid. He eventually succumbed to organic food, since he found that it was better for his stomach, which rebelled often when he ate greasy and especially inorganic foods. Samantha and Stacy were remorseless meat eaters, and they searched long and wide for the greasiest spoons in California. There weren’t many high-class places that served greasy food in California, but Lenny was relatively certain that he now had visited most of them. This was his second trip to Tully’s Italian Restaurant, and he was not looking forward to it.
The air blowing through his open windows was chilly and for a moment he was grateful for the sweater. His mind changed quickly when he looked down at it and remembered what it looked like. The neck was beginning to scratch him. He had planned to change out of the sweater when he got in the car, but forgot about it. He had plenty of time to take it off before he met up with Samantha. He was sure Samantha would have a good laugh from the sweater. It would be a better laugh if he left it on, but he decided not to subject himself to that type of ridicule.
Lenny arrived at the restaurant and skipped the valet parking, choosing to drive around searching for a parking spot. He found one quicker than he had hoped, and decided to check the pressure in his tires before heading into the restaurant. He told himself it was better to be safe than sorry and risk a flat. The rain had stopped but the roads were still slick and he knew how bad the drivers were in this area. After ensuring that all the tires measured thirty-four pounds of pressure per square inch, he decided that he could no longer put off the inevitable. He didn’t know how he would explain to Samantha that he had decided that this was a good time to get a haircut when she asked what took him so long.
As he opened the door to the restaurant, he remembered that he had once again forgotten to change out of the sweater. Samantha and Stacy waved at him from their table and he raised his hand in response. He thought about turning around and retrieving his t-shirt from the car, but it was probably too late. Samantha was observant and he was sure she saw the sweater.
The hostess at the front desk gave him a strange look. Lenny was used to such looks. In a city where fashion was as important as the car you drove he was not a sharp dresser, preferring blue jeans and t-shirts to real clothing. Wearing such urban clothing reminded him of his college days, when the only clothing he owned was paint splattered and he considered it a bad day when his fingernails weren’t blackened. When the hostess finally acknowledged him, he pointed to Samantha and Stacy and the host nodded. She whispered something to the manager, who gave a disapproving nod. The hostess escorted him to Samantha’s table and held the chair for him.
“There you are,” Samantha said. Lenny looked down and smiled. She stood up and gave him a hug. Lenny greeted Stacy and realized that the table was set only for three. That was not a good sign. At least when Stacy brought one of her loser dates, he had a male at the table to talk to. When she brought nobody, Stacy usually spent the entire time complaining about not having a date. Lenny sat down in the vacant seat next to Samantha.
As Lenny whipped out his napkin, Samantha leaned back in her chair. “What is that?”
“What?” Lenny said, hoping that Samantha was referring to anything but the pink sweater, but knowing that was impossible. He decided that perhaps he could have fun with it. There was no reason to force the issue, particularly in front of Stacy. It is going to be difficult for Samantha to believe that his aunt gave him the sweater. She appreciated his aunt’s impeccable taste more than he did.
“That thing you’re wearing. What is it? Is that a sweater?”
“This old thing? I’ve had it in the closet for ages. You must have seen me wear this before. I think I even wore it when we had dinner with Stacy a few weeks ago. Didn’t Andy join us that night?”
“Don’t even bring up that bastard,” Stacy said, falling neatly into Lenny’s trap. Samantha seethed quietly in her chair while Stacy complained about Andy. Lenny cut into the sourdough bread loaf and liberally spread butter on his piece. He smiled at Samantha. “Can you believe that Andy text messaged me an ‘I love you’ message? He couldn’t even say it. I called him up and he asked if I received his message.”
“I’m sure you denied it,” Samantha chimed in.
“Of course I denied it. I wanted him to actually say it to me for the first time. What is wrong with men?” Stacy looked at Lenny but didn’t wait for a response. “He sent it three times. The third time, I telephoned him to tell him I received it, and you know what he said?”
“What?” Stacy said.
“He asked if I had something to tell him. I was like, I might have something to tell you if you have something to tell me. And he was like, didn’t you get my message? I said I did. And he said, well? And you know what the bastard said? He said I was ungrateful and an unloving bitch. Those are his words exactly. He’s the reason I’m here alone tonight. I told him that if that’s how he wants to treat me, perhaps we shouldn’t see each other again.”
“Men are dogs,” Samantha said. Stacy nodded in agreement and took a deep drink from her umbrella-laden glass. Lenny chewed contently on his bread during the exchange. That’s one way to reflect the Samantha’s attention from the pink sweater. Lenny waited for Samantha to start offering advice and consolation to Stacy, but she turned and faced Lenny instead.
“So, about that sweater, did you lose a bet again?”
Lenny stopped chewing. “Stacy, isn’t there more you want to tell us about Andy? Wasn’t he a sports writer or something? Maybe he expressed himself only through writing and was not a good talker. Perhaps you were too hard on him?”
“This will be much more fun, Stacy. Trust me. I bet the bet was with Jake? Get this, Stacy, the last time Lenny here lost a bet with Jake it was a doosy. Let me see if I get this right—I’m sure you’ll correct me if I leave out a detail, dear. It was over a client Lenny and Jake were trying to woo. They put on the beauty pageant presentation—don’t they just have the cutest names for their business ventures—and Lenny, being the eternal, sky-must-be-falling-because-I’m-walking-under-it pessimist, was sure that they would not get the account. Jake bet Lenny that they had impressed the marketing folks of the—I think the account was for a chocolate company, right?”
“A vanilla-extract company, but please do go on.” Stacy leaned over the table and watched with a suppressed grin on her face. Lenny could only guess what discussions they had before he arrived. He knew they involved men. And since they hadn’t spoken about Andy, he was pretty sure he was the unlucky victim.
“Yes, a vanilla company. For losing the bet, this cute little man here—”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t use little when describing me.”
“Of course dear, this cute little, well-hung man, shaved a mullet in his hair and had to wear it for a month! At the time, his hair was long enough for such a drastic cut. I swear, I almost dumped him halfway through that month. I refused to be seen in public unless he wore a hat.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was terrible. What did your bet involve this time?”
“It was a gift.”
“From whom? Do you have a secret admirer that you’re keeping from me? Perhaps you have a secret admirer with awful taste.”
“Aunt Elaine.”
While Aunt Elaine liked Samantha well enough, Samantha was always nervous around her. Samantha got along well with Lenny’s mother and the two had become fast friends. But his aunt’s wittiness and outrageous personality made Samantha nervous. She tried hard to prove herself to his aunt, and while his aunt never said anything negative about Samantha, Lenny always felt that Samantha’s attempts to impress her had resulted in the opposite feeling in his aunt.
“There’s no way your aunt purchased that sweater for you.”
Now that the conversation shifted from belittling Lenny, Stacy seemed less interested in what they were saying. She began studying the menu.
“You’re right, she didn’t purchase it. She knitted it with her gnarled hands.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. Do you think I would be wearing this if I was joking?”
“Why would she knit such an ugly thing? I thought her constitution couldn’t support manual labor. And that nasty shade of pink? I could understand a lighter pink, but that? I’m not even sure that qualifies as a pink.”
Under the restaurant’s light, the sweater did look darker, more reddish than Lenny remembered. Large crystal chandeliers hung from various points along the ceiling and gave off a dull yellowed light. Like most of the restaurant’s décor, the chandeliers looked out of place. The red and white checkered tablecloths and woven bread baskets were the only Italian influence in the place. The French chandeliers, Greek sculptures, and Spanish musical instruments added an eclectic and disorienting feel to the restaurant.
“I have no idea. At first, I thought she was putting me on. Once she held up her hands for my inspection after I doubted that she knitted the sweater, I was sure that she had some ulterior motive, some great joke that she was going to spring on me. But the strange thing is she became very serious when I started joking around with her. Not serious in her cynical way, but I felt that there was something she wanted to tell me and didn’t. Something very important but she—I don’t know.” Lenny glanced at Stacy then turned back to Samantha. “Maybe she’s just losing it. She is getting older.”
Samantha grinned. “I don’t think that’s possible. That old hag is going to outlast all of us and she’ll dance on my grave, if I read her right.”
“You’re too hard on yourself. She likes you. You just have to stop trying to impress her and be yourself. She’ll like you just as much as I do.”
“And how much is that?”
“A whole bunch.”
”A bunch of what?”
“A whole bunch.”
“Well,” Stacy said, “this conversation has taken a most disgusting turn. Sam, you promised that if I came to dinner tonight with you, you weren’t going to get all mushy on me. It’s bad enough that Andy’s not here. And you know I’m still in a healing period.”
“Stacy,” Samantha said, “you’re always in a healing period. You just need to get out there and lasso another guy to bring to our couple’s dinners. Lenny needs someone else to talk to. Do you see what happens to him when he hangs out with us girls?” Samantha pulled on his pink sweater and the three of them laughed.
Word count: 2,205
Words left: 45,745
Time: 2 hours
Caffeination: 2 Vanilla Cokes
Feeling: Writing is coming out easier (but no better)
“I think Andy is cheating on me,” Lenny heard Stacy saying as he returned from the bathroom.
“I’m sorry,” Lenny said. “Should I come back later?” Lenny hoped for an out. This conversation was going to go nowhere he wanted to be, and he saw this as his opportunity to escape.
“That’s okay, Lenny. However much I kid with you, I feel like you’re a brother and you’re always here for me.”
“Do you see why I love this man?” Samantha said. Flattery was the fastest way to Lenny’s heart, and he sat down and broke off another piece of bread to butter.
“Why do you think he’s cheating on you,” Samantha said. Lenny took a bite from the bread and studied Stacy as she answered. Stacy was plump, with a freckled face and a constant scowl on her face. Her life was one accident after the next. Each relationship was an accident waiting to happen, and when it did, she called Samantha and relived all the gory details. Lenny was lucky to escape most of this exposition, but he usually ended up listening to one side of the conversation, which consisted of many “uh huh,” “I can’t believe it!” and “How is that possible?”
“I’ve been looking through his phone’s text messages. At first it was innocent. I had sent him a phone number by text message, and I forgot it and wanted to get it back. As I was looking through his messages inbox, I came across a bunch of numbers that I didn’t know. I wrote them down—it was all innocent. I just wanted to be sure. You know what I mean? I wasn’t checking up on him, I was just curious is all. I didn’t even think it was another woman. Why would I? He’s such a defenseless man, I didn’t think he could get another woman.”
Samantha made a sympathetic sound. “At first it was an accident, I dialed the wrong number on the paper. I meant to dial the number I had planned to write down—the phone number I originally wanted from his text message inbox, but I forgot which was which and just started calling the numbers.”
The first number I called was for an escort service. I didn’t even know what an escort service was! I had to look up their website—why would he need to call such a place?”
Samantha made another sympathetic sound and Lenny drained his glass of wine, hoping he’d have another urge to run to the bathroom. This was worse than he had imagined. The woman could talk. Samantha was engrossed by the conversation. Lenny wanted to shoot himself.
“And then. Then,” Stacy stopped to blow her nose. Samantha grabbed her arm. “The next number I dialed was for a woman named Tomlin. You should have heard the nasty things she told me. It was awful. I called Andy to ask him who these people are and do you know what this son of a bitch said? He denied any knowledge of these people. He said that he had been receiving wrong numbers on his phone. His phone bill tells a completely different story. He spoke to this woman Tomlin for over an hour three times last week.”
“How did you get his phone bill?” Lenny said, the question slipping from his mouth before he had a chance to evaluate whether this was information he really wanted to know about.
“I snuck a look at it when I visited him yesterday. He’s cheating on me, and I think he’s doing it with hookers.” Stacy started crying loudly. The diners in the other tables began to watch and Lenny hunched over. He signaled the busboy for more water.
The dinner arrived interrupting Stacy’s story. Samantha squeezed Stacy’s arm, and Stacy wiped the tears from her ears, blew her nose nosily, and tucked the cloth napkin into her shirt color. It was served family style. A plate of heaping spaghetti topped with four oversized meatballs was placed in the middle of the table. Two vegetable plates of fried onion rings and fried zucchini came next. The waiter then made room in the middle of the table for the main dish: diced chicken-fried steak. Lenny groaned.
The girls dug in, and within moments of starting, their cloth napkins glowed with the grease from their fingers. Lenny picked at the zucchini, removing the fried shell before cutting up and eating each vegetable. His appetite was hardier than he expected, particularly with the food he was eating. After finishing the zucchini plate, having to dissect and eat quickly to stop the girls from taking his stalks, he started in on the spaghetti, and we he looked up, he had finished half the plate.
“You’re hungry today. Been to the gym or something?” Samantha said.
“No. That’s weird. I was planning on having a few zucchinis and calling it a night. You know how I feel about this type of food. I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”
“I never understood you, Lenny. How can you eat as little as you do? I feel much better knowing that you splurge occasionally. Have some meatballs. They’re yummy,” Stacy said. Lenny rubbed his stomach, which felt funny, like it was hollow or missing something. He was not hungry, but he felt like he could eat more food. He stabbed a meatball and put it on his plate. The meatball dripped orange oil on to his plate. Under other circumstances, the site of the pool of oil would have disgusted him enough not to eat the meatball. But he cut it into fours and ate each piece.
“Are you sure he’s cheating on you? Could you be mistaken? Maybe it was like he said: somebody got the wrong number and started calling it. This happened to Charlie a long time ago.” Samantha said.
“Must you bring up Charlie constantly?” Lenny said.
“Don’t you love it when your guy gets jealous? I try to drop Charlie’s name at least once a day, just to remind Lenny how lucky he has it,” Samantha said and pointed to her nose.
“If I still had a man, I’m sure I’d love it, but at this point in my life. Do you think he was telling the truth? It’s not that far fetched. I sometimes get people calling with the wrong number, and if, maybe, someone was giving out the wrong number—you know how when you first get a number sometimes you don’t remember it that well and you give out the wrong number? Maybe something like that happened, and somebody was giving out his number to a whole bunch of people,” Stacy said.
“It’s possible,” Samantha said.
“Anything is possible,” Lenny said. He wasn’t sure why he said that. But he knew what was going on with Andy. He wasn’t sure how he knew it—he was sure that he wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation—but into his head popped all the information about Andy and his addiction to phone sex and an extortion ring. Lenny’s chest felt warm and there was a strong part of him that felt bad for Andy and Stacy. He felt that they were right for each other, and if they could get past this, they could be happy for a long time. Lenny did not know what he was thinking or why he was thinking it.
“Did you spill spaghetti sauce on your sweater, Lenny?” Samantha said.
Lenny was still overwhelmed by the feeling was that were coming to him about Stacy and her relationship with Andy.
“Your sweater looks redder now. Did the light change?” Samantha said.
“I don’t think so. The sweater does look pinker, now that you mention it.” Stacy said.
Lenny didn’t hear what Stacy and Samantha said. His mind was playing through different scenarios of telling Stacy about Andy. If he tells her the truth, she would never believe it, no matter how many details he gives. Lenny didn’t think how he knew that it was the truth; just that it was the truth, and he should help her out. It had taken him a while to get that last thought through his head. He had consciously weighed the pros and cons. She was a friend of Samantha, and to make Samantha happy, he should help her. But did he want to get involved and make things worse. He wouldn’t make things worse because he has time to think about a good solution and a better outcome. Would Stacy and Andy be happy together? Yes. Lenny’s mind was racing with facts and outcomes and scenarios.
“Lenny? Are you okay? Maybe it wasn’t the sweater that was getting redder, but your face that was getting whiter. Lenny? Are you there?” Samantha said.
“He’s not looking good, Samantha. Is he choking on something?” Stacy said.
He could see that Stacy and Andy would have three children, and the second child would die when he was three years old. He knew he couldn’t change that death. Again, he didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that there were events that would happen regardless of what choices people made. Even with their second child’s death, Stacy and Andy would stay together and become closer through a support group. If they don’t marry, Stacy will never be happy. She will die a bitter old lady. Lenny wasn’t sure if that mattered to him. But he saw that Samantha stayed in touch with Stacy, and would share in her triumph or failures. He started to think about whether Samantha would stay with him and stopped that line of thought. There were just certain things he didn’t want to know at this time.
“Lenny? Lenny? You’re growing paler. I think we should call someone,” Samantha said.
Lenny’s thoughts quieted when he forced himself to not think about Samantha. He heard the worry in Samantha’s voice and looked up. Samantha was behind him, shaking his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Lenny said. “I must have blanked out there for a moment. I was having the weirdest thoughts.” But as hard as he tried, Lenny only had a fuzzy recollection of his thoughts. “I think I need some water.”
“He seems to be okay now. No, we don’t need an ambulance. Yes, I understand this is the emergency line, and this was an emergency. We were worried about him. It was a few minutes. Yes. Okay. Thank you—you as well.” Stacy hung up her cell phone.
“What happened there?” Samantha said.
Lenny took a deep drink from his glass and finished the water. He poured the ice into his mouth and started chewing. “I don’t know,” Lenny said between chews. “I’m better now. I think I overheated or something. That was the strangest feeling.”
“Well don’t do that again,” Samantha said. “And you are going to make a doctor’s appointment. How long have I been asking?”
“But my sister is a doctor. I talk to her on the phone at least once a week. What more can I ask?” Lenny said.
“And every time I speak with her, she says that you should see your own doctor, get your vitals check, and have them run blood tests. You’re the only one who thinks that talking to her counts as seeing the doctor. Especially after that—after your episode. If you don’t call the doctor tomorrow I will,” Samantha said.
Lenny nodded and watched Stacy put away her phone. “Stacy, I was thinking about what you said about Andy. I think he’s lying. I’m telling you this from a guy’s point of view. I don’t normally break the guy’s honor system, but let me tell you what he’s probably hiding.”
Stacy leaned forward and Samantha watched with an amused look on her face.
“There’s something he’s keeping from you,” Lenny said. He knew he had to help Stacy fix her problems with Andy. It was the right thing to do. His thoughts were swinging around his head. Where was this advice coming from? He felt so sure about it and began blurting it out, like he was reading a script or reciting the lines of a movie he had watched hundreds of times. “Perhaps it is a girlfriend from an old relationship that he still talks to, or something like that. You have to confront him and drag it out of him. Most guys want to tell you things, and I’m sure Andy is no different. I’ve met him and he seems like an honest guy, and guys like that don’t like to hide things. They like to have a clean conscious. Go to him tonight and talk to him. Sit him down and don’t let him leave until you find out what it is. Once you do, if you can handle whatever it turns out to be, work it out. Then fuck, or do whatever it is you kids do, but make sure you do something to consummate and impress upon him that he did right by telling you. I have a good feeling that you can work out whatever it is that’s wrong.
“I know you didn’t want my advice. I know that the last thing you girls ever want from men is advice. But please trust me on this. I like Andy and I want to see you happy—honestly, I want to see you happy so that Samantha’s happy,” Lenny said. He had one additional thought that he kept to himself. He was sure that even when she was happy, Stacy would find something else to bitch about. Why Samantha enjoyed Stacy’s company, Lenny did not know. And when his thoughts began to whirl in his head, he decided he did not want to know. What he wanted to know was where all these thoughts were coming form. To that, his mind was silent.
“Wow,” Samantha said. “That was impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lenny string so many words together in public. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m feeling fine,” Lenny said. “Better than I’ve felt for as long as I can remember.” Lenny grabbed another helping of spaghetti from the serving plate and speared the last two meatballs onto his plate. Stacy sat deep in thought.
“I have to make a phone call,” Stacy said. “Will you two excuse me?” Without waiting for an answer, Stacy left the table.
“What is going on?” Samantha said.
Lenny felt a strong desire not to say anything and blow off the whole incident. But he knew he couldn’t do that to Samantha, regardless of how he felt. “It was very strange,” Lenny said. “I can’t explain it, but I knew that that was the right thing for her to do. Maybe I am coming down with something.”
“It’s called empathy for other human beings,” Samantha said. “And it’s an incurable human condition. Welcome to our race.”
Lenny smiled but didn’t respond. He was too busy stuffing spaghetti and meatballs into his mouth.
Word count: 2,504
Words left: 43,241
Caffeination: Tall Mocha
Feeling: Bored and dragging the first half, and then I hit a sweet spot for the second half. That was the best I've felt writing since I started. I didn't even bother to read it through after I finished.
“She has passed it on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You told us she wouldn’t pass it on.”
“I said that is what I thought would happen. This was unexpected, but not unplanned for.”
“Do you know how or who, yet—or more importantly why?”
“I’m still working on the how or who, but the why is obvious. I warned the council that there was always a chance that she might pass it on. You chose to wait. Did you really think she would break the chain? She was getting older and she never used it. I can’t imagine having access to it and never using it. She either had tremendous guts or was tremendously stupid.”
“She knew the danger. What do you think would happen if she—”
“I’ll stop you there. This is not a secure line and you talk too much.”
“Very well. What is your plan?”
“You know what I have to do. We agreed to the plan when I first took this position. Nothing has changed.”
“May I know when and where?”
“No.”
“At least tell me who.”
“Depends on what I find out.”
“You give me nothing to go back with. I have no choice but to trust you.”
“Yes.”
“Will you hurt her?”
“Maybe. She knew the consequences years ago. She stopped cooperating, and now we must hold up our end of the bargain. I hope whoever she passed it on to knows the dangers.”
“It wouldn’t change anything.”
“No.”
“Is it possible you made a mistake? Forget I asked that. I am sure you would not be speaking to me if you had any doubts. I’ll have to report this to the council.”
“That’s why I called you.”
“I figured as much. I’ll contact you if they disagree with your actions.”
“I will not expect a call then.”
“Probably not. Contact me if something changes.”
The morning sun flashed through the skylight in Lenny’s bedroom. Lenny hid under the covers, but when breathing became difficult and hot he threw the covers off and reached over to Samantha’s side of the bed. Her side was still warm and indented, but empty. Lenny stepped out of bed, threw on some clothing, and went searching for Samantha.
“You are up early,” Samantha said, standing over a frying pan stirring eggs. “I was looking forward to waking you up.”
“You just wanted to take advantage of me,” Lenny said. He walked behind Samantha and hugged her. She continued to stir the breakfast dispassionately.
“That was last night,” Samantha said.
“What does that have to do with anything? It is a new day and those eggs smell delicious,” Lenny said.
Samantha gave Lenny a playful push away from her. She grabbed his shirt before he backed too far from here. “Are you wearing that stupid sweater again?” Samantha said.
Lenny had not noticed what clothing he put on when he woke up. He was surprised to realize that he was wearing the pink sweater. “I just reached for the first clothing I could find this morning. I must have thrown it on the floor last night.”
“You were in a bit of a hurry to get undressed, if I remember correctly. Most of your clothing ended up on the floor,” Samantha said.
“I’ll have to take your word for what happened last night. It’s all still a bit fuzzy,” Lenny said.
“Fuzzy? Is that your euphemism for it now?” Samantha said.
Lenny poured a glass of orange juice and drank it. He poured a second glass of orange juice and drank it. He finished emptying the carton of orange juice in his third glass and drank it. “We’re out of orange juice,” Lenny said.
“I just opened a new carton yesterday morning. I think there’s another carton in the fridge. What are your plans for today?” Samantha said. She added salt to the eggs and turned off the burner.
“No plans. Spend the morning with you, catch up with some work, maybe watch some football, the usual Sunday activities,” Lenny said.
Samantha spooned the eggs onto two plates and brought them to the table. Lenny grabbed two forks from the drawer and the second carton of orange juice and two glasses, and followed her to the table.
“Stacy called this morning,” Samantha said.
Lenny groaned. “How can you talk to her so much? You should start charging her for your sessions with her. At least therapists get paid to hear their patients whining for hours at a time. What was she complaining about this time?” Lenny said.
“She didn’t complain at all. She called me to give you a message: she is eternally grateful for your advice yesterday. Andy came clean with her. He told her everything. He was involved in some sick shit. But they worked it out. You’ll never guess what type of people he got involved with, never in a million years.” Samantha said.
“Phone sex blackmailers?” Lenny said. His thoughts from yesterday flooded back through his mind. He saw the blackmailer, a young Russian man with a small build. He was not going to be happy when he next called Andy. But it would work out. He was a swindler, but not the violent type. The conversation with Andy went well for Stacy. She took it as well as he expected—almost exactly as he expected. But he knew his prediction was just a best guess. It was not truth like he had begun to understand truth. It would take Stacy many years to trust Andy again, but those would be good years.
“Lenny, did you hear me?” Samantha said. She looked at him, her eggs hovering near her mouth.
“I missed that,” Lenny said.
“Are you okay? You are beginning to freak me out. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” Samantha said. She put her fork down and placed her hand on Lenny’s forehead. He accepted her ministrations without comment but knew, down to the names and types of viruses flooding through his bloodstream, that he was relatively healthy. What he didn’t know was how he would feel tomorrow, but after acknowledging the hole in his knowledge, he accepted it as the way it was.
“I thought Andy must have told you. You were a bit too insightful yesterday. When did Andy spill the beans? And, more importantly, why didn’t you tell me about it? I thought we don’t hide things like this from each other? Remember: the couples honor code—you warn all your friends, I warn all of mine so there’s no misunderstanding. Didn’t we swear in blood to this or something?” Samantha said.
“Andy? Oh.” Lenny said. He did not want to lie to Samantha, but he felt that it was the best way not to scare her. He felt that this was the right path to take. He would have told her everything yesterday at dinner if she had asked, but now that he had a chance to sleep on it, telling her might have been a big mistake. The scenarios ran through his brain and he evaluated each one before deciding on the best approach. When he spoke, Samantha was waving her hand in front of his eyes. “He must have told me last time we went to dinner. I don’t remember exactly when.”
“Are you sure you are okay? You seem especially slow the last few days,” Samantha said.
“I’ve been doing more thinking lately is all. Joining the human race is not as easy as you made it out to be,” Lenny said.
“I am very proud of you, you know. You really showed a different side of yourself yesterday. I like that side,” Samantha said.
“Yes. I remember how much you liked it last night,” Lenny said with a deep smirk.
Samantha cleared her throat. “I’m sure Andy didn’t give you all the juicy details,” Samantha said.
“I bet Stacy did and now you are going to regale me with the tale,” Lenny said.
“Don’t give me your smart mouth. But, yeah, I’m going to regale you, so get ready for the crunchy details,” Samantha said.
“Crunchy or juicy?” Lenny said.
“Shush, you. According to Andy, approximately six-months ago, Andy started calling a phone sex operator—that is a few months before he met Stacy, or so he claimed. He found one that he liked, whatever that means for phone sex operators, I imagine a deep, huffy voice and a good vocabulary, and began calling her every night, for two hour rendezvous. These are his words, not mine. Before I heard this story, I didn’t realize you can have a rendezvous over the phone.
“When he started seriously dating Stacy, about three-months ago, he decided to break off his conversations with Tomlin, the phone sex operator, who, as far as I was able to tell, is a female phone sex operator, although that was not clear and I did not want to push Stacy for those details,” Samantha said.
Lenny watched Samantha talk but he was only partly listening. He knew that Andy had been telling the truth on almost everything that had happened. He wanted to fill in the details that Samantha was missing, like Andy spoke with many more operators than Tomlin—he became addicted to speaking to them and made as many as three different calls to different operators every day. And these calls had put his job in jeopardy. But he knew Samantha would ask questions about his knowledge, and, besides, Andy has managed to give up his addictions and with Stacy’s vigilance, will kick the habit.
“Anyway, two weeks ago, Tomlin, the phone-sex operator, began to call Andy again. At first, she told him that she missed him, and desperately wanted to hear from him again. Andy, being a man, fell for her hook, line, and sinker. This was, if you remember, when Stacy started calling me at outrageous hours. She had a feeling Andy was cheating on her,” Samantha said.
“I remember that part only too well,” Lenny said.
“Tomlin was not satisfied with just talking to Andy on the phone. She wanted to take the next step and arranged to meet him out. Andy was only too happy to oblige her. That is when Boris, her pimp, if you will, photographed them together. A week ago, Tomlin stopped calling Andy, and Boris started calling him. Boris e-mailed Andy the pictures he had taken, and the formal negotiations began in earnest.” Samantha said.
Lenny nodded, finished the eggs on his plate, and began picking on the eggs on Samantha’s plate.
“Boris demanded fifty dollars a week for his silence. Andy paid him for this past week, but felt terrible about it. He’s a horrible liar and Stacy became suspicious. Andy was paying the money so that Stacy would not find out. However sick that is, Stacy really felt that it was a sign of Andy’s love for her—he put himself through all this trouble just to keep their relationship going. While I think he’s an idiot and probably should be quartered, Stacy gushed when she told me the story. I have never heard her gush, and it was a little strange. I’m usually the gusher.
“Hey! Those were my eggs.” Samantha said.
Lenny looked at her plate and realized he had eaten all of her eggs. His stomach felt warm and content, if still a little empty. “Sorry,” Lenny said.
“I’m going to meet Stacy for lunch. I’m sure there are many more details she left out this morning. Do you want to join us?” Samantha said.
“I think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind. Too much Stacy will drive any man mad.” Lenny said.
“Okay. Don’t forget to shower today. You might as well pretend like you are going to get something accomplished.” Samantha said.
Lenny nodded in agreement and cleared the table before going upstairs.
After showering, Lenny stood in his bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist admiring his physique in the mirror. He flexed his arms, feeling the little bumps the muscles created. Lenny was a good size for his weight, always having had the luck of not having to worry about his weight. Throughout school, he had been too skinny and not athletic. That changed when he started working and began participating in many sporting leagues. Now, after frequenting the gym, perhaps not as often as he should—a few times a week—the progress was apparent. While he did not wish to return to school, he did sometimes wonder how different it would have been if he had grown into this athleticism earlier in life.
After drying himself, Lenny stepped into boxers and pulled on a pair of shorts. He reached down to the floor and picked up the pink sweater. He grabbed the inside neck and raised it above his head. Before he put it on, he saw what he was doing in the mirror, holding the pink sweater poised over his head. He did not know why he was putting it on. As usual, it was seventy degrees outside, way too warm to be wearing a sweater, especially during the day. During his shower, he decided to bike over to the coffee shop before he started to work. The sweater was the furthest thing from proper biking clothing as he could think of.
He lowered the sweater and stared at it.
Word count: 2,236
Words left: 41,005
Time: 1.5 hours
Edit time (mostly spent adding more yummy goodness): 30 minutes
Caffeination: Tall Mocha
Feeling: I felt pretty good today. I was tired, but I got a lot of writing done early. I had much more I wanted to write today, but I decided that the part I ended at will give me a great place to start tomorrow. I'm really interested to know what happens, and, according to some people, that's the best place to stop because you have a great hook for the next day. We'll see.
Why did he almost put on the sweater? Lenny was not sure. He realized that it was not a conscious action. He had not thought about what he was going to wear, but instead reached for the sweater almost unconsciously. He held the sweater in front of him and studied it. The texture and material reminded Lenny of the pink pajamas that children wear, soft, fuzzy, and bright. The sweater was still ugly, now rumpled from being thrown on the floor, but it did look comfortable to wear. The color was brighter, almost fluorescent in the morning sun, which threw rays across the floor and up the wall, creating an elongated projection of the window. The dust motes floated upward in the sunlight and Lenny watched a particularly large one as it drifted up, staying within the light beams, until it disappeared.
What was he doing? He should be heading to the coffee shop. He scolded himself quietly for staring into space and reached up with the sweater to slip it over his head. He caught himself again and threw the sweater onto the ground. Today was not a sweater day. He went into the closet and pulled on a shirt and shorts. There, that was better. He decided that when he returned home, he would put the sweater in the bag with the rest of the clothing he never planned to wear again. That would be the end of that. Lenny walked to his bedroom door and stopped at the door. He turned around and looked at the small pink pile on the floor. He wanted to wear the sweater. Lenny had never wanted to wear anything in his life. Many times, he had been forced to wear clothing—tuxedos for weddings, suits for client meetings—but he had never had a desire to wear a piece of clothing. He usually put on whatever was clean, and rarely worried about matching unless he was meeting Samantha, or one of his more critical ex-girlfriends. What was it with the sweater his aunt gave him?
Lenny did not know where his desire came from. He thought that maybe he wanted to wear it because it was a gift from his aunt. But he dismissed that thought quickly. She had given him many gifts, and while he used and enjoyed many of them, there were others that he pretended to like, only to discard them when he returned home. He could not understand the hold that the sweater had over him. It was a comfortable sweater, but ugly as well. It was too ugly and hot to wear outside.
Yesterday had been a strange day. He remembered at least that much. Part of the day was fuzzy, as he had told Samantha. He remembered bits and pieces of the day, almost as if he had dreamed it and upon waking, the dreams fragmented and he could only recall bits and pieces. He remembered visiting Aunt Elaine and her gift of the sweater. He vaguely remembered dinner with Samantha and Stacy. He couldn’t remember what they talked about, which did not seem particularly strange to Lenny. Normally, he barely listened when Stacy spoke. He remembered some discussions about Andy, but nothing that stuck in his mind. He remembered Stacy’s description of the phone sex extortion from breakfast, but he wasn’t sure if they had discussed it during dinner the previous night. Lenny shook his head to clear it.
Lenny’s head began to hurt and he felt hungry. Caffeine, he thought. That was what he was missing. When the liquid gold raced through his veins, he would feel more normal and get a better sense of what was going on. He turned his back on the sweater and went to grab his bicycle.
Lenny carried his bicycle helmet into the coffee shop. The Pacific Coast Highway had been crowded with bicyclists and he had made good progress drafting behind a few groups. Bicyclists had overrun the coffee shop when he arrived. A bicycling club had chosen this shop as a rest stop for their trip. Most weekends one club or another would do so. While the Pacific Coast Highway was a long road, the bicycle clubs frequented only a few stretches. A requirement for their decision was the availability of a coffee shop or breakfast place. The stretch of highway that Lenny frequented had both.
Lenny waited in line behind the bicyclists who clunked around the shop on their cleat-shod bicycle shoes. They did not give Lenny a second glance, but he felt out of place amongst them. He was wearing a normal shirt and shorts, and sneakers instead of the specially-made bicycle shoe. Almost all of the bicyclists wore tight, bicycling shorts, and competition shirts, some of which were for marathons and others were replicas of professional rider’s shirts, complete with the advertisements. For Lenny, the ride to the coffee shop was a mere thirty minutes. Since it was already well past eleven, most of these riders had probably been riding for three or four hours before coming here to stop.
All of the outside tables and chairs were taken by lounging riders. The inside tables had a mixture of students typing away on laptops, and bikers, stretching and chatting in groups of twos and threes. Lenny brought his coffee and muffin to a table in the corner and sat down to commence his favorite activity. He sipped the tall coffee and watched the people at the other tables, trying to figure out their relations and silently making up stories about their lives. He could usually spend an hour imagining and sketching the various people that came and went from the shop. This was his creative exercise. He would create many mental images of the people and their thoughts, and project those images onto his computer canvas at home. But as hard as he concentrated, he could not focus on thinking through his images. His head hurt and the coffee was not quieting the jitters in his mind. He debated whether he was coming down with something, but he did not feel cold, a usual symptom when he felt sickness creeping up on him.
A tall man entered the coffee shop. He carried a briefcase and wore thick, black sunglasses. He clearly was not a biker and not a regular. Lenny took an interest in him immediately. He began sketching in his head the broad strokes of his face and thick body. The brown, Italian leather briefcase and tailored suit made him an oddity in this part of the city, particularly on a Sunday. He walked past the coffee shop counter and began searching the tables. He walked toward Lenny’s table, his leather, fancy shoes making a loud racket, louder even than the cleats that the bikers wore.
The man approached Lenny’s table and stopped when he stood in front of Lenny.
“Lenny Sooner, I presume,” the man said.
“You presume a bit much. Who are you?” Lenny said. He did not like the look of this man. Lenny, while intimidated, felt bold because of the many bikers and people in the surrounding table. While he did not feel part of the biking clan, he knew that he was closer related to the coffee drinkers than the business-suit clad man.
“I am sorry I missed you in your apartment, but Samantha—is that your wife? Samantha told me I would find you here,” the man said.
Lenny knew that Samantha had left the apartment thirty minutes before he did. He doubted she had returned. “Where did you talk to Samantha?” Lenny said.
The man’s face was stony. It was difficult to see where he was looking because of his thick, black glasses. “I spoke with her at your apartment. I have some bad news about Elaine Sooner. She is your aunt?”
Lenny stood up and felt blood pumping into his stomach. “Is something the matter with Aunt Elaine?”
The man did not say anything for a few minutes.
“Aunt Elaine,” Lenny said. “What bad news do you have?”
The man was still silent. Lenny was about to reach out and strangle the man.
“You visited her yesterday, Mr. Sooner?” the man said.
“Yes,” Lenny said.
“Would it surprise you to know that your aunt had eleven other nieces, nephews, and cousins visit her yesterday?” the main said.
“Yes, that would surprise me. But she’s a popular lady. What is the matter with my aunt?” Lenny did not know why his siblings and cousins would visit his aunt. When he spoke to his sister on Tuesday, she did not mention a visit. But what was stranger was this man asking these questions and knowing that his relatives had visited his aunt.
“Is my aunt in trouble,” Lenny said. He could not imagine what his aunt could do to get in trouble, but his mind was running out of alternatives.
“Did she give you anything yesterday, did she say anything to you yesterday?” the man said.
“What? What is the bad news you were going to tell me,” Lenny said.
“I asked, did she give you anything yesterday, or say anything to you yesterday?” the man repeated.
“Who are you? What is this all about? I’m not going to answer any of your questions until you give me some information,” Lenny said.
“Your aunt is dead,” the man said. “She was found dead in her house at five o’clock this morning. Her neighbors gave me a list of all of her visitors.”
“Are you a cop?” Lenny said.
“What time did you leave her house yesterday,” the man said.
“Let me see your badge, sir. I will not answer any more questions until I do,” Lenny said. He was angry. He knew his aunt did not look good yesterday, but he did not think she was at death’s door. “Wait. Are you saying that someone killed my aunt?”
“I will ask you one more time, Mr. Sooner. Did your aunt give you anything yesterday?” the man said.
Lenny was confused. The man was not making sense. First he told Lenny that his aunt was dead. Then he started asking nonsensical questions. He obviously was not a policeman, or he would have shown his badge. Lenny took out his cell phone. “I am going to call the police now,” Lenny said.
The man’s head went up and down, as if he was examining Lenny and then he turned around and left the coffee shop. Lenny watched him leave, fascinated by his slow walk and his uncaring attitude. He would never have the guts to walk up to a complete stranger and say what this man said. Instead of dialing the police, he called his aunt.
“Hello,” his aunt answered.
“Aunt Elaine?” Lenny said.
“Yes?” his aunt said.
“I just spoke with the strangest guy. He said that you were hurt.” Lenny said.
“No, dear, I am fine. How are you doing? Have you used what I gave you yet?” his aunt said.
“Used? What are you talking about? I am doing fine. I am more worried about you. This man was strange, very strange. He said something about Samantha. I will call you back, Aunt Elaine. I have to find Samantha. He mentioned that he had spoken to her.” Lenny said. He hung up the phone before his aunt could answer and dialed Samantha’s telephone number.
“Hello,” Samantha said.
“Samantha, it’s me. Did you speak to anyone at the apartment today, like a tall man with dark sunglasses?” Lenny said.
“What are you talking about?” Samantha said.
“I just had a strange conversation with a man who walked up to my table at the coffee shop. He knew who I was, knew who you were, and knew Aunt Elaine,” Lenny said.
“Is everything okay?” Samantha said.
“I think so. It was just strange. Call me before you come home. I want to meet you at the apartment,” Lenny said.
“Do you want me to come home now,” Samantha said.
“No. Finish your lunch with Stacy. Just make sure you call me before you get home,” Lenny said.
Word count: 2,021
Caffeination: Tall Mocha
Writing time: approximately 1.5 hours
Feeling: Horrible. I was really looking forward to seeing what was going to happen today, but the writing was forced today. I shouldn’t have stopped yesterday. I’m not happy with where the story went or how it was told. I did fancy editing to get my word count over 2k today. I hope tomorrow is better.
I feel like a hack today. My writing was terrible and if I didn’t force myself to get the 2k words, I would have given up much earlier. I had to write something good today, something poetic and well-written and descriptive and short. I know it’s against my rules, but fuck it. Fuck the rules. I made my 2k, this is for me. I have something to prove and no way to prove it.
The distraction found Lenny before he was aware that it hunted him. The sunlight cascaded across the carpeted floor and climbed the coffee-colored wall. Dust motes hovered lazily across the light, flickering in and out of existence at the light’s boundaries. And then the motes took him. They sucked him into their swirl and dragged him through the light. The clouds, racing across a dying sky, covered the sun and killed the motes. The motes died. Lenny too was lost.
A green tango raised the lonesome seat from its far night’s throne;
Who was this king who claimed dominion over the stars and moon?
The moon laughed at his demands and the stars tittered to themselves;
“I will know you,” the king screamed from his paramount balcony.
Blackened staples held the congealing blood streaming from the wound, leaking like water down a shower’s door.
The air buffeted the man, grasping him in its tendrils.
“Let me fall,” the man yelled. “We will not,” the air howled.
The ground turned its back on the man, telling him,
“I will not help you in your fall. Find another,”
The birds fought the wind and laughed at the receding earth.
“We will help,” the birds chirped. “Grab our wings.”
The man cried, “but this is what I want,”
and twisted under the parachute’s ropes, and tucked under its sheets.
“I will fall,” the man cried.
And the earth, ignoring the wind’s howls, the ground’s indifference,
and the birds’ songs, listened to and embraced the man.
Shut them up. Shut up the yelling through the speakers. My head, my heart, my hands, they all cringe in pain from the isolation, the pain, the reach. My concentration does not split, I find myself searching for calmness, a center that will take me from where I am.
Why does it tease me so? Why must I feel this way? I want to be a genius. I want to be special. I want so many things. I know, can see and touch and feel but cannot accept my limitations. It’s a wall. I see it, a rubber wall that I push against and it pushes back, laughing at my impudence. Why can’t I pierce it? Why can’t I push through it to the other side, where I can set aside my pain and find…what? Why do you think that side is better than this one? Why is it that the brown corduroy sensation not…now what? I reach for words and yet they don’t hold out their hands for me. I reach and the rubber wall, that stretchy, black rubber wall, prevents me from touching that which I most want to touch. Genius. Artistic genius. That is what I crave, what I hunger for. The calculating goodness. The vision to see everything, to know enough to say something. And yet I say nothing. I say nothing with words that are similar, that are repetitive, because I cannot come up with new ones. I thumb the thesaurus and find words that replace what I seek, but those words are empty. They barely hide what I miss. Why do I miss it? Why do I do this that I do? Do I even know? Does cleverness explode on the page or find that which I seek? Others found it. I can see it in them. I can appreciate it and wish it was mine, like a jealous husband raging over a late night phone call not from him. Pink sweaters clog my veins. I cut them open and watch the trickle. There is no heartbeat, no pumping action. Just a trickle of words, the same words, repeated endlessly.
I rant and rant and complain and bitch. I doubt. But I persevere and hope for better days and better words.
Lenny knocked on his aunt’s door. The light in the bedroom was on but Lenny did not hear any noises coming from the house. The house, a large colonial three miles from the beach, always appeared slightly askew, as if the decades of winds blowing off the ocean threatened to push it over. The bright blue paint and white trimming stood out amongst the pale tan houses that lined both sides of the street. The street was full of cars—probably overflows from the beach parking lot three blocks away.
“Do you think she is at home?” Samantha said. After Lenny told Samantha about everything that happened to him in the coffee shop, she became very concerned. She insisted that she accompany Lenny when he checked on his aunt. Lenny called before they drove over, but nobody answered the telephone.
Lenny knocked again, this time louder. He heard some shuffling on the stairs and the unbolting of the locks. His aunt opened the door wearing a cornflower blue bathrobe imprinted with yellow and pink flowers. Her face looked haggard, as if she had not slept the entire night.
“Are you okay, Aunt Elaine?” Lenny said.
His aunt did not respond. She leaned against the door jam looking frail and disoriented. Her pale blue eyes looked through Lenny, focusing behind him as if she could see through his chest to whatever lay behind. Lenny began to worry. His aunt looked like she did not recognize him.
“Aunt Elaine, are you okay? It’s me, Lenny,” Lenny said.
When his aunt still did not respond he stepped through the door and gently grabbed her arm. Samantha supported her other arm and they led her to the couch. They helped her sit down.
“I’ll make you some tea, Elaine,” Samantha said. When Samantha left the room, his aunt reached out and grabbed Lenny’s arm.
“The sweater. Where is the sweater? Why aren’t you wearing the sweater? You said you would wear it. You have to wear it! It is an important sweater” his aunt said, her voice becoming more excited and her eyes focusing on his chest, her hands clawing at his shirt.
Lenny suspected that his aunt’s head was becoming unscrewed. He held her wrists gently and placed them on her lap. He imagined her mind spinning endlessly around their final sane conversation. He shivered and rubbed her shoulder. “The sweater is at home, Aunt Elaine. It was a very nice sweater and I’m going to wear it again. It was very thoughtful of you to knit it for me. I will treasure it always,” Lenny said.
His aunt bobbed her head and grinned stupidly. “It is such a nice sweater, my boy, such a nice sweater. You should wear it often. It is such a nice sweater,” his aunt said as drool ran down her lips.
“Samantha,” Lenny called out to her through the kitchen door. “I think I need some help.”
Samantha walked through the swinging door holding a cup with a teabag hanging off its edge. “Is she okay?” Samantha said.
“I don’t think so. She’s not very coherent and keeps babbling about the sweater she gave me. You don’t think that man came here, do you?” Lenny said.
“I really don’t know,” Samantha said.
His aunt stared at her hands on her lap. “Such pretty fingers I have. So many fingers, what would I do with so many fingers?” his aunt said.
“I need to call my mother. I don’t think she is doing well at all,” Lenny said.
Lenny’s headaches returned two weeks later. Growing up, Lenny suffered from intermittent migraines, which came without warning and left just as unexpectedly. A year before, acting on the advice of his sister, he traced all the possible causes of his headaches. The likely suspects were his eating habits, coffee drinking, sunlight exposure, pollen count, and about every other aspect of his life that he did not completely control, including the time he woke up and his hours of sleep.
Then he hit upon a major cause: over the counter pain medicine. When his headaches became bad, Lenny would take three to four ibuprofen pills or other pain medicine a day. When he learned about rebound headaches, he quit taking the medicine and suffered through a week of dreadful headaches before coming out of it a new person. He resolved to only take four pills a month, and he had his headaches under control.
Or so he thought. With the tension created by his aunt’s hospitalization, Lenny began to suffer a recurring migraine. It struck early in the day and did not go away until sleep overcame him. The few hours when he first woke up became his favorite part of the day, knowing that only during those hours would he avoid pain. At first, Samantha pampered him, trying her best to relieve his pain. She gave him deep body massages and cold compresses, and fetched him water and coffee. But he spent most of the day hiding under the covers. Light, noise, and movement increased the severity of the pain. Samantha pleaded with him to visit a doctor, but he did not, preferring to fight the pain on his own.
Over the course of a week, his complaining finally got the best of her and drove her out of his apartment. Samantha returned the next day with a mission. She was going to help him get over his pain, and refused to listen to his complaints that her talking about helping him get over his pain was actually making the pain worse. The first thing she did was take away his sick sweatshirt. He wore the sweatshirt whenever he was feeling unwell, a way of hiding from the illness and sweating it out of his body. For headaches, it did not do much, but he still trusted in the magic of his Las Vegas sweatshirt. Samantha took the sweatshirt from him and the dirty clothes that had collected on the floor and promised to return after she washed them.
The day was warm and the windows in Lenny’s apartment were open, but Lenny would not have known. After waking up and taking a shower, he returned to the sanctuary of his bed when his headache reasserted itself. He felt that if he could just wear his sick sweatshirt, he could get his headache under control. He went to his closet to search for a replacement. This being California, his wardrobe did not offer him much in the way of sweatshirts. The warmest shirts he owned were long-sleeve, button-down shirts, nice to wear with a suit, but not of the same caliber as a sweatshirt for moping around properly.
Before he gave up his search, he opened the bottom drawer, where he stored the clothing he received as gifts or purchased foolishly. In the corner of the drawer, folded neatly, he saw the pink sweater that his aunt had given him. He pulled it out of the drawer and held it up for inspection. His head, which had been flaring only minutes ago, calmed down when he touched the fabric. It was soft to the touch, but still dreadfully ugly. After mulling it over, he decided to put it on. Since he fully expected to spend the rest of the day inside, hiding under the cover, whether he looked ridiculous or not would have no bearing.
As soon as the sweater was pulled down over his chest, his headache vanished. Not only did it disappear, Lenny could not even recall what the pain had felt like. It is the sweater, he thought. He knew that the sweater cured his headache. But at the same time he knew that the sweater helped create his headache. The memory of his conversations with Stacy and Samantha about Andy came flooding back into his head. He remembered what he had known and the thoughts were natural, as if he had always had those types of thoughts, and it was nothing out of the ordinary. Why the sweater made him feel this way or gave him these thoughts did not seem important.
When Samantha came home, it was apparent that she was surprised to see him up and about. She carried his laundry into the apartment.
“You’re looking better,” Samantha said.
“I’m feeling much better. It was the strangest thing. As soon as I put on the sweater my aunt gave me, my headache went away,” Lenny said.
Samantha gave him a funny look. “That is weird. Maybe you were worrying about your aunt, or felt guilty about not wearing the sweater. Could that have caused your headaches,” Samantha said.
Lenny thought about that for a moment. “Yes. That might be it. This has been a stressful two weeks. I have a feeling that that man that visited me in the coffee shop had something to do with my aunt’s mental instability,” Lenny said. He wanted to say more about the sweater, but his fears of upsetting Samantha overcame his curiosity. He pulled on a pair of jeans and left the house for the first time in days.
Fire sprouted from the windows in the village. The townspeople watched the village burn. Stacked around them were their belongings and family. They huddled close to the oracle on the only road that led away from the village into the forest. The oracle watched the burning with a studied look, the fire reflecting in her nearly black eyes. She was a tall woman, taller than most of the men in the village, and carried no possessions save a small sack tied to her belt. To the townspeople of the burning village, she was their oracle, but in other places and other times, she was known as Yeanda.
Yeanda motioned to the mayor of the village. “You cannot stay here. The men that burnt the village will not be satisfied with a charred town. They will be back for the people,” Yeanda said.
The mayor bowed his head to Yeanda. “Yes, oracle, but where will we go?” the mayor said.
Yeanda gazed into the distance and remained silent. “Your people will go west of here and settle deep in the heart of this forest. The men who seek to burn you will not find you, and you will prosper when you find traders to the north and east. Your town will become a trade crossroads. Build it well, mayor, and it will last for thousands of years,” Yeanda said.
“I will ready the people for the journey, oracle. Will you lead us to the location?” the mayor said.
Yeanda shook her head. “No. I must leave you, mayor. We all know that your village would have been safe but for me. I will not risk another accident,” Yeanda said.
“But if it was not for you, all of our belongings would have been destroyed and our people raped and killed. You saved us from that calamity, oracle. I and the people would gladly risk having to move again if we could rely on your counsel. You already said that these men would not find us in the new town. You would be safe there,” the mayor said.
“You are kind, mayor. But while the men that destroyed your village might not find me, there are many others that hunt me. Your village has been a sanctuary for these past ten years. I must now move on,” Yeanda said.
“Where will you go, oracle?” the mayor said.
“I do not know, mayor. The road grows long for me and I tire of the running. Perhaps I will find another village and hide out there. I have felt the pull of my family from the east. I have long thought that I may return to them and seek shelter under their roofs,” Yeanda said.
“Surely you can see your future as you see ours, oracle. How could you not know the best path?” the mayor said.
“It is not as you think, mayor. There are limitations to what I see; particularly when I look into my own future. That is the only way that I know that you will be safe—if I am not there I can see it. When I travel with you and your people, the vision fades. You are a good man, mayor, and you will prosper amongst your people. Take care of them,” Yeanda said.
Yeanda turned and walked down the road. A few children started down the road after her, but the mayor held them up. He waved at Yeanda’s back. The townspeople watched her walk down the path until the road dipped downhill and her figure disappeared.
Word count: 2,113
Words left: 36,871
Caffeination: mocha
Feeling: I was confused as I wrote this section this morning. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go with it. The last two days are evidence of my lack of planning. Starting the new story thread at the end really helped me get through the day. I’m hopeful this gets me going again. Thinking back to how I’ve described the sweater’s powers, I’m going to have to change some of it. I’ll keep moving forward and make the changes in the newer sections, and worry about going back to fix the older ones once I finish the story. Better than yesterday, but still not great.
Yeanda passed three towns over four days, avoiding each by hiking through the surrounding woods. On the fifth day, her food supply ran low and she stopped at a small village with a general store and a sheriff’s shack. Not many people wandered through the town center, and Yeanda felt it was relatively safe to visit. She ordered traveling supplies from the storekeeper. He did not seem too surprised at seeing a lone woman traveling the roads, or at least he did not ask any questions, which was what Yeanda was worried about. Yeanda resisted the urge to peak into his future and kept her hat low over her eyes. With all her powers, she had been unable to improve the lives of the villagers that she had spent the most time with. Meddling now, even in a place she planned to spend only a night in, seemed dangerous to her.
“Where are you traveling?” a stranger said. His voice was self-assured and his looks haggard but appealing. Yeanda had not been with a man in many years, and although she knew she was no longer in her prime, she still had desires. Like most of the men in this part of the world, he was shorter than Yeanda, his head coming up to beneath her chin. But, unlike many men she met in these parts, he did not seem the least bit intimidated by the difference in height. If anything, he appeared to take the height difference as more of a challenge, as if however much shorter he was than her, he could use other wiles to make up the difference.
“I’m traveling north for now. Maybe I’ll go east in a few weeks, but the future’s lips are sealed from silly old woman like me?” Yeanda’s speech dropped into her oracle cadence, as she checked each word for accuracy and its affect on her listener. She had no intention of traveling north and she did not want her pursuers to have an easy trail to find her. Besides, she had become so used to being careful what she said and how she said it, that she was not sure she could speak in any other manner.
“I’ve seen many silly old women in my days, and I would not count you as either silly or old,” the stranger said. Yeanda studied the man closer. Although short, he carried a weight of authority on his broad shoulders. His face sparkled with mischief, as a child learning about the ways of adults but taking advantage of his youth to poke fun at the grown-ups might. He smoked a long pipe while they spoke, puffing smoke with each word that he spoke, which he did in a fast cadence, as if, unlike Yeanda and her careful speech, he did not think of the words that he spoke before they tumbled from his tongue.
“Will you stay a few days? We could always use a wise woman in the village. Many women are nearing their term and our elderly have seen better summers,” the man said.
Yeanda’s spirits dropped. Her gypsy outfit reminded too many people in these parts of wise women. She had hoped to avoid the label, to go about her travels in relative obscurity, but now that someone had asked, she knew she would not turn down their request. She had many skills that would be useful to this village that would not require her to soothsay. The man charmed her more to have use of her skills than out of any desire for her. Her hopes had been raised for nothing and now she felt stupid for thinking it could be any other way. It was the way of the world, she knew. The young did not know what they desired, and the old were too advanced to have the options they did as youths.
“My name is Tomlin, and I watch over the people in this town,” Tomlin said, puffing out each word, his head appearing in a cloud of smoke. His chest expanded with the statement. He was a proud man and felt like he had accomplished much in this village. They all did these villagers. They did not realize how large the world outside of their towns really was. If they did, they would not walk around so proudly or spend so much time on the politics of their villages.
“You are the mayor of this town?” Yeanda said.
“Not exactly; my role is a bit different, as is this town. When you stay with us, you will see. I am very proud of everything my people have been able to accomplish over the last few years,” Tomlin said. He motioned for the storekeeper to join them in their conversation. The storekeeper, a timid fellow with auburn skin, a yellowed mustache and a slight limp in his right leg, walked over still carrying the hay broom he used to sweep the store.
“Then I look forward to visiting with your town. I ask only shelter and food in payment for my services,” Yeanda said. After accepting, she felt the gears click into place in her mind, and she realized that before entering the village, the outcome was already decided. She would remain her for the time being because there was either something she must do in the village, or, as had been the case more and more, there was something that would happen to her.
“I would not hear of it. You will have your food and shelter, as well as enough gold to see you on your way when you are ready to leave. I hope that you will grow to enjoy your time here and see the beauty that I find in these people. This good man is Storied-Knee, a native to these parts. He will lead you to your shelter and ensure that you have hot meals and adequate medical supplies. Do not hesitate to call on him for any of your needs,” Tomlin said. Storied-knee bowed his head in agreement and waited for Yeanda.
Yeanda watched Tomlin talk with apprehension. There was something not right about the man and she opened her mind to him, but saw nothing. He was involved in her future somehow, and her involvement clouded her vision. Yeanda did not always trust her non-augmented judgment. She knew, as a judge of people, she was fair at best. She had relied on her visions for too long and forgotten the simpler skills, or perhaps never learned them. She looked longingly down the road. Uncertainty scared her more than anything. If she walked down the road, she would be able to see into his heart, but she knew she would not. Her decision had already been made before she had tried to know him. If she had been destined to walk down the path, her vision would have parted.
“Very well, master Tomlin. I thank you for your kindness. My journey has been a long one for many long weeks have I traveled on the road. I am need of a warm bed and a hot meal. If it is possible in a village like this, I would also enjoy a soaking upon my waking. Storied-Knee, if you would do me the privilege of leading me to my room, I would be in your debt,” Yeanda said, resigned to her uncertain future, but taking on her commanding presence that allowed her to provide her people with the best care and advice she could muster.
Lenny returned to work on Monday in better spirits than since before his aunt had become sick. His headaches had cleared up and he stopped questioning his sudden good fortune. He wore the pink sweater again, and his head stayed clear. Samantha did not ask about the sweater this morning, and he did not bring up the subject. She was sure that the sweater had some emotional connection to his well-being. He had not been able to tell her yesterday that it was something more, something he did not understand and if she probed, he could not have explained. For now, that it cleared his head and provided him with a sense of well-being was enough to continue wearing it. He still thought it looked ridiculous on him, but after trying on all of his coats from his closet, he had not been able to locate something that did not look as ridiculous. The sweater looked almost orange in the morning. He was beginning to appreciate that the sweater’s colors changed. It was a most unusual fabric.
The thirty minute drive to work went by quicker than usual. Lenny sang loudly to the songs on the radio, screaming above the roaring wind that swirled between the open windows and sunroof. After work, Lenny planned to stop by the hospital to visit his aunt. His mother told him that she was improved, still very weak but able to recognize visitors. He worried for her and his mother. His mother took her sister’s failing health hard. His aunt was seven years his mother’s senior and had raised her when their parents took second and third jobs to support their growing family.
Lenny arrived to find a pile of correspondences on his desk. His clients had not been happy with his absence, and a number of the letters from the various clients were not kind. His clients were demanding, and with his forced absence, he missed a few deadlines, and his clients were for the most part, very busy people who took their contracts and business seriously. His message light blinked and Lenny spent the next twenty minutes listening to the various messages, jotting down notes and numbers that he would have to return before he left for the day. The messages and letters were no worse than he expected. Although he drafted and sent out a letter to all his clients before taking his leave, he knew that the excuse letter would not satisfy them. In his normal course of business, his clients were demanding people who expected everyone who worked for them to answer to each and every whim. Lenny rarely disappointed his clients, but he knew even one lapse would cost him business.
Charlie, an associate that started work at his firm a year ago, knocked on his office door and let himself into the room. “It’s good to have you back, Lenny. I was beginning to worry about you,” Charlie said. Charlie sat down on the black vinyl chair that stood across from Lenny’s glass-top desk.
Lenny doubted that Charlie had missed him. Charlie was a young, talented illustrator, but he was also a blatant kiss ass and someone that Lenny did not trust as an associate or a person. Lenny was sure that Charlie was searching for an angle in Lenny’s absence, some way to take advantage of his scarred relationship with his clients. In the commercial artists’ world, the artist was only as good as his last piece of work, and the associates apprenticed with successful artists until they built up enough of a portfolio to steal enough clients to hang their own shingle. It was not a bad business model, since Lenny himself had worked with his former mentor before appropriating some of his clients. Although, Lenny knew, he had taken the clients with his mentor’s full blessing, having waited until he was ready for the lighter workload. Lenny did not think Charlie would be so kind in his methods.
“It’s good to see you, Charlie. I hope they didn’t have you doing too much to cover for me. As I’m sure you’ve heard, it’s been a rough few weeks for me,” Lenny said.
“I heard about your aunt. I’m sorry about that. Pressure’s a terrible thing sometimes. You never know how you will handle it until the cooker heats up. But I am glad that you have rebounded back. And the sweater is a good touch. You always taught me to look my best at client meetings. I’m glad you not only give advice, but take it yourself as well.
“The clients were beginning to ask uncomfortable questions about your absence, and I was running out of answers. It’s good that you returned when you did. I set up three meetings for this afternoon. I’m sure you’ll be able to explain better than I could your missed deadlines,” Charlie said.
Lenny laughed louder than he expected. Over the last two years that Charlie had worked for the firm, Lenny began to think that Charlie was dangerous. In a small firm, like Lenny and what’s-his-name started, it was relatively easy to lose control. The firm’s success depended on pleasing his clients and grooming new talent to find additional clients. Charlie was definitely a talent, his skill with ink surpassed Lenny’s and what’s-his-name’s. What he lacked, and it was a serious problem, was an ability to relate to his clients. For all his skill with a pen, his naked ambition and inability to question a client’s request made him not so much dangerous as a liability to the firm. Up until his current exchange with Charlie, Lenny never knew him for what he was. Now that he understood him, the only thing he could do was laugh.
Charlie turned red as Lenny laughed. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you heard what they were calling you. I will see you this afternoon when they visit,” Charlie said.
Lenny continued to laugh and waved his hand for Charlie to leave. Charlie left, slamming Lenny’s office door behind him. Charlie was young and skilled, but he had a difficult time growing up, Lenny saw. He was short most of his life and never learned to compensate for his lack of height with humor or a thick-skin. Every insult any boy in the schoolyard gave him, he kept inside him, heating up and eating him from the inside out. He would harbor these feelings until he could bring his revenge upon the boys. His revenge was a petty thing: usually he would snitch on a boy to the teachers or set up a fight between him and a bully with some dropped hints. What Charlie never learned, Lenny saw sadly, was that friends could help him get over some of his weaknesses. Lenny saw Charlie’s sad past. He did not know what he planned for the client meetings, but he did not care. Charlie had watched him deal with his clients for long enough to know that he was not a risk to take any of them. Now that he understood his past, watching Charlie’s sad life flash through his head, from the mother who abandoned him to the schools that taught him the skill to do great things, there was one constant in Charlie’s life. He never appreciated what was given to him, and for however much he schemed, in the end, he never successfully took advantage of his spoils. Laughing, Lenny buzzed what’s-his-name to discuss damage control with his clients.
Word count: 2,506
Words Left: 34,365
Caffeination: Tall mocha
Feeling: I was a little sick this afternoon and I didn’t think I’d finish my goal for the day. After falling asleep, I woke up at 1 am with enough energy to get my computer and pound out more words. While it’s technically Monday, I’m not a stickler for rules.
Jake was waiting outside Lenny’s office when Charlie left. He let himself in and Lenny hung up the phone.
“I guess there’s no need to page you. Have you been snooping around my office, waiting for me to come in all morning?” Lenny said.
“It wasn’t as bad as that. You know I knew you would come in today. I trust in you implicitly. I have never questioned your judgment on when to skip out on work and when to work. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have made it past the junior year. How you were able to drink all day Saturday and still wake up early Sunday morning, drag me out of bed and to the studio, and actually convince me that it was in my best interest not to puke on our latest project—I have no idea how you accomplished that. That’s why I picked you to work with me. While I have the skill of Leonardo, you have his tenacity. We make a great duo,” Jake said.
“I don’t know about that skill question. I do remember having to show you more than once the proper way to hold a brush. But it’s good to see you as well. I know that’s why you came in here,” Lenny said.
Jake held his belly and laughed. Jake was a large man and instead of worrying about his largeness, he fully embraced. He had once told a gathering of clients that he was a fat man, and he couldn’t imagine being any happier as a skinny man. He wielded his weight as a woman used beauty or wealthy person money. With a comment, he could turn an obnoxious man into his best friend. Jake wore an oversized button down shirt. He did not tuck in his shirts into his pants, more for comfort reasons than because he was embarrassed to show his waistline. He happily stripped down to his skivvies for a dip in his pool, or splayed out on the beach, usually with a wooden sign that one of his schoolmates gave him that red, “Beached Whale.” He loved the reactions that the sign caused.
“I now think I’ve mastered the holding of a brush, and perhaps I should thank your tutelage. But there is some business I stopped in here to discuss. Mr. Tiereen has been calling about his account. We were supposed to deliver samples of the campaign to his office three days ago. I called him last Wednesday to explain the delay and he was willing to accept, with a mark-down, the new schedule. He called this morning and started having second thoughts. We might have to bring him something today,” Jake said.
Lenny chewed his cheek. Mr. Tiereen’s account was a large one, and Lenny was counting on that account to account for much of the billing this quarter. With everything that had gone on last week, he had not forgotten about the account. After Jake convinced Mr. Tiereen that the delay would not hurt his account, Jake put it aside to focus on his recovery. He now had to make good on his promises. “Okay. I’ll get to it right away. Did Charlie do any work on it while I was away?” Lenny said.
“What do you think—that boy is looking to make the jump this year. I’m almost sure of it, and I’m almost at the point of giving him a little push to get him started. He’s starting to create a toxic environment in the office. Perhaps you can have a talk with him?” Jake said.
“I’m not sure if you saw him on the way out, but Charlie and I already had a talk. Charlie will give his notice at the end of the week, but none of the clients he thinks will go with him will. He’s put a down payment on an office that he will lose in six months, and he will come crawling back to his old job with a new attitude. I see good things in Charlie’s future with this firm,” Lenny said. He did not know where the information came from, but he was sure that it was accurate as he said it.
“He told you all of that? I’m not sure how he knew that he would fail, but, yeah, I’ve spoken to three clients that expressed concerns when he called. All three are staying with us and haven’t told him their plans one way or the other. I was going to surprise you with this when you were feeling down—well, more down than now. How did you know?” Jake said.
The possible responses floated through Lenny’s head faster than he could process them. It was important that he appear knowledge to impress Jake, but not create any additional worries in him. Lenny realized he had gone too far with his description of Charlie’s predicament. He cursed himself for not thinking before he spoke, but the knowledge was there and it was hard not to share it. Lenny reflected momentarily on why impressing Jake was so important. Jake and Lenny were partners in the firm and he did not previously think that there was a risk to the partnership. That is when it occurred to him that Jake had spoken to Charlie about the partnership; particularly after he became worried about Lenny’s well-being over the past few weeks.
“I still have my ears in the office, Jake. Besides, Charlie is an open book. Listen, on Wednesday, why don’t you drag Tommy out and meet Samantha and me for dinner. I haven’t been out to dinner with anyone but Samantha’s friends for as long as I could remember,” Lenny said.
Jake studied Lenny for a moment. Lenny knew that Jake would accept. He needed to remind Jake during dinner of what they have invested in the partnership. Tommy would also be the perfect distraction for Samantha, who loved his charm and outrageous behavior. Lenny could never figure out what Tommy saw in Jake, but he was happy for him.
“We’ll be there. Now, don’t you have a proposal to finish up?” Jake said.
“That I do. I’ll stop by later and show you the final drafts to see if you have any comments,” Lenny said and looked down at his papers.
Jake remained in the room for another minute before turning around. “I love that new sweater of yours, Lenny. It gives you a very, what’s the word I’m looking for, cordial look,” Jake said as he left Lenny’s office.
Lenny could not think of a comeback fast enough, but knew that the insights the sweater gave him to his situation at work made Jake’s ridicule acceptable. Lenny tried to think back to when he knew that the insights he had been having related to the sweater, but his thoughts became cloudy. He must have always known where his insights came from. He worried that his insights about his insights might also come from the sweater, but he felt it was different. Before he could follow the line of thought, the pang in his gut reminded him that he had a deadline rapidly approaching and little thought or sketching done to meet that deadline. He buzzed Charlie for assistance, and sat down at the drafting board. His mind cleared as his pencil took over with a mind of its own, and the advertising layout for pepper mills began to take shape.
Lenny met Samantha at the hospital to visit his aunt. Samantha carried a basket of fruit. She looked incredible. She wore a short business skirt and a tightly-fitted silk blouse. Lenny kissed her before she could say a word.
“You look wonderful,” Lenny said, running his hand up Samantha’s back over her smooth blouse.
Samantha studied Lenny through squinted eyes, leaning her head forward to get a closer look at him. The basket she carried was piled high with fruit and sticking up from the middle of the basket was a box of chocolates. The box was almost too large for the basket, but Samantha had rearranged the fruit and probably removed a few fruits to ensure that the chocolates fit. She handed the basket to Lenny.
“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Samantha said. She was wary of Lenny’s compliments. While she, like all females Lenny had ever met, would happily trade her left arm for the guarantee of a lifetime of compliments, Lenny was not skilled in the art. Over the last two years that he had known Samantha, Lenny had begun experimenting with compliments as a way of moving their relationship to the next level. He was still not good at them, but he used them more freely. Today, however, Lenny’s compliments were the genuine issue. He felt an upsurge of gratitude and love toward Samantha. She had kept him sane over the last two weeks when his head and body had rebelled.
“I’m wonderful thanks to you, Samantha,” Lenny said.
“Now I know something is wrong. Did you crash into my car or kill my cat,” Samantha said.
“First off, you don’t have a cat, but if you did, yes, I would have killed it a long time ago. And, second, nothing is wrong. I’m just really grateful for everything you’ve done for me over the last few weeks. I really mean that,” Lenny said.
“You better be. I was this close to calling you a lost cause after all the bitching and complaining you put me through. But that’s all behind us, and your aunt is waiting. I’m glad that you’re wearing her sweater today. It’ll make her very happy,” Samantha said.
They rode the elevator up to the third floor where his aunt was being housed. Lenny did not like to think of this as her house, or that they were housing her here. His aunt had always been an independent woman who would not even dream of letting anyone do anything for her—at least nobody whom she was not paying. She was a lady of means and had always used those means to make herself comfortable. If she chose, this is probably the hospital she would have selected. The hospital was a converted three-star hotel. Major renovations were needed to create the atmosphere that promoted healing and would cater to the tastes of its clients. The fluorescent lights were replaced with more natural lights, and the white-washed walls were replaced with calming peaches, yellows, and blues. Hundreds of plants were scattered on each floor and a small cadre of cats wandered from room to room, herded by a small nurse.
His aunt’s room looked over the ocean, with a large balcony populated with white chairs and a table. Outside of the bedroom there was a small sitting room with a couch, love seat, rocking chair, and a large television. Lenny grinned grimly at the rocking chair. As if it was not bad enough that these people were in this place, they were also being told that they were old enough to need a rocking chair. They found his aunt in the bedroom, sitting at the edge of bed staring out the window into the ocean.
“Pretty view,” Lenny said by way of greeting. His aunt did not turn around.
Samantha placed the fruit basket on the table by her bed. “We brought you fruits and chocolate, Elaine. Something to take the bite away from the food here,” Samantha said.
“I don’t think the food is that bad here, Samantha. For what we pay, it better not be,” Lenny said and regretted it before the words left his mouth. The one thing his aunt could never stand was discussing money. To her, money was a subject that cultured people did not discuss. Lenny always thought it was particular that people with wealth would never discuss money, while people with little, such as Lenny and his family, discussed it endlessly. He watched his aunt for a reaction, but she did not move.
“Let me open the window. The breeze will do us all some good,” Samantha said. She opened the porch door and the salty smell of the ocean entered the room. His aunt remained seated and did not turn, continuing to stare out the window.
“Samantha brought your favorite chocolates, Aunt Elaine,” Lenny said.
“I even removed the labels so you can try and guess which chocolate is which,” Samantha said.
Lenny took the chocolates out of the basket and knelt besides his aunt. When she caught site of him, she reached out and grabbed the sweater. Her grip was tight and she began pulling at it, as if she was trying to rip it off his body. Lenny placed both his hands over her hand and gently pulled the sweater back.
Word count: 2,131
Words left: 32,234
Caffeination: Vanilla Coke
Feeling: Better. After receiving a nice pep-talk e-mail from Chuck, I realized that however bad my story is, I'm at least writing it. That's saying something--I'm still trying to figure out what it is saying, though.
“Yes, Aunt Elaine, you gave me this sweater. Do you remember? I was over your house two weeks ago. You knitted the sweater yourself, you told me. I really have grown to like the sweater. I wear it often. Do you remember any of this,” Lenny said, speaking slowly and enunciating each word as he would for an infant. He hated talking to his aunt this way, but the doctors advised him that she might have trouble understanding him. The doctors were still not sure what happened to her. At first, they thought she might have suffered from a stroke. But after performing tests on her brain activity, they found no evidence of a stroke. Their current theory was that she was going through some sort of nervous breakdown, brought about by stress. They hoped she would snap out of it, but without knowing the psychological cause, they were having trouble treating her. Lenny and his mother spoke with a psychologist and went through all the problems they knew about in Aunt Elaine’s life, a process that took a considerable amount of time. His aunt was involved with many charitable organizations, and she was usually a strong voice in those organizations. At times, she became involved in power struggles and ego contests, but neither Lenny nor his mother remembered any of the struggles upsetting her. She was a strong woman who enjoyed the struggles and usually ended up on top.
After releasing the sweater, his aunt folded her hands on her lap and gazed out the window, humming a song that Lenny could not quite recognize. His aunt liked music, but he had never heard her sing. She listened to classical music, and was very particular about the pieces and orchestras that she would listen to. To Lenny, it all sounded the same, but to his aunt—who Lenny learned only recently from his mother that she was classically trained as a violinist—the performance of the music was as important as the piece. Lenny was surprised to learn of her artistic skills. Lenny felt that part of the reason his aunt enjoyed his company was because he was the artist of the family. The rest of his family was moderately successful, but they were accountants, lawyers, and corporate drones. Except for him, none of them showed the least interest in any artistic pursuit. With such a pedigree, Lenny was never surprised that he ended up using his artistic talents for corporate clients.
“That’s a very pretty song, Aunt Elaine. What is it?” Lenny said.
His aunt continued humming and Lenny opened the chocolate. After his aunt refused a chocolate he offered, he tossed the chocolate into his mouth. He crunched down and found a caramel and nut center, which he chewed happily. He held the box out for Samantha and she grabbed a dark chocolate nugget.
They listened quietly while his aunt sang. Her voice was smooth and mellow, with little vibrato and a knack for finding a perfect phrase for each thought. The song she hummed was never meant to be sung. It felt like the counterpoint for an orchestral piece. It rose in volume and tempo and dropped down just as quickly. She hummed the entire piece, resting for measures, sometimes minutes at a time, only to continue when the score his aunt must have seen in his mind called for it. Toward the end, at a dramatic counterpoint to what must have been a strong and defiant melody, his aunt stood up from the bed and placed the palms of her hands on the glass. She tilted her chin up and finished the piece, rising into a falsetto to find the last notes. She let her head drop when the song finished and turned around to face Samantha and Lenny, who were watching his aunt with astonishment. Her pitch was perfect and her part, even though it was not the lead melody and probably was not even the first part for her instrument, portrayed an incredible range of emotions and feelings.
Lenny and Samantha were sure that his aunt was going to say something. She stared at them with her lips still parted from the last note, and stared at a point between Lenny, who sat on the bed, and Samantha, who stood behind the bed near the fruit basket. Neither Lenny nor Samantha moved during her performance. When a few minutes passed and it was apparent that his aunt was not going to talk, Lenny led her to the bed and she resumed her seat. She stared at the same angle out the window as before, and Lenny, bending over to place his head near hers and his eyes in the same direction, tried to identify what she was staring at. But the only thing in that direction was the calm ocean and a few breakers that moved across the horizon. His aunt’s gaze never shifted.
“Did you speak to the doctors or your mother,” Samantha said.
“I spoke to them this afternoon. The doctors don’t have anything new to report, and my mother is calling more doctors. She figures if enough doctors see my aunt, one of them will be able to fix her. I’m not as optimistic since they all know the same stuff. But it makes her happy to do something besides visit my aunt. She feels powerless otherwise,” Lenny said.
Lenny tried to figure out what caused his aunt’s ailment. He hoped that the sweater would give him insight. While he consciously accepted that there was something strange about the sweater, he still did not completely believe in its powers. He knew things that he should not have ordinarily, but some of that knowledge might have come from somewhere else. Even while he argued with himself, he knew that it was not true. The sweater did provide him with insight, somehow. He began to wonder if his aunt knew this when she gave it to him. Then he made the connection between his aunt’s condition and the sweater. It was not truth as he had learned the sweater could provide him, but it was speculation and might be worth some additional thought. He put the thought aside for the moment and tried to return to the cause of his aunt’s sickness, or, better yet, he thought, a way to make her better. But however much he tried, nothing came to his mind.
Samantha cleared her throat gently, and Lenny turned around. He took the hint. He kissed his aunt goodbye on the cheek and walked with Samantha to the door. Samantha took the chocolate box from Lenny and went to place it back into the basket. Before she got to the nightstand, she shook the box, and opened it up.
“You ate them all?” Samantha said.
“That’s not possible. Didn’t you eat one or two?” Lenny said. He didn’t remember eating the chocolates, and he did not feel full, something he would expect to feel if he had finished off an entire box of chocolates.
“No, I just had one. You’ve been a hungry boy lately. While I always told you that I wanted to fatten you up, there are limits. As soon as you have to drive around the supermarket in a cart, I’m shipping you off,” Samantha said.
“I didn’t realize I ate so many. I must have been hungrier than I thought,” Lenny said. His hands were covered with chocolate. “I’ll bring Aunt Elaine some more chocolate tomorrow. Maybe she’ll eat some then,” Lenny said.
“Maybe,” Samantha said. She led him out of his aunt’s room.
Yeanda woke early in the morning, feeling more refreshed than she had in as long as she could remember. Her last few months in her last village had been taxing. Having seen the destruction of the village, she spent most of her time helping the mayor and the villagers plan for the eventuality. She sent for some gold to be transported to the new village location, and felt that it would have arrived. That thought helped alleviate some of the guilt. She knew that the attackers from the last village were seeking her out. She still did not know who they were, only that they were tracking her for the past three years. Not knowing who they were or what they wanted troubled Yeanda. She could guess that they were after her abilities, but she did not know how they discovered her or why they were so desperate to find her.
There was a soft knock on the door. “Storied-Knee, please come in. I didn’t mean for you to get up so early on my behalf,” Yeanda said.
“I wake early most mornings, wise woman. I have readied the bath and some fruit. If you would follow me,” Storied-Knee said.
Yeanda followed Storied-Knee from the third-floor room at the inn she was staying to the bath house, a few houses away. Yeanda munched on an apple that he provided her, and she stretched out her back, trying to work out some kinks that sleeping on the ground had worked in over the past couple of weeks.
“How long have you lived in this village—if you don’t mind me asking—Storied-Knee?” Yeanda said.
“I have lived here my entire life, wise woman. My family has deep roots in these parts and I would not dishonor them by leaving this land untended or this village unprotected,” Storied-Knee said.
“So you are a warrior,” Yeanda said.
“Yes, wise woman. I do my best to protect this village from the outsiders. It has been many years since the king’s men have patrolled these parts, and my blade has been a substitute for the services they once provided,” Storied-Knee said.
Yeanda was surprised by Storied-Knee. She would not have taken him for a warrior. While he carried a machete in a leather sheath on his belt, he was a small man, wearing layers of clothing that appeared more like rags than proper clothing. The clothing was all brown and moved as one mass, a moment or two behind Storied-Knee’s own body movements. The shifting mass of clothing and spread-legged gate made Storied-Knee appear slow and uncoordinated. That Tomlin had offered his services to Yeanda made her think that he was a pressed serving man. That he might be more than a simple serving man charmed Yeanda more than she expected.
“Tell me about your people, Storied-Knee,” Yeanda said.
“It is a long, sad story, wise woman, and I am a warrior, not a wise man. Perhaps I will have that opportunity another time, after you have soaked and visited the village. There are many people who are anxious to see you,” Storied-Knee said.
Yeanda sighed and opened the door into the bathhouse, allowing a cloud of steam to escape through the door. Storied-Knee handed her a towel and a bar of raw soap before he closed the door behind her. The bath house was a simple wooden cabin with a stone enclave filled with water in the center of the room. The room was dark with small edges of light entering through the tightly tied logs. Light sand covered the floor and the air smelled fresh and wet. Two glowing stones stood on both sides of the bath. Only the bottoms of the stones were submerged. Yeanda stripped and stepped into the bath. The water splashed over the heated stones and steamed. Yeanda could feel the heat of the stones from in the water. They must have used a heavy, metallic stone for it to hold its heat as long as it did. Yeanda allowed the warm water to engulf her. She decided to soak for a while before cleaning off with the soap. She would save the painful scraping for later, after her muscles were more relaxed.
As Yeanda soaked, she let her mind drift freely. She had been the hare in the chase for too long. She made the decision to become the hunter. She would find who it was that was hunting her and put a stop to it. She knew where to start: Tomlin. Yeanda knew that he was somehow involved. She had seen him once before, in her last village. She had forgotten about his village, but he had come a few months before she discovered that the village was to be ransacked. He had posed as a merchant dealing in corns and roots, but he never offered any of his vegetables for sale. She let her mind float in the hot water and she saw Tomlin again in her mind. What fates brought her to this village, she did not know. But she knew it was her opportunity to find safety again and remove a threat.
She needed to understand the village, and she needed an ally. Whatever was going to happen, she would better prepared and this time she would not run.
Word count: 2,153
Words left: 30,081
Caffeination: 1.5 Vanilla Cokes
Feeling: like I got 2k words. Not happy--but what is happiness? I'm a bit depressed (not about writing), but hoping that going to the gym tonight will help get me out of this one day funk.
“What happened?”
“I already told you. She’s not reachable.”
“You’ve seen her? You can verify this?”
“Yes. I visited her yesterday and there’s not much left there.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I had nothing to do with it. They found her that way before I was able to reach her.”
“And you don’t know what she did with it?”
“I’m still investigating.”
“This is not like you. I expected this to be over and done with weeks ago. Have you checked all of her relatives? She must have given it to one of them.”
“Of course I did. I’ve visited each one of them and none of them have any of the signs.”
“What are your plans?”
“I will contact you when I discover its location.”
“That’s not good enough. The council is growing frustrated. They want to send someone else in. They’re losing faith in you.”
“This failure shouldn’t be only on my head. I was following your guidance.”
“Don’t drag me in on this. You operated alone and never told me enough to guide you. The council understands our relationship. They’re willing to give you one more week. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m just reporting back what the council said. One week from today, if you don’t have any good news, don’t bother calling back.”
“I can’t believe this. I demand a meeting with the council.”
“One week.”
“You are a scoundrel. I will find it, and when I do, you will wish I didn’t.”
“You don’t sound so cocky anymore. I like you like this much better. I won’t expect to hear from you next week. It was nice doing business with you, Mr. Faerlik. I’d wish you luck, but as you said, I’m not sure I want you to find it.”
“For all of our sake, I hope I find it.”
The thought came suddenly to Lenny as he showered. He could do much with his knowledge of the sweater. There were plenty of people he could help with it. It was something special. He had been using the powers for petty things. There was a much larger world out there that he could help benefit. The thought stopped him cold, and he stepped out of the shower, standing naked in front of the mirror, dripping water onto the tile floor. The sweater gave him something special, and he needed to use it for more than he had been. Lenny’s imagination began to run wild. He saw himself running through the streets, solving crimes, and catching the bad guy. He was a modern superhero, a real hero, not a comic book character. He imagined the adoration of the people, the crowds that would visit him in his house, and wait eagerly for his next edict. “With great power comes great responsibility,” he reminded himself. He would be the embodiment of all that was good in the world.
Lenny chuckled at the thought of him having great power, or anyone lining up to hear him speak. A cold wind blew through the closet door. He shivered and looked up to see himself in his reflection. His weight had dropped over the last two weeks. He usually did not notice his weight fluctuations. At times, when his sedentary lifestyle began to catch up with him, he saw fat growths in his buttocks and legs. The wiggle and flapping of the fat growths were all the inspiration Lenny needed to return to the gym. But mostly, because of his genes or family history, weight was not a problem for him. When he flexed his arms, he noticed that the small bulges were no longer there. The skin hung a little loosely around his arms, not with fat deposits, but more as if there was nothing underneath for the skin to grab on to. His ribcage was a little sunken and his stomach looked a bit distended, as if he had just finished a large meal. He ate a large breakfast that morning, and figured that could explain it. But even after the large breakfast, he felt hungry, as if the food just passed right through him.
He grabbed a towel and dried himself, turning away from the mirror to avoid looking at his body. The last two weeks had been rather stressful, and that could easily explain the weight loss. The pink sweater was folded on the sink table. It looked almost brown, and worn. Lenny sniffed the sweater and it smelled of use, a mixture of dried sweat and worldly smells like dried frying oil and the smoke of the city. He had put up his laundry the previous night, but decided against placing the sweater in the wash. He was wearing the sweater when he put the wash on, but even after realizing that he forgot to put the sweater in the washer, he hesitated. He did not understand the sweater, and he was afraid that the sweater’s magic would weaken or go away if he washed it. He did not know this was true—he was just worried about it. He pulled the sweater over his head. The sweater still scratched his skin, but it was a comfortable scratching. He enjoyed the feeling of the raw cotton against his skin. He breathed deeply in relief when the sweater was on, his fears about his weight vanishing and his focus returning.
He finished dressing, stepping into a pair of boxers and pulling on a pair of jeans. Samantha left early that morning and he was not planning on seeing her until the evening. The whole day was his to experiment with. He resolved to do some good with his knowledge. He tried to think of where he was most needed, but nothing came to him. He did not understand how the sweater’s powers worked. He did not always know the answers to the questions that skittered through his mind. Instead, the knowledge came randomly, appearing as knowledge that he already had when the interested subject came up. It was difficult for Lenny to differentiate between the knowledge that he had and the knowledge the sweater gave him. It was one of the reasons it had taken him so long to realize what the sweater was providing for him.
When he could not trick the sweater into giving him a hint of where to go to help people, he decided to wander around randomly. There must be someone out there who needed his brand of help. He left his house and decided on the mall. There were always people that needed help there.
He arrived at the mall at lunch time, and parked the car in the lot closest to the food court. The weather was perfect, a sunny, seventy degree day, with a slight breeze coming off the ocean and up through the outdoor corridors of the mall. The food court was full of young families, mostly mothers and their children. The chain restaurants that dominated the small food court area were making brisk sales. The baby carriages outnumbered the men. Lenny sat down near the edge of the food court, choosing a table that overlooked the entire area.
He studied the families, wondering what he was looking for. Perhaps some of the children were abused by their fathers, or the mothers drank all day and disregarded their children. Even in a place such as this, he knew darkness lurked. But nothing came to him. He tried to tell the story of the people that sat around him, but nothing came out. It was no different than how he remembered people watching. He could make up a story, perhaps that mother over there, the thin one with the large tits, perhaps she was cheating on her husband, the corporate lawyer who lived in his office and probably was fucking his secretary. But he did not know if any of was truth. It was fictional, an interesting diversion that let him see the lines and forms that the people would take if he set them to his canvas.
The tables were white with wired chairs, and families pulled up more than the requisite four chairs per table. Three Hispanic women wiped down vacated tables, moving from table to table, carrying the empty trays and wrappers to the trashcans. Lenny studied everything around him and found nothing. He saw what he normally saw. He knew nothing special, could see no deeper vision. Maybe it was not really, he thought. His anxiety increased and he called Samantha. Lenny was not always as stable as he would like to be. Once an idea took hold in his mind, he would turn and twist around it until controlled his thoughts. Usually, these ideas related to his work. He did not mind that insanity as much. It helped him finish projects and find unique and interesting solutions. But when his focus fell on something mundane or material, such as his failure to pay his bills timely or waiting for a package to be delivered, the anxiety would drive him mad, until he was jumping off the walls, speaking too fast, and looking for any place to release his energy. With his failure to focus his mind on what was going around him, to not know and his inability to still believe that what he felt he knew with the sweater was real, Lenny was finding himself in such a place.
He dialed Samantha’s number but she did not answer. He decided not to leave a message, since she would probably worry about him. He looked around him at the diners and thought about buying food, but the thought of having to choose which food he would order was overwhelming. He decided to leave. The stress was getting to him and this was not a good time for him to be alone.
His phone rang. “You called,” Samantha said.
“Yeah, I was just thinking about you,” Lenny said.
“Are you alright? You sound a little strange. Where are you?” Samantha said.
“I’m fine. I’m just visiting your friendly neighborhood mall. I’m trying to find inspiration for a project at work. I finished the first draft yesterday, but I’m not satisfied with the work. I was hoping that some people watching would spark something in me,” Lenny said.
“Any fires?” Samantha said.
“Not even smoke. What are you doing,” Lenny said.
“I’m working. You know, nose to the grindstone, trying to keep the boss man happy,” Samantha said.
“You have time for lunch?” Lenny said.
“I’m afraid not, Lenny. I organized a lunch meeting and we’ve ordered pizza already,” Samantha said.
“Are you in the meeting already?” Lenny said.
“Not yet. I’m heading there in a few minutes. Are you sure you’re alright? I must sound like a broken record, but ever since your aunt got sick, you’ve been acting strange. I thought you were getting better,” Samantha said.
“It’s nothing. I’m just going through one of my mood swings. You know how those are,” Lenny said.
“I know them only too well. Are you calmer now?” Samantha said.
“I’m getting there. Will you meet me tonight to go visit my aunt again?” Lenny said.
“I don’t think we should go tonight. You’ve been spending too much time there and it’s time you got out. Maybe we should get some fresh air tonight, or take in a movie. When’s the last time we went to the movies?” Samantha said.
“I haven’t been fair to you lately. I’m sorry for that,” Lenny said.
“Nothing to be sorry about, but you can make it up to me if we see a movie tonight. Think about it. I have to get to my meeting. Take care of yourself. Maybe you should go to work. That sometimes gets you out of your funks,” Samantha said.
“I’ll think about it. Have fun at the meeting,” Lenny said and hung up the phone. He put the phone away in his pocket and pulled down on the sweater, stretching it until it reached his knees, and then releasing it.
Word count: 2,014
Caffeination: tall mocha
Feeling: Like I just wrote barely 2k words of filler. This sucks.
Lenny returned to work and found no inspiration. He felt as if there was something important for him to do, something that involved more than drawings for his clients. In his possession was something special, and he was wasting it on drawing cartoon characters to push products. He lasted in his office only fifteen minutes before he decided he needed some fresh air. Jake stopped him before he left the office.
“Going somewhere, big guy?” Jake said. He wore his usually Tuesday suit, a blue satiny three button suit with an orange and red vest. His tie was colored to match the blue suit, and his face was freshly shaved. Lenny could not remember the last time he shaved.
“I just needed some fresh air,” Lenny said.
“You’re looking a little ragged. Are you taking care of yourself well enough?” Jake said.
“I’m getting by. It’s just been tough with everything going on,” Lenny said.
“I see that. Listen, Lenny. We need to talk. Do you mind if we stop by my office before you head out?” Jake said.
Jake’s face was studied and calm, almost locked into place. Lenny shrugged and followed Jake to his office. His office was larger than Lenny’s, with a small conference table near the entrance. It was decorated with replicas of sculptures on every surface. Jake had always dreamed of being a sculptor. Lenny never understood why Jake sold out and went into commercial art. When Jake was a freshman in college, his professors raved about his talents, sure that he would revolutionize modern sculpture. Jake returned to the basics, learning to carve rocks and scoffed at modern sculptures. During his junior year, he gave up on sculpting, never explaining to anyone his reasons. As Lenny studied the sculptures, the reason became apparent to him. Jake had feared success. His professors had such high expectations of him that he knew he could never meet. He never trusted in his ability to change the world. He loved sculpting but he knew he would never be able to stand up to the people who tried to change how he did it. Even in college, his professors pushed him in a direction that he did not believe in. After approaching their skills, he tried to push off in a new direction, and was held back by his professor’s conservative beliefs.
Lenny understood more of Jake’s past. He saw a meeting between Jake and the chairman of the art department. The chairman had given Jake an ultimatum. He was either to work with his professors and sculpt as they wanted him to sculpt, or leave the department. Experimentation, he had told Jake, was not for college. After leaving the meeting, Jake made the decision to switch majors to a more commercially accepted art form. He did not think he would be able to stand up to the professors and the art critics and explain his sculpting. It was too personal for him to share with them. Instead, he put his energies and talents into commercial art and cultivating clients. Since that decision, he had not sculpted. Lenny thought back to all the times he had kid Jake about switching majors. Lenny taught Jake the proper techniques for illustration—Jake never having focused on that art form before. Before now, Lenny never understood the sacrifice Jake made and how it changed him as a person. How he sacrificed his art because of his fears and entered the commercial realm where what was acceptable was what the masses would enjoy. Jake chose mass acceptance over personal acceptance. For the first time, Lenny felt that he understood Jake.
“Lenny?” Jake said. Lenny stood at the doorway to Jake’s office with Jake’s large hand on his shoulder. Jake was shaking him gently.
“I’m sorry. What did you say? I was just thinking about your sculptures,” Lenny said.
“Those old things? Not much to think about. They’re all replicas,” Jake said, laughing and dismissively waving his hand.
“During college, didn’t you have replicas of some unpopular sculptures from the 17th century? I forget the artist,” Lenny said.
“Ah. You do have a good memory for some things, Lenny. It was Art Rochesco of Italy. He worked in marble and sculpted busts with exaggerated features and figures. He was never accepted in his time, or for that matter, even today. Nobody understood his figures because they were ugly and didn’t raise an emotional reaction in many people,” Jake said.
“Why did you have his sculptures then?” Lenny said.
“I don’t remember. His work reminded me of what I was searching for in my sculpting. But it was all silly, I eventually discovered. Art is what the people want, and people don’t want hard to understand figures. They want entertaining and easily decipherable figures. They want to look at a media, like illustrations on a billboard, and get the joke right away—the more levels the joke falls out on, the happier everyone becomes. What brings up this conversation?” Jake said.
“I was just thinking,” Lenny said. He left it at that. Lenny was not sure if Jake understood the choice he made. Lenny thought it might be cowardice, but he felt that he did not have the right to judge Jake. Lenny decided on commercial art before even enrolling in college. He knew he wanted to work on advertisements and study the use of art to sell products. He never liked art for the sake of art. But now that he had grown older and seen more of the world, he began wondering if he missed out, never understanding the emotional connection that art provided. The closest he got to that understanding was manipulating the emotions of the consumers.
“You’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, Lenny. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I heard back from Mr. R*, he’s not happy about your proposal,” Jake said.
“I know, I know, Jake. I thought about it all day yesterday and yesterday evening. I wasn’t satisfied with what I gave him either,” Lenny said.
“How is your aunt doing?” Jake said. Lenny was surprised by the change in topic.
“She’s the same. I visited her last night,” Lenny said.
“Did Samantha go with you?” Jake said.
“No. She stayed home last night. We’re supposed to go out tomorrow night with you and Tommy. We’re still on, I hope,” Lenny said.
“I really liked your aunt. She had a real spark, especially for an older person.
“Yeah. The doctors still have hope that she’s going to snap out of it. I can’t wait to see her reaction when I tell her what she’s been like for the past few weeks,” Lenny said.
“Lenny, Mr. R* cancelled his contract with us,” Jake said.
Lenny was surprised, but realized he should not have been. He knew that Mr. R* had visited Jake’s office to discuss the cancellation. They discussed something else in the office, but he was not sure what. Before he even sent off the proposal, he knew that Mr. R* would not be satisfied. At the time, Lenny thought that Mr. R* would not be satisfied, but he did not feel up to finishing the work. He could summon no more energy to worry about the project. Lenny backed up his thought to remember a part of what happened in Jake’s office. They discussed something else, but Lenny was not sure what.
“I’m sorry about that, Jake. It happens. We can’t hit a homerun every time,” Lenny said.
“No. And we’ve been striking out quite a bit lately. Even before your aunt fell ill, you were slowing down, Lenny. You don’t seem to have the same energy as before. Now, you’re beginning to look terrible. You’ve lost weight, you wear the same clothing every day, I don’t understand what is happening to you,” Jake said.
“It’s been rough on me. I’ll get back into it,” Lenny said.
Jake was quiet for a few minutes. He leaned against the front of his desk, his large rear-end cut in two by the sharp edge. “Lenny, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’ve decided to buy out your interest,” Jake said.
“What do you mean,” Lenny said.
“I’ve spoken to the lawyers, and they said that our partnership agreement allows one partner to buy out the other at a set rate. I make an offer, and you either accept that offer, or you buy me out at that amount. That’s what the agreement says. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and this is how it has to be. I hate to do this to you, especially with everything you’re going through, but Mr. R* is not the only client that has complained about your work over the past few months,” Jake said.
The names of the other clients that had complained to Jake secretly flashed through Lenny’s mind. The list included almost every one of his clients. He did not know that his work had been that bad for the past few months. Before his aunt fell sick, he thought he was finally reaching a point in his professional career where he could coast. His work, he thought, had been good. And then he knew. He saw the meetings Charlie had with his clients. He saw how Charlie raised doubts in his client’s minds, how he attempted to undermine their confidence in his work. Charlie had done it in the hopes of taking the clients with him when he left, but the only one it benefited was Jake. “What are you offering?” Lenny said.
“Not much I’m afraid, my friend. Except for the lease, there’s not much left in the partnership,” Jake said.
“And I assume you’ve spoken to all the clients already,” Lenny said.
“Yes, Lenny. And I didn’t approach them about this. They approached me. They gave me an ultimatum, it was either you or them,” Jake said.
“What’s your definition of ‘not much’,” Lenny said.
“I’ll give you $20,000 for your share in the business, and I’ll cancel any debts you have to the partnership. You’ll share the profits through the end of the year, but after that you’ll no longer be a partner in the business,” Jake said.
Lenny nodded. He felt cold and warm, the sweater itching terribly. He left Jake’s office and the building and made his way to the car. He did not understand it. He thought he knew what was going on. He thought the sweater was providing insight and helping him make the right decisions. It seemed to be doing neither. He did not see this coming and thought everything was fine with the business. Even with the full knowledge of his client’s complaints, their meetings with Jake, Charlie’s discussions with his clients, all of it, there was nothing he could do about it. Lenny felt trapped.
He entered his car and revved the engine. He thought about calling Samantha—he definitely needed someone to help calm he down now. But he could not bear to tell her what happened. This was who he was. He thought about calling his clients, trying to convince them of the mistake they were making, but he knew, in that way he knows about so much these days, that they would not appreciate the call. He had burned his bridges with them, and it was too late to go back.
Lenny needed someone to talk to. Someone he could discuss what was happening to him. There was nobody he could trust, however. He did not think Samantha would understand. She had been there for him, but much of her respect was in everything Lenny accomplished. How could he tell her that his business was collapsing around him? The only person he could think of that would understand was his aunt, and she was in no condition to give him advice. But it was not advice that he needed. He just needed someone to talk to. He needed to hear his own voice and understand what was going on. He turned onto the highway and headed to the hospital. His aunt could not judge him in the state she was in. Lenny was disgusted with his thought, but he often was when he was honest with himself.
Word count: 2,048
Words left: 26,019
Caffeination: Tall mocha
Feeling: Accepting.
out of place start
“You’re in early,” Joyce said as Lenny passed her desk. Lenny hired Joyce two years ago as the receptionist for their growing commercial art house. When Jake and Lenny first rented the space, they barely had enough money to pay for the rent and art supplies. When they landed their third client, they decided to hire someone to take care of the administrative tasks. Joyce was the first employee on the payroll and they treasured her. She designed the procedures for how the office worked and made sure everything ran smoothly.
“I got stuck in traffic,” Lenny said. It was becoming more difficult for him to arrive on time. That surprised him. When they started the office, Lenny spent most days working. He loved the excitement of building up the business and working on the next big account. As the years have gone by, however, his excitement has waned. The business was doing moderately well, but not well enough for Lenny to get out and try other things. Going to sleep at night was getting harder, a symptom he remembered from his first job out of college. When you did not want to go to sleep at night because you feared waking up and going to sleep, it was definitely a sign that there was something not right at work. But Lenny fought through the feeling, sure each morning that something would change and inspire him. He had his future to think of, and that future might require him to support a family. He knew that no matter his desires, he had to think of that foremost.
Joyce did not comment. He wished there was a back door that he could enter through so he would not feel guilty passing her every morning—or, he thought regretfully—most afternoons. Joyce worked hard and her hours were long, arriving early in the morning to greet the clients and leaving late in the evening. She was dedicated to the business and unless an all-night project was in the works, she stayed until the last person left the office. She was heavily invested in the business and in Jake and Lenny, and her job was her life. She never married and enjoyed the business and the people she worked with. Lenny was always nervous for Joyce. He was not sure what would become of her when she no longer needed the business, or the business no longer needed her.
“Joyce, have I told you lately that you’re the greatest,” Lenny said, trying to take a different tact.
“You’d be the greatest as well if you started showing up more regularly, Lenny. Your clients are growing a little aggravated by your hours,” Joyce said. For a small woman, she had a loud voice, which carried past the reception area into the small room that the junior artists shared. Lenny winced as he saw all the artists lean toward the exchange. Joyce was a small ball of energy. She darted around the office organizing projects and ensuring that problems were put in front of the right person. Her hair looked like a large basket of straw, never moving, and in a different shape every day. She was a strong lady, and Lenny and Jake, and the rest of the staff respected and feared her. She ran the office as a little general. Many of the junior artists bitched and complained about her methods—but their bitching and complaining always occurred outside of her earshot.
“I know, Joyce. It’s just been hard on me lately. I have too many clients and not enough time to think through to a creative solution. But I’ve never dropped the ball, and I’m not going to start now. I’m going to catch up with my backlog today, and maybe go woo some new clients. It’s been a while since I’ve set up an appointment with a prospective client,” Lenny said and walked briskly passed her desk not waiting for a response. He knew that he would not call any clients. It was hard to sell something you no longer believed in.
Lenny past through the junior artists room and kept his head down. All of the drafting tables were filled, and Charlie was looking over the shoulder of a drafter. Lenny did not know the drafter’s name—he did not know many of the names of the drafters anymore. He knew he needed to spend more time with the drafters. When he was young and working as a drafter at Batchelder & Sonny, the more experienced drafters spent considerable amounts of time with him teaching him the ropes. He always appreciated their tutelage and time, and promised himself that he would return the favor by teaching the next generation of commercial artists.
He closed the door of his office and positioned his chair to face out the window. There was not much of a view. His office overlooked the rear wall of the adjoining commercial building. His firm was in building C, and from his window he could see the rear of building E and the side of building D. There was a small patch of grass between the three buildings, and Lenny stared at that, studying the yellow dandelions that sprouted over much of the space. The grass itself was rather bald, the maintenance people spending only a small amount of time every week mowing the lawn and not providing any additional services. Lenny tapped his foot on the glass and watched how the distortions in the glass created by the tapping made the lawn move in and out.
There was a knock on his door, and Lenny spun his chair around as Jake entered. “How you feeling this fine day,” Jake said. Jake was a large man, his bulk covering most of the door. He dressed, as he usually did, in an expensive blue suit, this time with a brilliant red vest. He had impeccable taste in clothing and loved the classics with a twist, a style that permeated his art as well.
“Well, Jake. Sorry about missing the meeting this morning. I had a tough time getting up,” Lenny said.
“It is okay, Lenny. That’s why we’re partners—you know, there are two of us to take care of problems like this. The guys at Tail-Light Industries liked your recommendation, particularly the cartoon car. They want to run the illustration in the trade magazines. I wanted to stop by and congratulate you,” Jake said.
Relief should have flooded over Lenny, but he felt nothing. He had spent less than an hour sketching out the cartoon car and had given it to the drafters to finalize. To do such little work for such a large account should have terrified Lenny, but he had grown accustomed to applying less and less effort. It was not that he did not like his art or the business. He enjoyed both. It was more that his apathy was increasing and he did not understand why. He felt that there was something else out there, something he should have been doing instead of running the business. “I’m glad it worked out,” Lenny said.
“So am I, Lenny, so am I. We still have a few more accounts to take care of. I was thinking of finalizing some storyboards this weekend. You interested in pulling an all-night session, just like the old days?” Jake said.
“I’d like to, Jake. But I promised Samantha that we would spend the weekend together. Don’t you have to entertain Tommy this weekend as well?” Lenny said.
“Tommy can entertain himself for the weekend. And if Samantha needs company, I’m sure Tommy would be more than happy to stop by. We really should finish planning for these accounts. I’ve already warned the drafters that it was going to be a long weekend. We could certainly use your help. There are three campaigns that need to go out early next week,” Jake said.
“Let me talk it over with Samantha and get back to you, Jake. I looked over our proposals, and some of the illustrations should be interesting. I had some ideas about the chair one. I’ll try to drop off some sketches,” Lenny said. Even as he talked, he knew he would not work the weekend. It was difficult enough for him to work during the week. Contemplating waking up early on a weekend and driving to work was unbearable.
“I’d like to see those, Lenny. Drop them by my office at any time. Charlie wanted to talk to you. He has some ideas on one of the campaigns you were working on,” Jake said.
“I’ll be sure to set something up with him for later. I’ll get to those sketches right away,” Lenny said.
Jake closed the door behind him, his cologne still lingering in Lenny’s office. Lenny spun his chair around and stared out the window, trying to find inspiration in the dandelions that marked the balding grass.
Yeanda stood on top of Round-Eye’s lookout, a hill that looked over her village. The top of the hill was sandy, the grass and bush ending a few feet below the top. A small tree clung to the side of the top, leaning awkwardly to the left, its roots visible like a receding tooth. Yeanda was spending a part of each day on the top of the hill. The strong, howling winds silenced her thoughts and gave her a respite she could not find in the village. Her visions were dark these days. She saw death around her and she feared for the future of Long-Toe’s village. When she climbed to the top of Round-Eye’s lookout, she was able to place her problems in perspective. She sat under the shade of the tree and allowed the wind to blow her loosely fitting robes. She was unconcerned when the top of her robe opened up under the punishment of the wind, and enjoyed the feeling of sand whipping across her naked chest.
When the wind offered a small respite, Yeanda pulled her robes over her head and let her mind tackle the possible future for her people. She saw the white men descending upon her village and the desolation that would follow. Nobody would live in these lands, she knew. When the village was set aflame, there would be nobody left to worship the gods in the wooded areas or the hills. She felt a great sadness and pushed it aside. She knew there was no future for her village, but the people in the village, for them she would find a future.
The trek down the hill took Yeanda the better part of the day, and by evening she entered her village. Red-Down met her at the end of the path.
“I was worried for you, wise woman,” Red-Down said. She was the youngest adult in the village, and the first baby Yeanda delivered when she arrived. When she was born, Yeanda knew that she would replace her one day as the village’s guide. She had spoken to the mayor and Red-Down’s parents, and they had agreed to allow her to share in her upbringing. Yeanda was not as confident about Red-Down’s future anymore. Where once she saw her traveling to different villages and embracing the arts of the wise woman, her future had darkened along with the rest of the village, and the her people. She might survive the upcoming catastrophe, but there were forces moving through the world that Yeanda did not understand and could not foretell. Not knowing terrified Yeanda, but she schooled her face to hide her emotions. One of the first lessons she had taught Red-Down when she started her formal apprenticeship was to never let her patients share in her fears.
“You know you waste your worries, dear child. The winds of Round-Eye will not take me,” Yeanda said.
“It was not the winds that I worried about, wise woman,” Red-Down said. Yeanda regretted that Red-Down would never share her vision. It was not something she could teach, just like she could not pass down her breathing or her height. Her powers came from her family, and only her child would share in them. While Yeanda cared for Red-Down as much as she would of a child of her own blood, she knew that her gifts were not hers to pass down in that fashion. It was almost a relief to Yeanda. As of late, she did not see her visions as much of a gift. They were dark and dominated all of her thoughts. The possibilities constantly ran through her mind at an incredible pace, and all she could do was watch and hope that she caught a possibility as it fleeted out of reach.
“What but the winds do you worry about, child? There are no demons on Round-Eye and the paths are not treacherous,” Yeanda said.
“No, wise woman, even if there were demons and one-hundred foot drops on the hill, I would not fear for our safety. You know much more than I could ever hope to know and those mere challenges would not thwart you. I worry for you, wise woman. These past few weeks you are showing a strain I have not seen in you since I’ve known you. The strain is more apparent every day, and even the villagers are starting to talk about it. The mayor stopped by my hut yesterday to ask about it. He worries that you work too hard and are growing old and tired,” Red-Down said.
Yeanda laughed. “Age has not yet found me, dear child. I am working through my visions to determine what is best. It is tiring work and I have not been as vigilant about my rest as perhaps I should have been. Have you prepared my dinner,” Yeanda said.
“Yes, wise woman. I’m sorry to have distracted you with such talk. It is not my business to question you. But I do worry,” Red-Down said.
“While it is not your business, I do appreciate it, Red-Down. I knew when I first saw the down on your head that became your namesake that you were the next wise woman. You must trust your instincts and understand your village, and that village includes me, your silly wise woman who doesn’t always know what’s best for her health,” Yeanda said.
“You taught me not to argue with you, wise woman, so I’ll leave it at that. We should break our fast. The mayor has called a village meeting for tonight,” Red-Down said.
Yeanda sighed wearily and followed Red-Down into her hut.
out of place end
Word count: 2,441 (I included the 8 words that mark an improperly ordered section. Yeah, it’s cheating, but it’s only 8 words!)
Words left: 23,578 (passed the half-way mark!)
Caffeination: tall mocha (broken record)
Feeling: much, much better. I started jotting down some notes for what I wanted to write, and it all started pouring out of me. It might have had something to do with my generally good mood today.
out of place start
Yeanda was glad to see her evening meal spread across the floor when she returned to her hut. Down-Red covered Yeanda’s rug with the evening-meal cloth and laid out fresh breads and raw vegetables. Yeanda did not eat meat, and except for her breads, she preferred her food uncooked. She enjoyed the endless mashing and jaw movement. When her teeth and jaw were grinding her food, her thoughts were quieted. Yeanda motioned for Down-Red to join her in the meal.
“This looks wonderful, child. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” Yeanda said as she tore a piece from the bread loaf. It was still hot and the dough steamed when she broke it open. Yeanda spread strawberries on the bread and took a bite. The names of the women who picked the strawberries the previous week flashed through her mind. She knew that Wounded-Knee was having problems carrying her third child. She stuffed the entire piece of bread into her mouth and grinded the crust with her teeth until her mind quieted.
“Thank you, wise woman. I thought you might need the energy for the meeting tonight. Teary-Eye has been spreading some unseemly rumors since he returned from trading with the white man. The mayor asked me to warn you. There will be trouble tonight,” Down-Red said, sitting on the far side of the spread and not eating. Yeanda knew about Teary-Eye’s travels. She saw his meeting and the exchange. They spoke more about Yeanda than they did the village. She did not know what they spoke about, just that she was the subject. She recognized the white man, but stopped herself before she followed that line of thought.
“Teary-Eye has been trouble ever since he started trading. He prefers the white man’s culture to our own, and he would have us give up everything to be more like them. Do you see the clothes he runs around in? No matter how much he dresses like them, acts like them, or even tries to think like them, he will never be one of them. They will never accept him. He does not believe this when I tell him, or even when the mayor tells him, but it is so,” Yeanda said. She removed her knife from her robes and carved a large zucchini into long strips. She dipped each strip in oil and salt, and stuffed the stalks into her mouth.
“I am sorry for the trouble he causes, wise woman. I have tried to talk with him, but he will not listen. He does not see what is apparent,” Down-Red said.
“It is not your fault, child,” Yeanda said.
“But he is my younger brother, and he has grown jealous of the way my parents dote on me. If it wasn’t for me and my apprenticeship with you, he would never have become a trader. He would have stayed on Pa’s farm and the white man would not even know of our existence,” Down-Red said. Yeanda knew that the white man would know of the village regardless of Teary-Eye’s trading. Teary-Eye just made their discovery sooner than Yeanda would have wished.
“Even as a wise woman, there is only so much control you can have over your people and especially over your family, child. You will learn in time that our skills and authority are limited, and we must use them both wisely or squander any control we may assert on the village for its own good. Now, you should eat as well. The meeting will be long tonight and if I am to pass any lesson on to you, it will be how to cope with a difficult meeting with impossible people,” Yeanda said.
The village meeting was held in the inn, the largest building in the town. It was built two-hundred years ago by the first permanent settlers. The mayor is a direct descendent of its builder, Sworn-Blood, who was gifted the land by the tribal counsel after assisting in the battle on White-Top mountain. The inn survived two fires that destroyed the surrounding buildings and threatened the granary and storehouses. The inn’s wood is blackened from the fire and the goose-fat weathering. The tables were stacked along the wall and the townspeople were spread out sitting on the first and second floors, and along the stairs and walls. The mayor and his advisers sat in chairs around the blazing fireplace facing out into the inn. Yeanda and Down-Red waited just inside the entrance for the meeting to begin. They took their place with the woman and children that lined the walls of the inn, leaving the floors and better vantage places for the men. The smoke from the chimney and the tobacco pipes that most of the men smoked created a heavy bitterness in the air. There was a low chatter created by hundreds of people whispering to their neighbors.
The mayor stamped a large wooden pole with a bronze clasp on both ends. The crack echoed off the walls and the room grew quiet, except for some late shushing. The mayor wore the traditional village battle garb, a sleeveless vest of bamboo links designed to ward off sharp blows, and thick, orange woolen trousers, dyed with the bark of the woombak trees that grew around the village. A large gray mustache dominated his face, which appeared squished, his chin and eyebrows creeping closer and closer together every year. The title of mayor was a generational one. His father had been mayor before him, and his father’s father before that. All three were good men that kept the village prosperous.
“This meeting was called on request of Teary-Eye, who brings news from the white man traders. It is a village tradition that any adult male may call a meeting of the village. I personally believe that this meeting is not necessary, but I would not spit in the face of our ancestor’s tradition. Teary-Eye, you may speak whatever you feel necessary on this night. But do not keep us too long. The nights grow longer and we must prepare for the work on the morrow,” the mayor said.
The mayor returned to his chair as Teary-Eye stood up. He had been seated cross-legged in front of the mayor and his advisor’s chairs. He cleared his throat a few times and looked around the crowd. Teary-Eye turned fifteen two years before and participated in the hunt. He was skilled with the spear and killed three boars, a large number for a first hunt. He gained much prestige in the village, and used that prestige to negotiate the buying of excess stock. At first, nobody knew where he would sell the stock. The trader White-Nose already controlled the trading with the nearby villages. It was not until Teary-Eye returned with goods from the white man that the village learned what he was doing with their excess goods. Yeanda knew what he planned. But she also knew that his heart was darkened against her and she would hold no sway with him. He was a willful boy who would have done well if the villages were still at war. But in peace, his excess cleverness and desires did not have an outlet, and the one he found saddened Yeanda
“I have been to the village at the shore of the Salty-Lake. I have traded in the white man’s goods and I have learned much of their ways. They have told me stories of how they have helped our brother villages closer to their settlement. They have traded with me for the miraculous things that I have shown you. The white man is strong, but he does not have a desire to hurt our way of life. He asks only that our way of life improve. He wishes to share with us things that we have never seen and would improve our lives. They value our goods and ask for more of them. But there is something that they fear, something that even with their great explosive devices they fear.
“They ask only that we help with their fear. And in return—and in return, they promise us this,” Teary-Eye removed a golden coin from a small pouch on his belt,” This is a metal known as gold, and with it, we may buy all that the white man has to sell,” Teary-Eye said.
“What use is gold, Teary-Eye? The villages will not accept such metals. Our ancestors have stories of large caches of the metal that they found lying along the riverbanks. No matter how much they pounded and melted, they were never able to fashion this metal into weapons. It is too soft and too heavy. Is this why you called this meeting? To discuss a worthless metal?” the mayor said.
Yeanda understood what the white man was offering Teary-Eye to trade. She grasped Down-Red’s hand in her own.
Teary-Eye laughed. “No, mayor, I did not think you would understand the worth of this worthless metal. I wanted to give the people just a flavor of the treasures that the white man offers in exchange for our cooperation,” Teary-Eye said.
“Our cooperation in what, Teary-Eye?” the mayor said. The villagers murmured amongst themselves and Teary-Eye waited patiently for them to quiet down before he continued.
“The white man told me of an evil magic that left their midst. It poisoned their crops and killed their herds. It still threatens them even when it was driven from their fields and villages. They seek to destroy it to banish the curse, and claim that this evil has taken residence in our villages. They are unsure which village houses the evil, but they have sworn to burn and ransack the village, since it is the only way to ensure that the evil is destroyed. But they will not do that if we cooperate. If we cooperate in helping them banish the evil, they will reward us. They will reward us with gold and gems and weapons, the likes of which will make our hunts twice as productive,” Teary-Eye said.
A roar sounded amongst the men on the floor. “What is this evil?” an adviser said. “What type of weapons?” an adviser said. “How can we trust them?” an adviser said. “Twice as productive?” an adviser said.
Teary-Eye waited for the crowds to quiet. Even the mayor leaned forward to listen to Teary-Eye. “You have seen the weapons that I speak of. You have heard the explosion and seen the fires. You have also seen the metals they possess. They are willing to share all of this, which will enable us to rise above our neighboring villages and increase our riches, all of this if we help the white man banish their evil,” Teary-Eye said.
“We have not had conflicts with the neighboring villages in many years. We live in relative peace amongst our neighbors, a peace that my father helped bring about. Why do you risk that peace with such talk,” the mayor said.
“Every year our hunting grounds shrink as the neighboring villages extend theirs. Every year our crops fail as theirs grow fertile in lands that were once ours. Every year we watch their numbers grow as ours dwindles, our children leaving our village and seeking fortune elsewhere. Part of the blame falls squarely on the poor settlement of the land rights that your father, mayor, brought about,” Teary-Eye said, his voice rising and punctuated by a great log breaking in two and collapsing in the fireplace.
“How dare you speak of my ancestors, Teary-Eye. The settlement that you speak so uncaringly about allowed you to grow up without the risk of dying at the hands of a spear. It has brought untold prosperity to this village and our neighbors. If it was not for my love of your parents, I would slay you where you stand,” the mayor said, his hand holding the hilt of his machete.
Teary-Eye fell to his knees. “I apologize, mayor. I said things that I did not mean to. I have known your father and I have respected him. But there is something he did which pains me. The settlement that your father brought upon this village was the work of the great evil that I spoke of. He was bedazzled by the great evil and did not understand what he was doing. My words, and the deed I am about to perform, all of them, our ancestors would have understood and approved of, if they would have known the truth of what lived amongst them. For you see, mayor, there is a witch living amongst us. The white man has been hunting this witch for years for she is the great evil that the white man has told me about. She left the white man’s villages many years ago and hid out in our village. She has lived among us and pretended to care for us, while she sowed her evil. The white man told me stories, stories of how she poisoned their children; Stories about this witch pretended to be a wise woman but offered only toxic potions to her charges; Stories about this witch moving from white man village to white man village and leaving carnage in her wake; and stories about this witch’s eternal life—the evidence of her dark magic,” Teary-Eye said.
The mayor and villagers turned around to look at Yeanda. There could be no question who Teary-Eye spoke of. Yeanda understood his speech before he begun. She now knew what Teary-Eye spoke about with the white man. Her hunters were getting closer and her village, the village she had lived in for the past sixty years, would feel her hunter’s wrath.
“Wise woman, is what Teary-Eye speaks true? I cannot believe this of you. You have been nothing but good for me and my father before me. Say the word and I will slay Teary-Eye, even as his parents watch. Such evil words have not echoed in these walls for as long as this inn has stood,” the mayor said.
Yeanda watched the possibilities stack up in her mind. She saw the mayor attacking and killing Teary-Eye. She watched as Teary-Eye defended himself and slipped his blade into the mayor’s chest. She saw the anguish on the faces of the townspeople and Teary-Eye’s parents. If Teary-Eye lived, all possibilities led to the same place: the destruction of the village. If he died, there was a chance that the white man would not discover which village she lived in and the village would be saved. Down-Red squeezed her hand and she knew that she could not order him slain. What Teary-Eye had started she now knew she must finish. The people that hunted her would know where she lived. There was nothing she could do about that now. The village was lost. The best she could do was save the people and give them the opportunity to continue to live.
“She is not one of us,” a townsperson that Yeanda could not see said. “It must be true: she comes from the white man’s village. Why else would she leave them?” another said. “No white man or villager lives as long as she does. She must possess dark magic,” another said. “But the mayor has never led us wrong, and he relies on her knowledge. She delivered most of you as babies,” another said. The roar of the crowd increased and the mayor banged his staff on the ground.
“Enough,” Yeanda screamed. For all her years living in the village, she never raised her voice. When she spoke, people quieted the hear her. Even the angriest villager would quiet down if she raised her hand to say something. The villagers were shocked that her voice could be so loud. Yeanda stood up and released Down-Red’s hand.
“There will be no killing tonight. No villager has killed another villager, and such killings will not start tonight. I do come from the white man’s village. And I have been alive for a long time—longer than I would have wanted. And what Teary-Eye proclaimed is true. I do wield magic, but it is not magic that you should fear. I have only used my knowledge to help this village. That is why I came here, and that is why I remain. The white man has not arrived on your shores to provide you with new weapons or new people to trade. They have come to conquer you. The ones that seek me promise such things because they know that I can protect you,” Yeanda said.
“Lies! All lies! Do not listen to this witch woman. She admits that she casts spells in our village. She admits to manipulating our lives. She admits to hailing from the white man’s village. Do not listen to this witch. Her words are as poisonous as her actions,” Teary-Eye said.
“You will die for that,” the mayor screamed, unsheathing his sword.
Yeanda screamed for the mayor to stop, but she saw it was too late. The mayor’s sword had pierced Teary-Eye’s heart and he leaned back on his feet, still kneeling before the mayor. A loud shriek sounded from behind Yeanda and Down-Red ran forward to her brother. She pushed people away and cleared the space around him. Yeanda cursed herself for not foreseeing this possibility. She had not had enough time to see all possible outcomes. Down-Red leaned over her brother and held his cut in her lap. The metallic smell of blood permeated the inn and the mayor stared down at his hands, which were covered in Teary-Eye’s blood.
Teary-Eye’s parents stood up and all the villages turned to watch them. His father held his wife around her shoulders and stared at their son and daughter. After a few minutes, the father nodded and he turned away from his dying son. Tears stood in his mother’s eyes, but she did not cry. She faced away from her son and Teary-Eye’s parents walked out of the inn. “Down-Red, come here. I will not have that boy comforted on his fiery trip to the underworld. The gods will judge him and they will find him wanting.” Down-Red did not move and her father led her mother out the inn.
Yeanda stood against the wall. There was nothing she could say, she saw. The village would fragment. She felt her heart catch a beat when she knew that Teary-Eye had already told the white man that she was in his village. Whatever suffering she would have hoped to avoid by his death, now seemed for naught. The village was lost and his death was in vain.
Yeanda walked over to Down-Red and Teary-Eye and kneeled behind them both. She saw that Teary-Eye had died the moment the sword pierced his chest. Yeanda placed her hand on top of Down-Red and Teary-Eye’s heads and began to chant. The villager’s joined in and on the death chant. Teary-Eye’s mother’s wailing could be heard above the chanting, and only darkness and death filled Yeanda’s vision.
out of place start
Word count: 3,187
Words left: 20,391
Caffeination: tall mocha (from a café)
Feeling: I started off a bit slow until I saw where the scene was heading. I would love a chance to rewrite that scene. It could be much more powerful, but, I know, I know, I’ll keep moving forward.
The restaurant Samantha chose was one of the nicer ones in their neighborhood. Lenny and Samantha frequented a few place they considered their usual eating houses. The list changed depending on the quality of the food and service, and their experiences in the restaurant. Lenny arrived late, having finished throwing together a few drafts at work and dropping them off on Jake’s desk. With the help of knowing what his clients wanted, thanks to the sweater, Lenny felt like he had done some of his best work. While he was not sure that any of his storyboards would be successful with the public, he was sure that his clients would appreciate seeing their own thoughts and feelings given life in his work. Lenny felt a bit guilty about using his knowledge in this way, but his guilt was alleviated by his actually having completed projects, something he had not been able to do in many weeks.
Samantha was already seated when Lenny entered the restaurant. He pointed her out to the host and joined her at the table. She started drinking without him, an empty umbrella drink in front of her.
“Nice of you to join me,” Samantha said.
Lenny glanced at his watch and smiled. “I’m only fifteen minutes late. I was stuck on a few projects at work. You would be proud of me with all the work I finished today. This was hands-down my most productive day of work in years. I brought some sketches to show you after dinner. I think you’re really going to like some of my proposals,” Lenny said. He put his suitcase down next to his chair and leaned forward with his elbows on the table.
Samantha upended the empty glass and sucked out the last of the juice. “So you’re working now? That’s something new. I thought you couldn’t stand your job anymore,” Samantha said.
“No, that was the other day. I really feel like I’m getting a second wind. I’ve been complaining and looking for alternatives for so long that when I actually sit down and start working on a project, it’s almost a relief. I was smiling when I was holding my pen today. I don’t remember the last time I smiled,” Lenny said. He ordered a vodka tonic from the water and starting working his way through the breadbasket.
“I’m glad that part of your life is working out. Have you given any thought to what we discussed yesterday?” Samantha said.
“What was that?” Lenny said.
“We talked about how we are going to go out and actually do something. Do you remember? Enough visiting your aunt in the hospital, you promised a movie or a show or something,” Samantha said.
“What are you talking about? We’re doing something right now. Aren’t we eating out in a nice restaurant? I thought this is what you wanted,” Lenny said. He was still distracted by the thoughts of his projects. He reviewed a particular storyboard in his mind for a telephone executive. Each printed advertisement in the campaign was based on a different style of painting: the first was a crude cave painting, followed by ancient Greek paintings, and then on to modern times with Renaissance and modern art. The final culminated a photograph with the earlier paintings used as tiles for the picture. The paintings were all of the simple phone and the logo for the company. Nothing complicated, but with the different paint styles, he was sure it would be visually stunning. What particularly drew him to this advertisement was the phone executive. He was an avid collector of artwork, something that few people knew about. One of the advantages of the sweater was he could know secrets about people that they probably did not think he would know. He was sure the executive would enjoy the storyboards if for no other reason than his love of artwork.
“Are you even listening to me?” Samantha said. Lenny looked up and saw Samantha saying something, but he did not remember what. He was still going over the pictures in his mind.
“I’m sorry, Samantha. I am just really excited about some of the work I have been doing. It’s been so long since I cared, and I think some of my work the clients are really going to like. I’m hoping to win a few more accounts over the next few weeks. I feel like I know my clients better than ever. Are you ready to order? I’m starving,” Lenny said. The breadbasket was now empty and Lenny was scooping up the breadcrumbs with his spoon.
“Lenny, what has gotten into you? First you get ill from the stress of your aunt’s sickness, then, a few weeks later, you act as if you can take over the world. Well, when you’re done conquering the world, maybe then you’ll remember me,” Samantha said.
Lenny looked at her for the first time since he arrived at the restaurant. He looked deep into her and tried to know what she was thinking, but he knew and felt nothing. The sweater was cold around his body and he knew nothing more than he saw.
“Well? Has superman lost his tongue? And what is up with that sweater? You’re still wearing it. Have you even cleaned it? It looks disgusting today. I’m afraid to know what it smells like,” Samantha said.
“Samantha, what is it? I don’t understand what’s wrong with you tonight. I thought you wanted to go out to dinner. I had a wonderful day and I was hoping you’d share in it. What did I do wrong?” Lenny said.
“At least you know that it was you who did something wrong. But I’m not going to make it easy for you,” Samantha said.
“So you’re going to turn this into a guessing game? Is it about not going out? You mentioned something about that before,” Lenny said.
“That’s only part of it, and not the most important part. I want you to think of what today’s date is and see if that rings a bell,” Samantha said.
“Date? It’s not your birthday. You know I use that as my ATM code so I wouldn’t forget it. I don’t know. You’ve stumped me. Please, can we not play these guessing games? I was hoping to have a relaxing dinner just like we used to,” Lenny said. His mind was still blank. Whatever it was he should have known, he did not know. Over the last few weeks, he found himself relying more and more on the sweater to tell him things. It was always easier to know something than to spend the effort to recall it or originally think it up. He felt that he was growing lazy, but he brushed those thoughts aside. He needed to focus on the matter at hand and see what has gotten into Samantha today.
“Where were we four-years ago?” Samantha said.
“Oh. September already isn’t it? Our anniversary was yesterday,” Lenny said. He had been so distracted over the last few weeks that he had forgotten their anniversary. It did not surprise Lenny that much. He was not terribly good at dates, and he usually left those things to Samantha, as she had a tendency to remind him.
“Bingo. Do you remember me calling you yesterday to go out?” Samantha said.
“Yes. And I blew you off. Please don’t tell me that you had something planned,” Lenny said but he knew the answer before he finished speaking. He saw Samantha at home. She had cooked a meal, bought what must have been crates of candles, and, he saw his gift, a new pink sweater. He laughed at the thought.
“Is something funny, Lenny?” Samantha said.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I was so caught up with work and visiting my Aunt, I didn’t think of it. You should have said something and kicked some sense into me,” Lenny said.
“This is now somehow my fault for not demanding that you come by my apartment so I can share my home-cooked meal and gift with you? You’re really screwed up, Lenny. What did you do instead of come to my place yesterday? Did you visit your Aunt? Did she tell you something that you didn’t know? What is your fascination with her anyway? I understand that she’s sick and she’s probably the first person you’ve ever known who has gotten sick, but it’s been three weeks since they found her and you have visited her every day,” Samantha said.
“I don’t know, Samantha. I need to know something from her and I keep hoping that she wakes up and explains things. It’s been so strange in my life and she’s the only one that can give me answers,” Lenny said.
“What are you talking about? What is so strange that you need your aunt to explain it?” Samantha said.
And here it was. Lenny saw it now. The sweater opened up the possibilities in his mind. He could explain everything to her. There was a chance that she would understand. She could even help he figure out what he should do with the power. If she did not understand, then their relationship would be at risk. Lenny saw that either way, it did not bode well.
“Samantha, there’s something I haven’t told you about my aunt,” Lenny said.
“I sincerely hope you’re not going to tell me about any deviant sexual encounters,” Samantha said.
“No, no, nothing like that. But she was into strange stuff. I’ve been looking into her background, and she comes from a very strange part of my family,” Lenny said.
“If you’re trying to intrigue me to change the subject about you not coming to my house yesterday for dinner, it’s not going to work, Lenny. I’m too angry to think about anything but your laziness,” Samantha said.
“I’ve been doing some research into my mother’s side of the family. For generations, the first-born female child has died early deaths. It’s only on the mother’s side, and the first child is the only one that ever dies, usually before her fifteenth birthday. All the deaths look natural, but they all die. The later born children, even the female children, they survive and die normally. It’s the strangest thing,” Lenny said.
“What are you talking about, Lenny? Is there some sort of conspiracy that is now going to explain why you are such an asshole to me? Why should I care about any of this? Was this the reason you didn’t show up to dinner last night, because you were researching your family tree?” Samantha said.
“Partly, Samantha. You see, my aunt is the first born, but her mother moved to California when she was young with a different last name. I always assumed that her name was different because she was married. But it turns out that her name was changed before she was married. My mother and aunt never knew any of their relatives. They always told me that they had no living family on their mother’s side of the family. Don’t you see? There’s something very odd about my family, and I think my aunt’s sickness is related to that oddness,” Lenny said.
“You’ve jumped off the deep end as well? Maybe what runs in your family is insanity and paranoia, and you’re getting your first taste of it. Damn it, Lenny. I bought lobsters last night. Lobsters! I killed them by dropping them in boiling water. You know how much that sucked? And then, when I get you here and hit you with my story, you start talking about your aunt. The very same aunt that was the reason you didn’t show up in my apartment yesterday. And now you’re talking about family sickness and death? I don’t think I can handle this anymore, Lenny. I wanted to discuss something serious with you, but it’s clear you have other fucked up things on your mind. I ordered you a lobster. I hope you enjoy it,” Samantha said.
She got up from the table and left Lenny sitting there. The waiter picked that moment to come over and place the plastic bib around Lenny’s neck.
Word count: 2,035
Caffeination: Tall mocha way too early in the day (many, many hours before writing began)
Feeling: I’m so sorry I made you read that. Today was horrible. I wrote anything just to make my goal. Tomorrow has to be better. What can be worse?
Lenny could not believe what had happened in the course of three days. When he started finding the rhythm again at work, Jake dissolved his partnership, and when he needed Samantha to be there for him, she left him. All of this occurred at the prompting of his sweater. He designed the storyboards for his clients because he thought he knew his clients, but he was wrong. Although, that was not exactly true. He was right what the client wanted, he was wrong that the client would want that for his business. It was a little different with Samantha. He never claimed to know what she was thinking. In fact, he knew that he did not understand her. Instead, he took his relationship for granted and focused all of his efforts on trying to understand the purpose behind the sweater. Whatever its purpose is, it obviously is not to improve Lenny’s life.
Lenny drove around aimlessly, not looking at where he was going or where he was. He was happy to find a traffic jam. Sitting in the traffic jam enabled him to think clearly about what was going on in his life. As he looked out to the cars in front of him, he knew what caused the traffic. There was a broken down van in the right lane. Its inhabitants had abandoned the van and were now walking back to their trailer park. Lenny pulled his thoughts off of knowing and instead thought about what he did wrong.
The traffic cleared quicker than Lenny expected and he found himself back at his apartment earlier than he expected. He did not want to think about how he was going to pay the rent for the next month, or what he was going to do tomorrow. He had been hoping for this moment of not having to go into work for so long that now that it arrived, he was not sure he wanted it anymore. Be careful what you wish for, he thought dreadfully.
His apartment was quiet when he unlocked the door. He took off his shoes at the door and turned on all the lights. He turned on the stereo until music pumped through the house. He did not care much what the music was he just wanted to hear something that would distract him from the dread that was building inside of him. He thought about taking off the sweater and throwing it into the corner, but decided not to. He could not imagine living without knowing, regardless of what knowing had cost him. Looking back, he saw that it was not the knowing that caused his troubles, it was what he did when he knew the truth about the situation and the people involved.
His doorbell rang and Lenny felt instantly better. As long as Samantha was there, he felt he could get through this part. He would apologize and explain everything to her. She had the right to know what had been going on with him for the past few months. It was wrong that he kept it from her. He saw that now. Knowing truths did not tell him how he could use the truths. He had mistaken the power of the sweater and he now had to go back and fix all those mistakes. Lenny pulled on a clean pair of pants and went to the door. He’ll take Samantha out and then apologize. She will understand once he explains everything. Lenny checked his hair in the mirror, pushed back a few stray strands, and opened the door.
The man on the other side of the door held up his knuckle to rap on the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Lenny, but I needed to talk to you,” the man said.
Lenny studied the man. He knew he had seen him before, but he was trying to place him. He was short and wore a nice suit. It was not as expensive as Jake wore, but it was above your average business worker’s wear. He held a suitcase and his hands were small for his tall frame. Something tugged at his memory, but he could still not place him. “I’m sorry. And you are?” Lenny said.
“We’ve met before, at a certain coffee shop,” the man said.
“Ah! You’re the man who pretended to be a policeman. You left the shop pretty quickly when I called you on it. You also said some things about my aunt that turned out to be only partially true. I can’t say I’m happy to see you, but I am excited to know what you know about my aunt’s condition,” Lenny said. For all that he should have felt afraid or curious, he did not. He did not know anything about this man, and yet he was calm and they were talking as if he had not told Lenny three weeks ago that his aunt was dead. Lenny realized that his knuckles on the door handle were turning white and released it.
“May I come in?” the man said.
“Oh, by all means. Please, make yourself comfortable. Perhaps you’d like some tea,” Lenny said, before sitting down on the couch across from the man. The man was shorter than Lenny, something he had not noticed when he saw him at the coffee shop. He also had a different attitude, as if something struck him done from whatever high horse he had been riding on. He seemed nervous and glanced over his shoulder often and seemed almost to snivel when he talked.
“I’ve been looking for something, Lenny. It has to do with your aunt. You see, there are these people—I don’t know if I should be telling you this,” the man said.
“I don’t know either. I don’t know why you’re here or what you want to tell me. But you are here now, and my week can’t get any worse with what you have to tell me, so have out with it,” Lenny said.
“Is that what you want, lots of exposition that grinds the story to a halt? Haven’t I given enough exposition for one stupid book? This is where you jump the shark, not that there’s much of a shark left to jump,” David said.
The weeks after Teary-Eye’s death were long for Yeanda. There was a lot of planning she was responsible for in the village. She attended many meetings where she had to convince the mayor and his advisers that they were going to have to leave the village. Red-Down was not around to help her with any of it. After the village meeting, Red-Down returned to live with her parents. She told Yeanda that they needed her more than she did. It was crushing for Yeanda. She had failed Teary-Eye and Red-Down, and she felt like she was failing the village.
The mayor decided not to send anyone to the white man’s town. It was too risky. They might think something was wrong with Teary-Eye, and they might move up their invasion. Yeanda spent much of her time, when she was not preparing the village to leave or convincing the townspeople that, yes, they really had no choice, and, no, there was no negotiating with the white man, trying to know the white man’s plans. From growing up in their towns, she knew them well. Her father was a military man, and he loved to talk about their conquests and their troop movements. Whatever he told her, however, was dated. She had not been among her own kind in many years, and she was not as sure about what they were planning. Her visions were cloudy. She saw the village burning, but she was not sure if the people got out in time.
She sat on her rug staring into her fire place. The burning logs cracked and popped, shooting sparks and ashes onto the floor. There was a timid knock on her door and she turned around. “Come in, Red-Down,” Yeanda said. She did not expect to have a chance to talk to her before they left. Yeanda knew that once she helped the villagers get out of the village and begin their trek to their new village, she would not see them again. Her presence was too much of a risk. If she remained in the new village, the white man would eventually track her down. It was better for everyone if she moved on.
“I’m sorry to bother you, wise woman,” Red-Down said as she entered Yeanda’s hut.
“You were never a bother, Red-Down,” Yeanda said. She grabbed her by her hands and sat down cross-legged on the floor. Red-Down sat with her.
“I told you before that I never understood how you do what you do, wise woman. You see things that I can’t imagine, and you know things—I don’t understand it. I’ve studied with you and learned all of your lessons, but I still don’t understand. I trusted you implicitly to do what’s right for the village,” Red-Down said and then grew quiet.
Yeanda knew that there was more she wanted to say. “Go on, Red-Down. If you still trust that vision, then you must believe me when I say that I won’t be around for much longer. When the townspeople leave for the new village, I must leave the village. I’ve caused enough pain and suffering. It’s time that you had a chance to live free of my influence,” Yeanda said.
“I thought as much, wise woman,” Red-Down said. There was no bitterness in her voice. Yeanda expected resentment or hatred, but there was nothing. Not even resignation. Yeanda still held Red-Down’s hands in her own, but they were limp, as if they had no energy of their own.
“Red-Down, what is it? We’ve not kept things from each other and now, after all that has happened, I don’t want us to keep anything. Please, tell me what you’re feeling. I told you that I was terribly sorry for what happened to Teary-Eye. I knew there was a risk, but I didn’t expect the mayor to act as rashly as he did. I’ve grown soft and my judgment is not what it used to be. It was not the mayor’s fault. It was my own for not seeing what was going to happen. You must learn that as a wise woman you have limited powers. You need to know what is going to happen before it happens. That is the only way you can change people. You need to work early and subtly,” Yeanda said, falling into her teaching cadence.
“Enough, wise woman, I am no longer your apprentice. I did not come here for lessons on how to deal with the village. As I said, I do not have the gifts that you possess. I can offer my people little besides my knowledge of herbs and childbirth. I came by to say goodbye. I am leaving this village on the morrow. I have talked it over with my parents and they see it as for the best. I have taken over Teary-Eye’s trading routes and I plan to fulfill his obligations. I take the remaining harvest to the white man’s town tomorrow,” Red-Down said.
Yeanda was surprised. In all the possibilities for Red-Down’s future, this was not one she had contemplated. But each person dealt with grief in their own way. If this was Red-Down’s means, then Yeanda was not one to judge. “I am not displeased by your choice, Red-Down. You will find your path. If it is meant to be then it will be. But please promise me that you will be careful with the white man. He does not respect woman as the people in the village. He especially does not respect woman different from him. He finds them interesting and exciting, but not something they respect,” Yeanda said.
“I do not go to him to earn his respect. I go to fulfill Teary-Eye’s obligation and find out what he promised them. I will not return to the village, the new village, when I am done. There is not a place here for me anymore. You saw to that,” Red-Down said. She pulled her hands from Yeanda’s grasp, her hands still limp and cool. Yeanda watched Red-Down leave the hut. No angry emotion passed across Red-Down’s face. What she did she did out of what she thought of as obligation.
Word count: 2,073
Remaining words: 21,283 (too many)
Caffeination: 2 sips of Vanilla Coke
Feeling: How do you think? Horrible, yet again. I was tired and headachy all day. I don’t know how I’m going to finish this. It’s not the 2k words. That’s easy. It’s actually saying something or drawing this story to a close (or even a middle). I am learning a lot about how I write, and I would do many things different next time. But I’m going to suck it up and finish pounding out the 50k worthless words. Whether when I put them all together there will be a story is unlikely. But I refuse to fail.
“It is you,” Lenny said with a sneer. His eyeballs twitched like rock candy in the mouth of a boy of thirteen’s first porno. Lenny’s nostrils, normally thin and pinched, which caused his nose to look like a triangular caricature, flared like the hood of a venomous cobra snake, their two enormous openings seeming, to Lenny’s momentary clarity brought about by his anger, to breathe steam from their dark canals. “I’ve seen you before. You tracked me down on the day that Aunt Elaine fell ill. I’ve been looking for you ever since then. Did you know that my lovely aunt was not dead but terribly sick? I’m wondering if perhaps you, the mystery man from the coffee shop who proclaimed her death, perhaps you had something to do with that. No need to answer. I already know the answer. And, in case you were wondering, you failed in killing her.”
The man took a few steps back, his beige overcoat wrapping around his short stick legs, which looked more so because his gray slacks came up a few inches short of his shoes revealing his yellow-stained white socks visible. The man grabbed the nearest wall to stop himself from falling. “What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you before today. You must have me mistaken with someone else. You see, I’m an insurance—” the man said.
“Oh no,” Lenny said, interrupting the bemused man. “I could never forget your face, your shrunken ears, your wrinkled chin, or your large sunglasses. You are the man I’ve seen before,” Lenny said with righteous disdain. “Here, at last, I have found the man that caused Aunt Elaine’s sickness. Why don’t you come in? We should chat.”
The man took another step backward, this time holding the tail of his coat to prevent his tripping again. “I’m—I’m not even wearing sunglasses,” the man said. “Please, I just need to—”
“Don’t finish,” Lenny said, again interrupting the man. He grabbed the man by his bicep and pulled him into his apartment. He pointed to the doormat, and the man obediently wiped his feet before Lenny continued dragging him to the couch, which was covered by dirty clothing and half-eaten fast-food sandwiches and wrappers. Lenny did not bother to clear a space for the man before half-releasing and half-pushing him on to the cushions. Lenny heard a large crunching sound as the man squished the remains of three days of fast food wrappers. Lenny never felt such power before. It was intoxicating. He felt like ripping his sweater off to reveal the blue and red superhero underwear that he must be wearing underneath. He tilted his head back and laughed a menacing sound, menacing even to Lenny’s own ears. He liked the sound and continued to laugh until the sounds echoed off the walls and back into his ears.
When the laughter finally stopped, the man cleared his throat. “Sir, if you’d just listen. I don’t know who you think I am but you must have me mistaken,” the man said. Lenny paced behind the couch, forcing the man to twist his head first in one direction then the other to keep him in view. Lenny, his face filled with red splotches and his breathing tremulous, did not look up as he paced. The man faltered. He looked eagerly toward the door and back to Lenny. Lenny saw the glance and his eyes widened. He hurried to the door and threw the deadlocks and pulled the chain. There would be no escape for the mystery man.
The man was much smaller than Lenny, and wore a brown hat that looked oddly familiar. “You weren’t wearing that hat at the coffee shop. I can’t quite place it. What type of hat is that?” Lenny said.
“The ha—hat? It’s an Australian Outback hat. I bought it when I went on a safari tour in Australia,” the man said.
“Ah, yes, it’s the Crocodile Dundee hat!” Lenny grinned wildly and the man’s face took on a horrified grimace, his upper lip lifted to show slightly yellow and crooked teeth, and his hand raised to protect his face. Lenny never felt so powerful before. Here was his prey, and he felt like the cat playing with the mouse, a very active and alive mouse. He would hold him by his tail until he got his answers. But first he was going to have fun. It had been too long since he had fun with someone.
“Please, sir. Don’t hurt me. I never met your aunt. I’m sure she’s a wonderful lady, and I would never dream of hurting her. I’m a peaceful man. I sell insurance, sir. See,” the man held up his brown briefcase, “I was going to offer you a policy.”
Lenny watched the man. He was a sly one, this insurance salesman, but Lenny saw through his games. He was here for something, and Lenny was going to figure it out. He silently beseeched his sweater to fill in the details, but there was no response. No heat emanated from the sweater and no thoughts swirled around his mind. It was quiet in there, unexpectedly quiet. Lenny did not mind. There was more than one way to get the answers he needed.
“So, Mr. Dundee, you’re an insurance salesman, are you?” Lenny paused to let his tone and insinuation sink in. “If that’s true, and that is what you are claiming, Mr. Dundee, what were you doing in the Banana Bread coffee shop two weeks ago? Selling insurance, I presume?” Lenny hovered over the man, leaning over the back of the couch so his face was close to the man.
The man removed his hat to reveal a liver spotted head. The gray wisps of hair that remained were oily and stretched from one side to the other, making his head look like the last few strands on a ball of yarn. The man held the hat out for Lenny’s inspection. “The tour was part of a boat cruise. I swear. I’m not Mr. Dundee. I’m Doug, Doug Sanders. I know nothing of your aunt and I’ve never seen you before today,” the man said, a slight sob hiccupping in his voice.
“I wasn’t even asking you about my aunt, Mr. Dundee. How strange that you would bring her up again. It’s almost as if you have some guilt about what happened to her. But we’ll get to that in a second. We were talking about the Banana Bread coffee shop. Have you ever been there?” Lenny said.
When Lenny did not take his offered hat, the man put his hat back on his head and sat back in the sofa, his back now to Lenny. “I’ve been to many Banana Bread coffee shops, sir. Now, if you don’t mind. I think I’m going to leave now.” The man started to rise. Lenny acted quickly, placing both hands on the man’s shoulders and pushing him back down to a seated position.
“Leaving so soon, Mr. Dundee? But we’ve just gotten started. We were talking about the Banana Bread coffee shop, this particular one you visited was on PCH. You were wearing a business suit, very spiffy, much more expensive than the one you are wearing today. You might remember this specific coffee shop because of the bikers. There were lots of bicyclists there, and you looked strange in your expensive, European shoes, clacking along on the floor and making more noise than the bicyclists,” Lenny said.
The man was shaking visibly now. Lenny’s hands were still on his shoulder and he was leaning down with his weight from above the couch. “I don’t own expensive shoes, sir. This is the best pair I have,” the man said, holding up his legs for Lenny’s inspection. The shoes were brown wingtip shoes, the soles worn and the leather unpolished. They were not the European brand that Lenny expected. He shrugged off the differences.
“In disguise, are we, Mr. Dundee? I don’t blame you. You must know that I would eventually track you down. Did you think you would run forever?” Lenny said.
“But I visited you today, sir. I visited you to sell insurance and we’ve never met before. Listen, if you let me leave now, no harm will be done. I won’t tell anyone about what happened, and you can pursue whoever it was that injured your aunt. Now, please, remove your hands from my shoulders,” the man said. He started to rise and Lenny let go. The man rose from the couch and turned to face Lenny. “My name is Doug Sanders, sir. And we’ve never met before. I’m going to leave now, and you’re going to let me leave. Nobody will ever know that I was here. You are going to find the man you seek. I wish you look,” the man said.
Lenny watched as he headed to the door. He did not turn around until he unbolted all the locks and chain and stepped outside. He looked once at Lenny before turning and running down the hallway. When he first saw the man, Lenny had been sure he was his mystery visitor, coming to check up on him, perhaps finish the job that he started with his aunt. But now that he thought about it, he was not the man from the coffee shop. He knew that when he stood up. He knew that the man, Doug Sanders, was what he said he was, an unsuccessful insurance salesman who went door-to-door with a client list he culled from a partnership he had with Lenny’s bank.
Lenny now knew that the man was on the phone with the police and they would arrive in the next thirty minutes. Lenny had plans to make and only a half hour to make them.
Lenny frantically stuffed a few pairs of boxers, some socks, and two pairs of slacks into an overnight bag. He grabbed the money in his emergency stash from the kitchen and packed his purple toothbrush, bubblegum-flavored toothpaste, deodorant, floss and, as a final thought, his cologne. He did not know who he would run into as a fugitive, and he wanted to smell his best. He went to the garage, checked his mail for the last time in what he figured would be a while, and got into his car. Before he got into the car, he did not have a destination in mind, but when he sat behind the wheel, the obvious one came to him. He would go to his aunt’s house. She would not be using it for a while, and he figured nobody would think to check for him there. He also had some investigating to do. If the insurance salesman was not the man from the coffee shop, then perhaps Lenny would find some clues in his aunt’s house as to her assailants. He was now more sure than ever that someone had injured her. He wished his sweater would give him more details, but the most he could get from it was a vague assurance that he was on the right path.
He started the engine and pumped the gas a few times. Lenny began to wonder how the insurance salesman got into his apartment complex. He did not ring him in. And why did he look so similar to the man in the coffee house? He did not have answers to either question, but he trusted in the sweater. It had not steered him wrong since he first wore it three weeks ago. The air in the car had a funny smell. He could not place it, but he rolled down the windows. He probably left some food in the car that he had forgotten about. Lenny had work to do, mysteries to solve, and an assailant to find. But first he needed a burger. Even great detectives worked better on a full stomach. He headed for the closest McDonalds for a happy meal.
Word count: 2,003
Words left: 14,280
Caffeination: tall SOY mocha—I’m experimenting with healthier ways of getting my caffeine dose
Feeling: Yes, yes, I know, the story has gotten completely away from me. I don’t even know what I’m writing anymore, but I figured, if I’m not going to write a good story, I might as well experiment with the style and throw in some strange happenings. I’m feeling much better than yesterday. I’m still having trouble throwing together enough stuff to meet my quota, but I’m getting there. A work of art (or storytelling) it won’t be—but I refuse to give up until I’m at 50k (and probably not that much more). If you want to read a good story, head over to Chuck’s nanowrimo. I’ll get to that quality one of these days. This year, it’s all about quantity. I’ll stop pretending it’s about anything different.
With a full tank of gas and his bags in the trunk, Lenny enjoyed the ocean breeze whip across his face at 60 mph. McDonalds’s wrappers lined the passenger seat. Lenny felt a little guilty about eating such bad food, but he was hungry. His first trip to McDonalds he ordered a super-sized double quarter pounder with cheese meal. While the burger was delicious, its juicy fat tasting sweet on his lips, it was not filling. He pulled up the sweater and looked down at his stomach. If anything, it had sunk in a little more after the meal. He definitely needed a second stop.
Lenny pulled up to the drive through for McDonalds. Three cars were in front of him, and he waited, tapping his steering wheel to the music. He popped the cassette from the radio and began unwinding the tape. He pulled up slowly as the cars in front of him inched forward, stopping at the first window to pay and then pulling up to the second window to collect their lunches. The car in front of him left the ordering speaker, and Lenny drove up next to it. He leaned out the window and studied the selection.
“May I take your order,” the speaker said.
“A number 1 super-sized,” Lenny screamed into the speaker box. The Big Mac meal appeared on the TV screen along with its price.
“What would you like to drink with that,” the speaker said.
“Sprite,” Lenny said.
“That’ll be five fifty three, please drive up to the first window,” the speaker said. Lenny grinned at the thought of the burger and fries. He had eaten his first super-sized fries too quickly. He was going to savor this serving.
Lenny decided to eat the meal in his car. He pulled into a vacant spot and started munching away, stuffing ten fries into his mouth at a time. The Big Mac disappeared in a few bites, and the fries quickly followed. As he was sipping his Sprite, the phone rang. He wiped his hands on his jeans and reached into his pocket, arching his back and pushing his leg up to position himself to have access to his pocket, and removed his phone.
“Hello?” Lenny said.
“How are you doing,” Samantha said. Lenny looked at the phone in surprise. He wiped his lips with his hand and did not say anything for a few minutes.
“Are you still there? I guess you must be kind of surprised to hear from me,” Samantha said.
“That’s putting it lightly. I thought you were done with me. Didn’t you say something about never wanting to see my emaciated face again—or something about not know how to love someone who is healthy, I forget exactly what you said, but I know it wasn’t pretty,” Lenny said.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about our last conversation, Lenny. And I wanted to apologize to you. I know you’ve been under pressure from your family, your aunt’s sickness, and now work. I spoke with Jake and he told me what happened. He’s a real bastard if you ask me. I can’t believe he would do that to you. Especially after everything you started to accomplish there over the last couple of weeks,” Samantha said.
“I think that was part of the problem. I started working again, but I didn’t have the same talents that I used to have. I worried more about pleasing the clients than creating good work. I was coasting for too long. I should have kept relying on the junior drafters to get the work done, but I started thinking I could work again. You know how that goes with me. I’m either all there or all nowhere. I guess I should have stayed nowhere for a longer while,” Lenny said, taking a long sip from his Sprite, sucking all the soda from the cup through the large mouthed straw.
“I think you did the right thing. Jake had to make a business decision. I hate him for doing it, but it was his choice. You have been slacking off quite a bit for a long time. I’m surprised he let it go on as long as he did. It’s just his timing was awful. He should have waited at least until you were back on your feet,” Samantha said.
“I was never really off of my feet,” Lenny said.
“You haven’t been yourself lately, Lenny. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’ve been focused on some strange things. Like the sweater. Why do you keep wearing that same sweater? If you’re going to wear something for weeks at a time, at least wash it. I understand when five year olds do that, but I can’t understand how you, a supposedly grown man, could do that,” Samantha said.
“I never claimed to be fully grown, and I take offense at even that suggestion,” Lenny said, and he felt Samantha smile.
“No, I would never have thought of you as fully grown either, Lenny. That’s one of the things I liked about you. You were like a young boy, always fascinated by new and interesting things. But lately, those new and interesting things have become stale. And I won’t even get into your selfishness,” Samantha said.
“In a stressful time, I forget our anniversary and I turn into the worst man in the world. Don’t you know why sitcoms always have episodes where the man forgets his anniversary? It’s because that’s what we do. We’re simple creatures and there are certain things that are important to us, and other things that are not important to us. It doesn’t mean that we don’t care about you. It’s just that dates do not have as much meaning for us. Why is that day so important for you,” Lenny said.
“Because it’s the date when first went out. As of now, it’s the only day we have during the whole year during which we can celebrate our love. Isn’t that reason enough to celebrate it?” Samantha said.
“I celebrated our love every day. I don’t know what you were doing during those days, but I cherished every moment with you,” Lenny said.
“Sweet talking will not get you very far, Lenny. I never put demands on you. I just asked for a few simple things: compliments from time to time, like, boy, that dress sure looks fine, or, wow, did you get a haircut? You look really great. Flowers, but you were always good at getting me flowers and stuffed animals, so I can’t complain that much there. The only other thing I wanted from you was for you to remember two dates: my birthday and our anniversary. You could forget every other day in the calendar year, but during those two days, I wanted you to celebrate with me. And you missed one, and not for the first time. This is just the time where I drew the line,” Samantha said.
“So you called to berate and belittle me again? To rub in how much of an asshole I am? I’ve been doing that to myself for the last few days and I don’t need your help,” Lenny said.
“Really, I would have thought you wouldn’t have thought about me for the last few days. I bet if we went back and read all your thoughts, there would be almost no mention of me. It’s like, maybe, I just disappeared. Poof. There would be no record of me, and you would go on with your life. Is that what happened, Lenny? Did you forget that I existed and write me off? Were you more worried about your lost job than your lost love?” Samantha said.
“Who ever said I had a love to lose?” Lenny said.
There was silence.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. My mouth just goes off on its own sometimes. You know, it’s a defensive reaction. I did—I do love you, Samantha. You must know that,” Lenny said.
“Then you have a really funny way of showing it,” Samantha said. He heard the tears in her voice and his heart went out to her. He hated to make her sad. He hated seeing her upset. He just wanted to hold her and pretend like none of this had ever happened.
“Samantha, it’s been a very strange few weeks. I have so much I wanted to tell you about what has been happening to me. It’s been so amazing lately, so many things I’ve known and seen, but I was afraid to share it with you. I was afraid to share it with anyone,” Lenny said.
“What are you talking about, Lenny? Does this have something to do with work?” Samantha said.
“No, it has nothing to do with work. It has to do with my aunt,” Lenny said.
“Again with your aunt! I don’t understand your relationship with her. You idolize that woman. What is it about her that you find so fascinating? Wait. I’m not sure I want to hear about this,” Samantha said.
“It’s nothing like that, Samantha. It’s definitely nothing like that. I respected my aunt. She’s a wonderfully smart lady who taught me a great many things, but it’s not what she taught me before she got sick that I’m talking about. It’s what she gave me,” Lenny said.
“So it’s the sweater? Is that what this is all about? You’ve finally found a piece of clothing that you can say you really, really enjoy, and now you want to wear it all the time? If you just told me that you had a fetish for sweaters, I would have bought you a whole closet full of them, and nicer ones at that,” Samantha said.
“It’s not just any sweater, it’s this sweater. It’s a very special sweater,” Lenny said.
“Okay, now I’m sure I don’t want to hear about this. It’s about the sweater being pink, isn’t it? I’ve always wondered about you. You were too sensitive of a guy, you enjoyed all the wrong types of movies, and you were an artist. Jesus, I should have seen this coming months ago. Is it another guy? Do I know him? It isn’t Jake, I hope! You must have better taste than him,” Samantha said.
“No, no. It’s not that either. I’m still very much the man I was three weeks ago. I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. Can we meet somewhere? I’d love to take you out to dinner—somewhere neutral, and if, after you hear my story, you don’t understand what I’ve been going through, or, more likely, you think I’m crazy, then we can go our separate ways and you won’t feel guilty. At least you would have tried. What do you say? I’m hungry and I’d love to see you,” Lenny said. The McDonald’s smells in the car should have turned him off to just the idea of food, but he could not wait to eat again. He was thinking about a large steak as he waited for Samantha’s answer.
“Well, I haven’t eaten yet, but it is a bit early for dinner. What do you say we meet at 7pm? Since this is your I’m an asshole dinner, I will choose. Let’s go to Oysters. They have some deliciously expensive oysters that I will be ordering by the truckload. You did say you were paying, right?” Samantha said.
“Of course, and Oysters will be great. I’ll make a reservation and I’ll see you there tonight. You’re going to understand a lot more after tonight. I promise you that,” Lenny said.
“At this time, I don’t care what I understand. I’m just looking forward to the oysters,” Samantha said.
“Asshole tax?” Lenny said.
“You read my mind,” Samantha said.
“We watched Fight Club too many times,” Lenny said.
“We did that because you loved that movie, hun. We did a lot of things because you loved it,” Samantha said.
“I will make it up to you, Samantha. You’ll see. I’ll see you later,” Lenny said and hung up the phone. There was no reason to hide anything from Samantha anymore. In another day, he would be leaving California, and he was either going to do that alone or with her at his side. If she believes him and wants to help or not, either way he choice has been made.
Word count: 2,071
Words left: 12,209
Caffeination: None
Feeling: Who cares? I just pounded out 2k words, I moved the plot forward by an inch, and I only have at this pace another 6 days of writing left after which I will never, ever, ever have to think about a stupid sweater and how I can ruin a poorly thought-out and planned story about said sweater. What could be better?
Lenny had a few hours before he was going to meet up with Samantha. He needed a shower and a shave. He drove to a local motel and rented a room. It was seedier than he remembered, but the shower was relatively clean. He knew this from his previous experiences in this motel. Five years ago, when Jake and Lenny first started their partnership, he dated Teresa, a wonderfully naïve and buxom girl. Lenny liked her because she was pretty and a great girl to bring around to his friends, what some people might call a trophy girlfriend. In those days, Lenny was often strapped for cash. Teresa, who did not work and came from affluent parents, helped him make ends meet at home, and particularly in the business. If it was not for Teresa’s donations during a couple of particularly tight weeks, Lenny and Jake would have probably been evicted from the small office space they were working out of.
While Lenny liked looking at Teresa, and was thankful for her (or at least her parents’) financial support, he grew apart from her. Lenny enjoyed smart, sophisticated women, and Teresa was neither. She was abnormally funny for such a dense girl, but her humor ran thin when he realized that she was good at making fun of people, but her biting humor was repetitive. After she found something funny, she would repeat it incessantly, eventually driving whoever she was talking to away from her screaming and waving their hands over their heads—well, that, as far as Lenny knew, never happened, but that is what he felt like doing when she started in on making fun of somebody’s name or something they said.
During the long hours that Lenny worked while he tried to get his business off the ground, he met often with Janice, an account executive for his only client at the time. She worked for a vegetarian frankfurter distributor who was looking to expand into the California market and was looking for an advertising firm. Janice was the exact opposite of Teresa. She was homely, a little on the chubby side, serious, absolutely brilliant, and with barely a nickel to her name, since she had invested all of her time and money with the distributor. He spent hours with Janice in his office designing the marketing schemes. As you can probably guess where this is going, Lenny and Janice’s relationship took a slight detour from the bounds of professionalism and they started combining their working time with more pleasurable pursuits. Since the frankfurter distributor was still a nascent business, all of the work Lenny did for Janice was billed but not paid. As soon as the advertising scheme was developed, Janice convinced Lenny, the vegetarian frankfurter business would take off and the distributor would pay back all of Lenny’s bills, plus a small interest in the frankfurter business. It was all in the contract.
While Lenny thought that this was a good deal (Jake had his doubts), his business was still strapped for cash, and that’s where Teresa came in. He spent every night with her in her apartment—after he decided that it was best to give up his apartment and use what he would have paid for rent to subsidize the business. While Lenny still thought Teresa was pretty, her thick personality began to wear on him. He wanted to end the relationship, but knew that if he did so, he put his business at risk. Jake put it to him this way: “if you kill the cow that gives you milk, you’ll have stringy beef and hungry children.”
When Janice grew tired of the office’s less than comfortable surroundings, Lenny would take her to this motel during the day to continue their work. As love triangles off end, this one ended poorly. Janice’s vegetarian frankfurter distributor folded before they were able to complete the advertising campaign, and Janice moved on to other businesses that did not involve Lenny. Much to Lenny’s chagrin, after she closed her account, leaving him with no money to show for his six months of work, she never called him again. He grew to like her, and had thoughts about leaving Teresa. Lenny realized afterwards that he had been just a work-time fling for her. As luck would have it, Teresa walked in on them in the office not exactly working. When he chased her to her house, he found all of his belongings tossed out on her perfectly manicured front lawn. Lenny still dreamed about the four bedrooms and six bathrooms house he had once stayed at with the view of the ocean.
Lenny felt guilty returning to the scene of many of his crimes, but he knew the motel well and it was on the way to the restaurant. He thought back to the times he had when he first started work, and remembered the excitement of the job, the challenges it presented and the fears of failing that he ran into every day. The one thing he did not miss was his more bachelor-oriented days. Looking back, he tried to remember how exciting it was to be with two women, but the only thing he could remember was the aggravation and fear it caused. Lenny missed Samantha terribly. She was the best parts of Janice and Teresa put together.
He turned on the shower and let the hot water run for a while. The bathtub was lined with brown gunk and Lenny rolled the plastic bath mat over it, which did not improve anything, since the mat was dirtier than the tub. He manipulated the shower controls until the water was the right temperature, and stripped off his clothes. He again hesitated when it came time to take off his sweater. The last few days, he had showered with the sweater on, fearful that if he took it off, someone would take it. That fear made its way down his throat and into his stomach and he decided not to risk it; particularly since he was in a seedy motel with who knows who running around the halls. He entered the shower and started soaping himself, cleaning under the sweater.
After showering, he stuffed as many towels as the motel gave him under the sweater, in the hopes that the towels would absorb the water and dry the sweater faster. He plugged in the hairdryer and began blowing the sweater dry. The sweater smelled only a little better after the shower, the yarn giving off a vague wet sheep smell—or, at least, what Lenny imagined wet sheep would smell like. The sweater still dripped when he put on the rest of his clothing. He shaved, managing not to nick himself, but in the process, leaving his prickled with razor burns. The sweater looked ridiculous with the towels stuffed under them. He looked like a large peach. The pink of the sweater seemed to have leached off a bit in the shower. It now looked lighter, almost whitish. He removed the towels and squeezed the bottom of the sweater to release the rest of the water.
Lenny still had time and flipped on the motel television. He could not remember the last time he watched television. He spent most of his evenings lately visiting his aunt and trying to figure out what had gone wrong with his life. The television relaxed him. He flipped from channel to channel with no desire to watch anything, just a desire to control the world, in a small way, around him. The news particularly depressed him. As he watched a segment about a bombing in the Middle East, the names of the dead civilians flashed through his mind. He knew about the bomber, seeing his sad childhood and the way he was manipulated by his handlers. In the end, when the bomber’s resolve gave out and he began thinking about the pain he was going to cause his family, the police had surrounded him, and he detonated himself. He probably would have turned himself in if the trigger had not been so easy to push. More details about the civilians’ families and the bomber’s mother came to Lenny, but he pushed them away and flipped the channel.
Knowing so much and being able to do so little was depressing. What good was all this knowledge if Lenny had no place to apply it? Lenny pushed more thoughts down and tried to silence his brain. He continued to flip, moving faster and faster through the channels as he tried to avoid any knowledge about what he saw. Even during fictional shows, the lives of the actors and writers came to him. He thought about taking off the sweater, but he could not bring himself to do so. Knowing, even when he did not want to know, was addicting. It was like eating desert after you felt your stomach was about to explode. You did not want to do it because you knew you would feel even worse after eating it, but you also can not resist because the chocolate looks too good to pass up.
The thoughts about food made Lenny realize just how hungry he was. He had lost twenty pounds in the last few weeks, even after he had increased his eating. He knew it was the sweater, but he did not know why. He pulled out a candy bar from his luggage. He had saved the candy for Halloween, but after nobody rung his doorbell, he had put it in a cupboard. When he was packing, he found the two bags of candy and placed them in his luggage. Hunger was a constant for him and anything helped.
Lenny finished cleaning up and packed up his belongings. He checked out of the motel and paid for three hours and the towels he used. He placed one of the stolen towels from the motel on his car seat and pulled out of the parking lot. The roads were crowded with rush hour traffic, and Lenny inched his way toward dinner with Samantha.
He arrived ten minutes early at Oysters and parked his car. His sweater was still damp, but nobody would notice. He gave his name and went to the table in the restaurant to wait for Samantha. The restaurant was crowded. He watched a small table of five people and tried to figure out their relationship and eavesdrop on what they were saying. It would have been more fun if he was able to guess the answers, but knowing the answers took away the challenge. He knew that the blonde girl with the buckteeth was meeting her boyfriend’s parents for the first time. She did not look like things were going well. Lenny did not see good things for that couple’s future. In three weeks she would catch him cheating on her with another guy. At least she would not know the guy. Lenny always thought it was worse when someone cheated with someone you knew.
He glanced around the other tables, but the stories were similar: relationships that were just starting, relationships that were on their way to the end, relationships that should end, but because of children or the fear of being alone, would probably go on for a long time creating misery and unhappiness for both parties. There were two birthdays and one anniversary. The waiters were all in a good mood because the manager had called in sick. He was not sick, though. He was sleeping off a terrible hangover from drinking all morning. He would not last the month at Oysters. The owners would find out about his problem and he would lose his job. The next manager would be worse, and many of the now happy waiters would no longer be working at Oysters in six months. The cooks were generally happy, but Lenny knew about too many dropped chicken breasts and unclean hands. This should have destroyed his appetite, but he was hungry enough to ignore the kitchen.
After he finished his second bread basket, Samantha walked into the restaurant. She wore a tight pair of jeans and a loose blouse. Lenny would not have cared if she walked in wearing a moo-moo, she was gorgeous. He motioned for her to join him, and he held out her chair for her to sit down.
Word count: 2,063
Words left: 10,146
Caffeination: tall mocha
Feeling: That’s right, you guessed it, 2k more words today. After a rather terrible, headachy day, I feel pretty good now. The writing was easy today—it sucked, but who cares? Five or so more days and I can start writing something I care about. I just need to figure out a way to end this monstrosity. I’m thinking everyone dies and the sweater takes over the world—I’ll try to work that in. Until tomorrow….
“Did you order my oysters?” Samantha said. She unfolded the napkin and shook it out in Lenny’s face, before he could answer, and then place it across her lap. Her face was a mixture of sadness and anger, the two emotions warring from moment to moment with each other.
“Your asshole tax is on its way, my dear,” Lenny said, not sure why he needed to lie. He figured he would excuse himself in a few moments and order it. This was not starting how he imagined it.
“Okay, I’m here, and I’m listening,” Samantha said.
“Not even a hello, or a how are you doing?” Lenny said.
“I would ask that, but it looks like you’re doing pretty badly. What, did you take a shower in that sweater? Have you fallen that in love with it that you can’t even bear to remove it? Do you see this affection you have for that ridiculous sweater? This is all I asked from you. I never asked for much. I gave you lots of time and space for you to grow as a person, or whatever the fuck you did with yourself. But it was just some consideration. That’s all I wanted,” Samantha said.
This was definitely not going as Lenny had imagined it. He had seen many possibilities of the conversation. Almost all of them started civilly and then degenerated into shouting matches. There was nothing for him to do but dive right in. She would either understand or he would go out on the road on his own. There was no help for it.
“Samantha, there’s something I haven’t told you,” Lenny said.
“You were cheating on me too? I should have known. That stupid sweater is from the girl you cheated with, huh. And here I thought you really cared about your dear old aunt. I should have known better,” Samantha said.
“Whoa. Slow down there, kid. Listen, this has nothing to do with you. I didn’t cheat on you, it’s not another woman; there really was nobody but you. I probably took you for granted, and I probably should have let you know what was going on earlier, but that’s why we’re here now. Give me a chance to explain. You’ll either believe me or think I’m one crazy son of a bitch. I want to give you a chance to choose,” Lenny said.
Samantha rested her chin on her knuckles with her elbows on the table. She looked at Lenny and shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to hear this, but go for it. You can’t say very much that will hate you more than I hate you right now,” Samantha said.
Lenny took a deep breath before speaking. “It’s this sweater, Samantha. It’s a very special sweater. Don’t judge yet, please. Just hear me out and then think I’m a loon. The sweater my aunt gave me—there’s something special about it. I could tell you what it is, but you would never believe me. It’s that special. Here. Let me conduct an experiment. Think back to a childhood memory. Something that you never told to someone,” Lenny said.
“What are you talking about?” Samantha said.
“Just do it. Please. You said you’d give me a chance to explain and I have to demonstrate what I’m explaining. Think of something you’ve never told anyone and tell me what it relates to,” Lenny said.
“I’ll humor you, but I’m only humoring you until the oysters get here,” Samantha said.
“That won’t be a problem,” Lenny said.
“Okay. I’m thinking of something that happened to me when I was seven years old. It relates to a lost baby tooth,” Samantha said.
Lenny rubbed his sweater and tried to know what had happened to Samantha. “Your baby tooth,” and then he knew. He saw Samantha’s tooth falling out, he saw her mother rushing to her and holding her. And then he saw the next day, how Samantha lost the tooth and the tooth fairy did not give her money because she did not have the tooth anymore. And he saw how Samantha’s mother had forgotten about the tooth—how a fight with Samantha’s father, a long, all-night fight about his working late and his spending too much time with a co-worker, how that caused Samantha to not trust the tooth fairy or her mother for many years. “It was your tooth. When you were seven, it fell out. You and your mother were very excited, and you were going to put it under your pillow to get money for it, but you lost it when playing with it. You thought the tooth fairy would give you money anyway, but she didn’t. The truth is, your mother forgot about the tooth because she was fighting with your father. You were hurt by that,” Lenny said.
Samantha stared at Lenny. Lenny imagined what could be going through his head. He was not sure what he would have thought if someone had done this experiment to him. It would have been a strange feeling. It was easier with him because he did not figure out what the sweater was telling him. It had taken many weeks for him to realize that he knew things that he probably should not have. He also now knew that the sweater had blocked out some of his earliest memories about using it. But now that Lenny understood the sweater’s powers, he wanted to share them with Samantha. He smiled as she continued to stare at him.
“I know, I know. It’s amazing. I don’t understand it either, but there’s something my aunt must have done to the sweater. She said she made it, and I believe her. Our family came from a pagan heritage. Maybe it was some occult or witchcraft. I don’t even know where to begin trying to figure out what’s going on. The only thing I can say is that this all started happening when I put the sweater on four weeks ago. The sweater gave me so many insights into my clients and our relationship—although I didn’t want to know many things. I didn’t want to use this to influence how we related to each other. But you must know the temptation I had to resist,” Lenny said. He was very excited and his words ran on top of themselves. He had wanted to tell Samantha for so long that when he was given his chance, he could not stop talking about it. He heard of word diarrhea and had been on the receiving end, but never actually watched himself speak in that way. He smiled. If ever there was a time to have such a discussion, now was it. He put his hand out and spun his finger tips in circles trying to get Samantha to speak.
“What are you talking about,” Samantha said.
“The sweater—the story I just told you about the tooth. How do you think I knew that? It was because of this sweater, this worn, used, poorly knitted sweater. It told me, and I’m putting quotes around the told,” Lenny said.
“I’m really scared,” Samantha said.
“There’s nothing to be scared of. This is what I’m trying to tell you. It’s not exactly natural, but it does open up a tremendous amount of opportunity. That’s what I want to explore. It’s that opportunity,” Lenny said.
“Lenny, calm down. I want you to calm down and look at me. Really look at me,” Samantha said.
“I’m looking,” Lenny said.
“The story you told, the one about the tooth and my mother, that wasn’t what I was thinking about,” Samantha said.
“The sweater can’t read minds. I was hoping your prompting would let me know what part of your past to tell the story about,” Lenny said.
“I’m not done. Please, stop interrupting me. This is really important, and I need to get it all out,” Samantha said.
“I’m sorry, Samantha. I didn’t mean to keep interrupting you, but this is very exciting for me—it’s very exciting that I finally have someone to share this with. It’s been a very lonely few weeks, especially after my aunt fell ill. I was hoping to share it with her, because she was the one who made all of this happen,” Lenny said.
“Lenny, shush. Let me get this out. That was not the story I was thinking about. In fact, and listen closely to this, I don’t remember that ever happening to me. My mother, in all of her liberal childrearing practices, told us the truth about Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and, more importantly for this, the Tooth Fairy. She never gave us money for our lost teeth. She never told us about the tooth fairy except to warn us about how other parents try to trick their children into believing in fairies. You see, what you just told me could not have happened to me. You made that up,” Samantha said.
“That’s impossible. You probably just don’t remember to when you were seven years old. I know everything about the story. I can tell you what type of pants she was wearing—it was a floral print pattern using mostly greens and yellows. I can tell you what time it was when you first lost your tooth, 7:32 pm. I know so many details, it’s just not possible that this didn’t happen. I’m absolutely sure of it,” Lenny said.
Samantha reached out and grabbed Lenny’s wrist and squeezed. “Lenny, have you been losing weight?” Samantha said.
“Yes, but it’s all because of the sweater. Do you see how much I’ve eaten? This is the third basket of bread I’m nibbling on. The sweater seems to suck the food for me. It’s part of my payment for knowing all that I know,” Lenny said.
“I’m thinking about something else, Lenny. This happened in fourth grade. I was with my teacher, Mrs. Bander, and I was in a play. I was the lead in the play, but before it went on, I was really nervous and I refused to go out on stage. Mrs. Bander sat me down and said something to me that I remember ever since then. Do you know what she said?” Samantha said.
“Yes. The play was called, ‘Boy, do I have a problem,’ and it was about all the problems of childhood. You were scared of going on because you were afraid of forgetting your lines. It was raining heavily that night, and your father was late to the show. He was coming from work where a meeting ran late, and your mother brought the video camera in case he missed it. Should I go on? Do you believe me now?” Lenny said.
“We did a remake of Wizard of Oz, Lenny. I played the Wicked Witch of the West, and I was afraid that my rubber nose would fall off. Mrs. Bander sat me down and told me, ‘if the nose falls off, the show will go on, Samantha. It’s just instead of you being the ugliest witch on the stage, you’ll suddenly be the most beautiful one. Now, go break a nose.’ That was my first experience on stage and I fell in love with public speaking, nose and all. Lenny, you’re not well. Please, let me help,” Samantha said.
“That’s not possible. I know things. I saw the play. It was like I was there. I have memories of it: I now see your mother standing in the aisle with the video camera on a tripod taping the performance. Your father did make it, but he didn’t make it until the end,” Lenny said.
“My father and mother drove me to the show, Lenny. Don’t you think I would remember what happened better than you? What has gotten into you? Was this a joke?” Samantha said.
“No! This is not a joke, Samantha. Why are you fucking with me? I’ve known stuff for the past three weeks. I’ve known stuff I had no business knowing, and I know stuff about you, about your childhood, about everything in your life. Why don’t you believe me?” Lenny said.
“What you know is a lie, Lenny. I don’t know why you know it or what you’re going through, but we’re going to get through this. Maybe you should take off that sweater,” Samantha said.
“No, I will not take off the sweater. What, do you want it for yourself? Is that what this is all about? Did you know what it was before you even came here? Are you in league with the insurance salesman who tried to kill my aunt? Is that what this is all about?” Lenny said.
Word count: 2,120
Words left: 8,026
Caffeination: Tall Soy Mocha
Feeling: Still feeling pretty good. I didn’t get to the big explosions or the ninjas and zombies, but I’m heading in that direction. Just a few more days and I’ll have my 50k. I just wish some of these late blooming story ideas came to me before I started writing the last 10k words. Oh well. Better late than never, someone rather stupid said.
“The insurance man? Now I’m sure you’ve lost it, Lenny. Why don’t we go back to my apartment and we can talk about this,” Samantha said, looking around at the diners staring at their table.
“I’d rather talk about it here, Samantha. How long have you known about the sweater? How much is he paying you?” Lenny said. By now, his face was red and spittle was flying out with each word.
“Who are you talking about? Is this the insurance man again? Lenny, you need to get a grip on yourself. You’re scaring me. You sound like a madman. This does explain a lot then. And here I came here expecting to have to apologize, not understanding why I was feeling what I was feeling. Now I know why. You’ve gone off the deep end. Lenny, let me help you, please. I know I can help. I know we’ve had problems, let me try to help you with this. I want my old Lenny back,” Samantha said.
Lenny studied Samantha. She looked so honest when she said that. If he did not already know the truth about her, he might have believed her. He might have gone into her outstretched arms and sacrificed everything his aunt had given up for him to have the sweater. But, thanks to the sweater, he knew that she was lying. He knew that she had met the insurance salesman two days ago. They had worked this all out. It was not the cops that Lenny was supposed to be running from, it was Samantha he was supposed to run to.
“I know all about it, Samantha. The sweater gave me the insight. I’m going to get up and leave now. You can tell your friend that I won’t be taken so easily. Don’t do anything stupid like try to follow me. I’m leaving town and I will never see you again, Samantha. Know that you brought this upon yourself and I have no guilt about this arrangement,” Lenny said.
He rose from the table and watched Samantha warily. The diners around their table were watching Lenny and Samantha carefully. Lenny realized he must have been talking louder than he supposed. It did not matter to him anymore. He had more important things to do, and none of those involved Samantha. He started backing away from the table toward the door, keeping his eyes focused on Samantha, ready for any false moves on her part.
“Where are you going?” Samantha said.
“I’m going away from here, Samantha. At first I thought I was going to run away from the insurance man. But now I realize it was you all along I had to run away from. Ah. I see Jake was also involved in this little ploy. I’m not surprised by this,” Lenny said, continuing to back away from the table. He bumped into the diners behind him and altered his course, still focusing his attention on Samantha.
“Jake? Now you’ve completely lost it,” Samantha said. She made a strange gesture with her hands and Lenny stiffened.
“Nobody move,” someone shouted from the door. Lenny spun around and saw a man in a trench coat holding out a badge. Lenny turned to see Samantha shrug his shoulders and point in Lenny’s direction. Lenny searched the restaurant and knew that there was a back door in the kitchen. He tried to silence his mind as more information about the architecture of the kitchen and the make of the door flooded his thoughts. He knew that the door was crafted in upstate. It was the work of an eight-year old craftsman who handmade each door. He was expensive, but the fit and quality of the door were unmatched until the last few years, when the process for mass-crafting doors of exceptional quality was mastered by a small company in Indiana. Lenny shook his head to clear his thoughts and ran for the back door. He heard the man crying something and Samantha responding in some way. He did not stay long enough to hear what was said.
He flung himself through the swinging kitchen doors and bounced off the door. Lenny looked back and saw the man running toward him, and he returned his attention to the kitchen door. It was not a swinging door as he expected, but a more traditional pull door. That was strange. The man who crafted it, Igor, specialized in swinging kitchen doors. Why he would have crafted this door for this restaurant baffled Lenny. He pulled the door open with the handle and entered the kitchen. He remembered that most chase scenes eventually went through a kitchen, and the thought tickled him. He looked around for the chef with the cleaver, but there was only a slight woman, calmly chopping carrots on a stainless steel table. Lenny made his way around her and found the rear door where he expected it. He unlatched the door and ran out into the darkness, the warm air cooling the sweat that began to gather on his brow.
“Lenny, stop. We need to talk. You don’t know what’s going on. You’re confused,” someone yelled from behind him.
Lenny ignored the voice and continued running. He circled around the restaurant and ran toward his car. He expected people to jump out of the grass. He performed a dive roll onto the grass when he turned the corner, sure that there was a black-clad individual waiting to grab him, but when he stood up, rather impressed with his gymnastics, he could not find the individual. Those ninjas were sneak devils.
His car was parked where he left it and nobody was around it. He saw Samantha coming out of the front door and the man who yelled from the restaurant turning the corner. Lenny fumbled with the keys to the car and opened the door. He gunned the engine and threw the car into drive. Samantha waved at him from the front door and Lenny’s car turned out of the parking lot. He swerved to avoid a Mercedes that was turning in to the lot, and he entered the traffic on the street leading away from the restaurant. Lenny’s heart still pumped and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was away. He got away from Samantha and the mysterious man. Now that he thought about it, the screaming man looked suspiciously like the insurance salesman.
Lenny checked his rearview mirror and noticed a blue sedan following him. The driver, a Karl Thompson of River Oaks Estates, was hired by the insurance salesman. He knew about the rendezvous, late at night. How the insurance man handed the driver a brown paper bag and instructed him to keep a good distance from Lenny’s sedan. He should have been studying the cars that followed him all along, but he did not realize how pervasive the surveillance had become. While he knew much, he had to consciously think about things before the information popped into his brain.
Lenny took a sharp turn at the next corner and watched his rearview mirror. On cue, the blue sedan took the turn. Lenny pulled an unexpected U-turn in the middle of the road and sped off in the opposite direction. He did not need to look behind him to know that the blue sedan was doing the same. As he turned on the next street, he noticed a yellow station wagon accelerate up to his rear bumper. Damn. The blue sedan’s driver must have switched cars. They were very sneaky, but thanks to his sweater, he knew what they were trying to accomplish.
Coming up on his right side, Lenny saw a crowded movie theater complex. He slowed down and waited until the last possible moment before pulling into the right lane and turning into the driveway. The yellow station wagon continued on the street and Lenny smiled, satisfied that he had, at least for the moment, lost his tail. He parked his car in the middle of the parking lot, and looked around the car before getting out. Many people were returning to their cars, a show must have just ended. Lenny felt too conspicuous getting out in that crowd. He would be the only person heading toward the theater, and it would be too easy for his pursuers to find him. He hunched down in his seat and played with the bottom of the sweater, biding his time. In chases, people usually got caught when they did not think through their next move. They forced themselves to make a move when they were not ready. Lenny was not going to fall for it.
After twenty minutes of waiting, people started to trickle from their cars to the theater. Another show must be close to starting. Lenny followed an older couple to the theater, looking behind him nonchalantly every ten feet or so to see if he was being followed. Whoever was out there, and he was now sure that someone was out there, was keeping their head down and was good at this surveillance thing.
Lenny made it to the box office and skipped the credit card machines. He knew how easy it was to track someone when they used their credit card, and wanted to avoid leaving an electronic trail. He bought the ticket from the man behind the glass. He chose a line that lead to the least suspicious looking ticket seller. Lenny had to fight down the paranoid feeling. He kept telling himself that it was not paranoia that was doing this to him. There really were people chasing him.
He went into the theater and looked at his ticket. He forgot which movie he bought. It did not matter because he just needed a dark room to hide out for a few hours. Once he got his bearings and some time to think about his next move, he would leave the theater. He knew they would be looking for him.
Lenny found an empty seat near the back of the theater and sat down. He studied the people around him. He must have bought a ticket for an older show because not many people came into the theater. He was now safe.
When the room darkened and the projector turned on he leaned back in his chair thinking about what he needed to do next. He had enough cash and enough luggage to go on the lamb for a while, but he needed to figure out where best to go. He turned around as the theater door opened. He saw Samantha and the insurance man enter the theater. They were holding hands and a carton of popcorn. How did they find him? Lenny lowered himself in his chair and tried to create as small a profile as possible.
“I can’t believe you bought a ticket for this movie, Lenny. Don’t you remember we watched this preview and you said, and I quote, ‘never in a million-billion years would I be caught dead watching that movie,’ and here you are, and you’re not even dead yet,” Samantha said.
“We could help him in that,” the insurance salesman said.
Lenny stood up and looked back toward the door, but he did not see Samantha or the insurance salesman. The theater was empty except for him.
“Sit down, man. I’m trying to watch the movie,” the man sitting behind him said. Lenny ignored him and continued searching the seats behind me for Samantha and the insurance salesman. Except for the man, who sat right behind Lenny even though the theater was mostly empty, there was nobody else in the theater.
“I said sit down. I’m trying to watch the previews,” the man said.
“Sorry,” Lenny mumbled and walked into the row. He did not know where Samantha and the insurance salesman went, but he knew they might be back at any moment, and Lenny was not going to stick around and wait for them. He headed for the door. The man behind him followed.
Word count: 2,005
Words left: 6,021
Caffeination: none
Feeling: Blah. I was headachy (again) today, but I finished my word count. I’ve realized that dialogue is much easier to write than action/description. Who would have thunk it? A few more days left!
It had gotten darker while Lenny was in the movie theater. The air smelled wet, but when he looked up there were no clouds in the sky. He studied the darkness for a moment before deciding what to do. He made his way to the car, turning his head first one way and then the other trying to catch sight of his pursuers. They were slippery. He knew Samantha and the insurance salesman had been in the theater, but now they were no where to be seen. He looked for Samantha’s car, but found nothing.
“Sir,” a man said, running toward Lenny. It was the man that had sat behind Lenny in the empty theater. What could he possibly want with Lenny now?
Lenny thought about making a run for his car, but he was sick of running. He wanted to know what this was all about. He waited for the man to catch up. The man was tall, wearing a blue wind jacket and a matching ski hat. Lenny brought up his hands in fists, just in case he would need them. He knew the sight of him in a defensive posture might also discourage the man from trying to take advantage of Lenny. Lenny just hoped he remembered how to use those fists. He never had been in an actual fight, but he figured it could not be too hard. He watched enough fighting movies to understand the basics.
“Okay, what is it?” Lenny said when the man had gotten close enough to Lenny for him to start feeling uncomfortable.
“You forgot this in the theater,” the man said. He did not hold anything out, and Lenny became suspicious. Maybe he should have made a run for it when he had the chance. Now he knew it was too late. He would have to take the man down if he had any hope of getting away.
“What did I forget in the theater?” Lenny said, cautiously taking a step back. He chanced turning around to measure the distance to his car, when he jerked his head back around, the man had taken a few more steps forward, almost close enough to grab Lenny.
“That’s close enough,” Lenny said, twirling his fists one over the next to show the man that he was ready for a fight. He felt ridiculous, but he was reaching for anything to stop the man’s forward progress.
“Sir, you dropped this,” the man held up a leather glove. When Lenny glanced at the glove, he felt more than saw the man’s left hand come toward his stomach. Lenny tried to bend over and tighten his stomach to take the blow like he read about Houdini doing, but it was not as easy as he expected, and the blow knocked the wind out of Lenny. He fell backward in the grass and held his hands up to protect his face.
“You thought you’d be able to just take the sweater and run away with it, is that it,” the man said. He walked over Lenny and kicked him in the stomach. Lenny covered up, putting his hands over his head and trying to become as small a target as possible.
“You have no idea how valuable that sweater is or what we would have done to get our hands on it. Did you think we’d just give up once your aunt poisoned herself? We knew she wouldn’t go down without passing it on. We just didn’t think she pass it on to such a fool as you,” the man said. He lifted his leg to kick Lenny again, but did not.
“You can come out,” the man said. Lenny whimpered softly. He uncovered his head enough to glance around to see who the man was talking to. He saw Samantha and the insurance salesman walk out from the trees.
“I’m sorry, Lenny. They made me an offer—how does that go again? Oh, yes. They made me an offer that I could not refuse. If you had gone with me at the restaurant, we could have avoided this unpleasantness. But you’re too much of a man for that, I guess,” Samantha said. She stood over Lenny with her arms crossed under her breasts. She was wearing the jeans and white blouse, and she still looked fabulous.
“Samantha, I don’t understand. I loved you,” Lenny said. Even to his own ears, his voice was pitiful. It was high pitched and barely audible.
“You have no idea how cheap I sold your love for, Lenny,” Samantha said and laughed.
Lenny was dumbfounded. In the three years they had been together, he had never known Samantha to be as cold as she was at this very moment. Sure, they fought. All couples fought. But when push came to shove, she had always been there for him, and now, this. He did not even know what to make of it. He recovered his head and pulled himself into a tighter ball.
“Ah, there’s my boy,” Jake said. Lenny refused to look up. Jake’s deep, smoker’s voice was unmistakable, however. Jake’s voice seemed to echo through all of his mass, emanating more from his body than from his throat. Lenny could have picked out his voice anywhere. Now it was coming from above him. Lenny peeked out through the crux in his arm and saw Jake standing there. He was smoking a large pipe and wearing a fine green suit, with a yellow vest and a green shirt. It was funny what the mind focused on when you realized all of your friends were against you.
“I’m sorry about this, Lenny, but the man just made too good of an offer. With all the shit you’ve been putting me through lately, and the losses in our clients, how did you expect me to pass up such a lucrative offer? With the money he’s going to give me, I’m going to be able to quit the commercial art business and return to my sculpting. You remember my sculpting, right? You know, it was you who convinced me that I should give up my dreams.
“You probably don’t remember, but it was during our sophomore year that I stopped sculpting. We went out drinking one night and you told me, ‘Jake, you’re a great friend and probably the best artist I’ve ever met,’—I’m not exaggerating about that last part. This speech is embedded in my memory. You went on to say, ‘but you have to think about your future. You can’t just keep sculpting rocks without getting paid. Why don’t you start sculpting those commercial statues. They’re always looking for commercial sculptors,” or something like that. I guess I don’t remember it that well. But you did convince me to give up my art, and for that, I am forever in your debt. Now, I’m sure it’ll make you feel great that it was you who enabled me to take it up again. That must make you warm and fuzzy inside,” Jake said.
“Enough chatter. Hand over the sweater, Mr. Lenny’s-last name. You’ve had it for too long and you’ve squandered it,” the insurance salesman said.
“Oh, we’re done with this one? Is that it? I think not. There’s one other ghost that needs to come out to complete this story,” Samantha said.
Lenny feared to look, but knew that only his aunt was missing from this motley collection of people. But his aunt was sick. This was making little sense.
“That’s right, it’s me, Aunt Elaine. Now, Lenny, I want you to give the sweater to this nice man. I’ve had second thoughts about the sweater ever since I gave it to you. Looking back, I’m not sure why I would give such a gift to such an ungrateful person. Now, just stand up and hand over the sweater to this man, and we’ll all be on our way,” Aunt Elaine said.
This was too much for Lenny. He could not comprehend what was happening. Why were all these people working with the insurance salesman. Who was he? Lenny tried to stand up, but he felt the insurance salesman’s foot kick him in his stomach again. His aunt, Samantha, Jake, and the insurance man all surrounded him. There seemed no way out. He pleaded silently with the sweater to tell him what to do. There must be something he could do. He sat up and began lifting the sweater over his head.
“That’s right, Mr. Lenny’s-last-name, nice and slowly and we’ll be done with all of this unpleasantness,” the insurance salesman said. Lenny lifted the sweater over his head and everything went black.
***
“Lenny, are you alright,” Samantha said. Lenny’s eyes were closed and the world felt too painful for him to wake up. His eyelids were concrete over his eyeballs and grated when he tried to look around. He tried to lift his arms but they would not move. He closed his eyes and oblivion met him.
***
“There you are, kiddo. I was wondering when you’d join us again. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up for some time now. Everyone is here. Why don’t you join the world of the living,” Aunt Elaine said. Lenny’s eyelids still felt like iron bars, and he tried to make a sound. His throat seemed filled with something and no noise came out.
“Don’t try to talk, sweetie. There are enough tubes down there to choke an elephant. Here, give me your hand,” Aunt Elaine said. She took Lenny’s hand in both of hers and squeezed. The world still spun and Lenny could not get his bearings. He tried to squeeze his aunt’s hand, but he felt no strength. He saw oblivion coming for him and no matter how much he tried, it grabbed onto his legs and dragged him under again.
***
“Hang in there, Lenny. The doctors said you’ll come out of this soon. We all miss you at work. Even Charlie has been talking about how quiet it is. He came back, you know. Just like you said he would. None of the clients went with him, but I’ve taken it easy on him. We had a long talk about his needs and desires, and we’re going to bring him into the partnership in a few years, assuming you agree, of course. I think it’s a good idea, but we can talk about it when you’re better,” Jake said.
***
“Lenny, Lenny? I know you’re in there. Come out, come out wherever you are. You’ve had us scared shitless while you were taking you’re way too long nap, you know. I know things have been rather strained between us, but I didn’t realize how bad off you were. I’m sorry about that. I really am. We need to have a long talk when you wake up. So much has happened since you decided to take your nap,” Samantha said.
There was definitely light behind his eyelids. He had not seen the light before and was surprised. Lenny hung on to Samantha’s words and began pulling himself toward consciousness. He was not sure how long he had been gone, but he knew that it was time for him to return.
“Samantha?” Lenny said.
“Oh, Lenny. I knew you were in there. Do you want something? Some water maybe?” Samantha said.
“Sweater?” Lenny said, barely putting the words syllables together to make the word. He did not know why the sweater was important, but he knew he needed to know more about it.
“The sweater? It’s safe, Lenny. You aunt, she’s well now, she explained everything to us. We kept it safe. But we need you to get better so we can talk about it. Do you want me to get the doctor?” Samantha said.
“Where?” Lenny said.
“Where’s the doctor? I’ll go get him if you want,” Samantha said.
“The sweater,” Lenny said. But he did not hear the answer. Oblivion found him again.
Word count: 2,001
Words remaining: 4,020
Caffeination: a few sips of a tall mocha that I never bothered to finish
Feeling: That I just want this story to end. I know there’s good writing in me, but I barely remember what it feels like. Another four days and maybe I’ll find it again. If anything, this has been a great lesson in humility.
Lenny awoke. He was not sure how long he slept, but he knew that his time for sleeping was now over. His throat felt better if still a little raw, like something had raked across his esophagus and larynx, or at least that is what Lenny thought was hidden down his throat. Now that he could think about it, he was not so sure of all the organs in his throat or in his body. He would just have to accept that his throat felt raw and not try to think of what caused it. His tiredness did not vanish, but he was able to put it to one side to concentrate on where he was and what he was doing there.
The memories came back slowly. He checked his clothing and saw that he was only wearing a hospital gown. He felt the warm sheets on his naked buttocks. He put aside the thoughts of how he relieved himself the past few—again, he ran into a roadblock when he tried to figure out how many days he slept. Whatever it was, it had been too long. He remembered visitors, he remembered Samantha’s sweet voice, Jake’s grouchy, smoky voice, his aunt’s aged but still melodious voice. All of the voices seemed to merge in his memory into single deep voice that whispered things in his ear. He tried to remember what was whispered, but nothing came back.
Samantha peeked her head into the room. Lenny tried to lift his hand to wave at her to come in, but he could not get his hand from under the sheets. When did hospitals start using metal-grade sheets? Samantha did not need to see his gesture. She looked happy and pushed the door wide open and walked in. She wore a cotton white dress that hung on her frame. She looked thinner than he remembered, but her face was still had the happy expression that he first fell in love with. “I’m glad that you’re awake now,” Samantha said. She sat next to the bed on a chair Lenny did not at first notice. It was difficult for him to move his head. He spun his eyes as far in his sockets as they would go to watch Samantha.
“Don’t try to talk, Lenny. It’s been a rough week for you. The doctors think you had some sort of stroke, but they’re not sure. They’re still running tests. Your brain is working fine now, but they were concerned. I was really concerned about you, Lenny. You have to promise to never do this to me again,” Samantha said.
Lenny tried to talk but he found his mouth too dry to say anything. His cheeks felt like cardboard when he rubbed his tongue along them. He cleared his throat and felt phlegm building in his chest. He tried to pull up the phlegm, but he did not have the strength. Samantha reached over to help Lenny turn on his side so he could cough more easily.
“I’ll get some water,” Samantha said. She returned a few minutes later with a cup and straw. She elevated the head of his bed with a button that Lenny could not see and he drank from the cup. The cold liquid hurt his mouth. His teeth ached and he felt skin peeling upward as the water lubricated the skin in his mouth. The pain was horrible, but he fought through it and swallowed. The water in his mouth was bad, but the water in his throat was worse. He searched and found blackness instead of facing it.
***
The sun shone through the hospital window when Lenny woke up. His body still felt weak, but he was able to swallow and breathe more normally. Samantha was sitting on the chair next to his bed reading a book.
“Samantha,” Lenny said. His voice sounded strange to him, almost like a sound he had not heard in a while. He laughed at the thought and surprised himself with the strength of his laugh. It felt good to bring the sound from deep within him to the surface again.
“Oh, you’re awake again, Lenny. This time you should try to stay awake for at least fifteen minutes. I thought you were going to join the conscious crowd yesterday when you woke up then, but I can wait another day. How are you feeling?” Samantha said.
“Better, Samantha. I feel a little of my strength returning. What happened?” Lenny said.
“That’s the million dollar question. We’re not sure. You sort of freaked out on us and the cops found you passed out in front of a movie theater. We were hoping you’d have a better idea of what happened. The doctor said he was going to stop by to discuss it later,” Samantha said.
Lenny thought about the sweater. This all had something to do with the sweater. He squinted his eyes to see Samantha better—she was fuzzy without his glasses—but could not make anything out. He was not sure why he was even looking at her or what he hoped to see. “The sweater?” Lenny said. He needed to know.
“Which sweater?” Samantha said. He was not sure, but Lenny thought she looked a little puzzled by his question. Surely she could not forget the last few weeks. The memories were slowly trickling into his mind, but first and foremost, he remembered everything the sweater had given him and who tried to take it away. He knew Samantha was one of those, but he decided to put aside the thought. He knew when you were sick, sometimes the brain played tricks on you. Lenny decided to wait until he had a chance to do some serious thinking before he could decide whether Samantha had been after the sweater.
“You should get some rest,” Samantha said.
“Tell me. What happened to the sweater I was wearing,” Lenny said.
“Oh, that old thing? I tossed it when the paramedics gave me all of your old clothes. They had to cut it open to get the electrodes on your chest. They feared your heart would give out. Your aunt was okay with me throwing it away. She said she could make you another one, although with her disability after her sickness, I’m not sure she’ll be knitting anytime soon. We’ll go shopping when you get better. Had I known you liked pink so much, I would have bought you many more pink clothing before,” Samantha said.
It took Lenny many more months of rehabilitation to get back his physical senses. He knew he had not lost them, just that they had been partially blocked during his weeks of inactivity. He quietly asked everyone questions about what happened during the last few weeks, but none of the answers matched his recollections. He began thinking that perhaps everyone else’s version of the truth was the true record of what happened.
Lenny knocked on his aunt’s door and her caretaker answered. He was a tall man and dressed up for his role. Most nurses Lenny had seen dressed in scrubs or casual clothing. Only this man, his aunt called him Todd, dressed in a three-piece suit. Todd stood aside and let Lenny enter. He did not greet him or ask him how his day was. He was European, and small talk seemed lost on him. He always looked as if he had more important things to do or more important places to go. Lenny was never sure which one.
He found his aunt sitting on a rocking chair in the living room facing through her porch doors to the ocean. She held a cup of tea in her ruined hands and rocked softly back and forth. Her feet were bare and she wore a thick, linen bathrobe that covered up whatever clothes she wore underneath. Lenny heard her hum, but could not make out the tune.
“Aunt Elaine, how are you doing today?” Lenny said. He waited in the doorway for her to acknowledge him. Todd slithered passed Lenny, seemingly growing thinner to fit between Lenny and the doorframe. Todd took a seat on the leather recliner in the corner. He lifted a book and looked away from both Lenny and his aunt.
“Eh? Oh, Lenny, it’s you. I am doing well, thank you very much. I was just drinking my tea and trying to reconcile my childhood. It’s hard to remember things as well as I used to, and I have so many stories I wanted to tell my grandchildren before I forgot them. It is getting late,” his aunt said.
“You don’t have grandchildren, Aunt Elaine. Just your ungrateful nieces and nephews,” Lenny said. The deterioration in his aunt’s mind astonished Lenny. He knew his own mind had not come back fully yet, but to watch her struggle with even the most basic of memories brought a great sadness to Lenny. Her stories were always something he looked forward to. It was not her storytelling that he loved so much, it was, instead, the lessons she learned from her own stories. She would discuss the moral implications of her decisions or her family’s decision and how she had grown (or not grown) as a result of what happened. Lenny’s moral guidance and character grew with each tale, and he believed that at least half of his desire to improve himself came form his aunt’s teaching.
“Oh yes, kiddo. I meant nephews and nieces, of course. It’s sometimes hard to recall the difference. But don’t listen to me—it’s hard to put all the pieces together, if you know what I mean. Humpty-dumpty and all of his walls,” his aunt said.
“You told me you were going to knit a new sweater. Have you gotten around to that? I really loved the other sweater you made for me,” Lenny said. Lenny watched for the reaction of the caretaker, but there was no reaction. He remained seated and reading a hardcover book. Lenny could not make out the title on the cover, but he would swear that the man was not reading. He did not turn the page and his head did not move. He wore dark glasses, and Lenny was not able to judge his eye movements, but either way, the man looked like he was paying very close concentration to their conversation.
“A new sweater? Heavens no, kiddo. I never learned to knit. Or did I? It’s so hard to remember all the details. It just doesn’t sound much like me, this knitting thing,” Aunt Elaine said.
“It’s okay, Aunt Elaine. I understand. Why don’t you tell me another story about your family. I love hearing those,” Lenny said.
“Oh my. I’d like that, but I’m not sure I can,” Aunt Elaine said. She stopped rocking in the chair and brought her hands up to her head. She tried to rub her eyes, but she could not position her hands in a good position. She settled for rubbing her eyes with her wrist.
“What if I tell you one, Aunt Elaine. I remember many stories you told me during my childhood,” Lenny said.
“That would be lovely,” his aunt said. She stopped rubbing and starting rocking again, still staring out her window toward the setting sun.
“In a village in a different town, in a different country, in a different part of the world, there lived a young woman named Yeanda. If we went back far enough in your family, we would find that she was related as a great aunt many times removed. She grew up a normal woman for those parts, which meant obeying her parents and learning the trades necessary to be a good wife, cooking, mending, skinning. Her family loved her and the townspeople and the children of the town found her insights into their world exceptionally charming, especially for on as young as her,” Lenny said.
“That charm, however, did not last as Yeanda grew older. On her thirteenth birthday, Yeanda predicted the death of the family’s young cow,” Lenny said.
Word count: 2,015
Words left: 2,005
Caffeination: tall (milk) mocha
Feeling: Relaxed and excited about my future prospects, like my fortune in a cookie that I think belongs to only to me, but is found on thousands of tables
“The way you tell it, Aunt Elaine, her prediction came true and a week later, the cow died. Yeanda’s father did not want to share her telling with the townspeople, but her mother was religious and told the preacher of the town, a sexist little man who never saw a woman he didn’t want to belittle. Does any of this ring a bell, Aunt Elaine?” Lenny said.
“No, not a word of it, but it seems a good story. Please, do go on,” his aunt said.
“The preacher decried Yeanda, named her a witch, and generally brought upon the wrath of the town upon Yeanda, who had turned thirteen-years old the previous week. While the town wanted to burn her, her father saw the preacher and the townspeople for what they were: narrow-minded and scared of what they did not understand. He stole out of the village with Yeanda, taking his meager belongings and some pilfered money from the church. Yeanda’s father introduced her to the way of his family, which were old people, who lived off the land and understood how all of the gifts could be used, including the gift that Yeanda showed: the gift of foretelling,” Lenny said.
“Yeanda? I think I had an aunt named Yeanda. I met her years ago, I think. Many, many years ago when I was very young,” Aunt Elaine said.
“I don’t remember you telling me that,” Lenny said.
“I didn’t remember it until you started telling me, which is strange, since you told me I told you that story—this is all very confusing. I wish my brain worked like it had before. There are huge holes in my head and it’s frustrating when I fall down one,” his aunt said. She continued to look out the window, more forlorn than before.
“What do you remember about Yeanda?” Lenny said.
“Your grandmother introduced me to her. She was young, maybe in her twenties, and she looked sad. My grandmother was really interested in what she said, and repeated her words to me almost verbatim, like she was translating, even though she said the same words. It was strange,” his aunt said.
“When was this?” Lenny said.
“I’m not sure, Lenny. It was a long time ago, back when I was a child,” his aunt said and laughed. “Can you imagine that? Me a child. It seems so improbable.” His aunt turned in her chair and faced Lenny. She looked older today than yesterday. The skin on her face drooped further, her wrinkled neck skin reaching almost to her chest and swaying gently. Her eyes, usually as blue as the deep ocean in the Pacific, were filmy and gray. Lenny found it hard to imagine his aunt as young. In the past, he never would have had a problem with it, but something changed in her, something that went beyond her loss of memories.
“Please go on, kiddo. What became of Yeanda and her father?” his aunt said. Her voice was soft and Lenny was not sure if she would listen if he answered.
“There’s not much more to the story. Yeanda grew up and moved from village to village offering her services as a wise woman. Her father returned to his village and died a few years later. Yeanda warned him that it would happen, that he could stay with her and live a long time, but he could not bear leaving his wife alone any longer. It was not love—what his wife did to Yeanda he could never forgive—but he felt an obligation to her and the village,” Lenny said.
“The preacher—he died early, didn’t he?” his aunt said.
“Yes. You remember. That makes me very happy, aunt. The preacher died before Yeanda’s father returned to the village. He was burned alive in a fire intended for some of the woman in the village. And Yeanda must have known about it, but still did not want to return to her village. There were too many other things for her to do. It feels funny to tell you this story after you told it to me so many times,” Lenny said.
His aunt did not answer and he watched as her eyes closed. He studied her chest for a moment, ensuring that it rose and fell with her breathing, and then stood up quietly. He motioned for Todd to follow him to the door, and Todd put down his book and met Lenny at the front door. He held the door open as Lenny left.
“You’ll take care of her,” Lenny said.
“That’s why I’m here,” Todd said.
“I know you, Todd, or whatever your name is, but I feel that, for whatever reason, you have my aunt’s health as a concern. Before you get any ideas, I don’t know that, I just believe it—there’s a difference there that you would probably not understand. But trust me on this, there’s nothing more for you to worry about, whether you saw to that or it happened naturally, my aunt and me are not who we were before. I just want to know that you’ll take care of her,” Lenny said.
Todd tipped his glasses down his nose. His eyes sparkled in the late-day sun, a brilliant tan color speckled with black that seemed to go on forever. He pushed his sunglasses back up and nodded. “She’ll be safe with me, Lenny. And I wasn’t worried about you. I know what you had and I know you don’t want it back. We’re safe now,” the man said.
Lenny nodded and walked down the pathway that led away from his aunt’s house. He was glad that Todd had been honest. Ever since Lenny woke up, he knew what had happened and what he had had access to. Now that it was gone he was not sad, just disillusioned about what happened.
Lenny met Samantha at the library. She was spending many hours but did not tell Lenny what she was researching. He brought her coffee and sat down with her at the large wooden table near the back of the library. Opened books of different hefts covered the table. Lenny glanced at the titles but could not find any correlation between them. There were books on art, books on history, books on science. Samantha scribbled on a yellow legal pad, leaving notes in the opened pages of each book. She did not notice him sit down at the table and Lenny remained quiet, watching her read and write notes. Her red hair flopped in front of her eyes as she hunched over the books, and she tried to blow it away from her eyes. The hair would swing back and forth until it settled in same position and she would send another puff of air toward her hair. Lenny resisted leaning across the table and pushing her wisp of hair behind her hair.
She finished writing the notes in her current book, a book about the etymology of colors, and stood up to fetch another book. She noticed Lenny sitting there.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you come in,” Samantha said.
“I brought you some coffee,” Lenny said, pushing the cup across the table.
“Thanks,” Samantha said.
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about? I’m all better now. Nothing you will say is going to shock me,” Lenny said.
“Have you spoken to your aunt today,” Samantha said.
“Yes. I just left her house a little while ago. She’s looking better,” Lenny said.
“You were always a terrible liar,” Samantha said.
Lenny grinned impishly. “You’re right. She’s not looking good. We talked about Yeanda again,” Lenny said.
“Did she tell you anything new?” Samantha said.
“Just that Yeanda is probably still alive,” Lenny said.
Samantha nodded. “I thought as much.”
“Well?” Lenny said.
“You know what I’m researching,” Samantha said.
“Have you found anything? Is there anything you can tell me about it, the pink sweater, that is. I shouldn’t be afraid to say its name anymore,” Lenny said.
“It was never about the sweater, Lenny. The sweater was just the vessel. It was always about the wielder, the user of the great powers,” Samantha said.
“So you know more about it? You know what it was, what I was supposed to do with it?” Lenny said.
“No, Lenny. So far I know very little. I know about the council, the men that were trying to keep it from you, keep it from your aunt. They were afraid of what you would do with it. In your case, they probably shouldn’t have been so afraid, but they don’t trust anyone with it,” Samantha said.
“And Yeanda?” Lenny said.
“It all comes back to Yeanda, Lenny. It was her power that was passed down through the generations. That’s what the council never understood. The power was passed down by blood, but would not stay with someone who was not worthy. But I’ve said too much. You know what it was but you don’t know what it could have done, Lenny. In the end, that was a good thing,” Samantha said.
“We used to talk, you know. You used to tell me what was going on, and not in these cryptic ways. There was a time—a time before any of this happened—when you would give me the play-by-play, blow-by-blow update each night about the minutiae of your day,” Lenny said.
“I remember, Lenny. That time has passed, you know. There are many things that I have to do—things I have to learn that have nothing to do with you, at least nothing to do with you anymore. I know you feel left out but—” Samantha said.
“But my aunt explained everything to you, and now can’t tell me what it is,” Lenny said
“Only partly, Lenny. She tried to tell you, she tried to show you, but you didn’t listen. You didn’t understand and you took advantage of what she was offering. That’s partly what happened to her,” Samantha said.
Lenny felt the anger bubbling up again inside of him. He still did not understand what his aunt expected of him, but he knew that whatever it was, he failed her. And now he was failing Samantha. “I know, Sam. I know. Is there anything I can do to help you? I don’t want what I lost—I never wanted it. But I do want to give back, to help you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” Lenny said.
“I’m just looking for old stories, Lenny, old stories in old books. All I need from you is your understanding. Coffee wouldn’t hurt either, Samantha said and picked up the cardboard cup. She smiled and went to the bookshelves. Lenny resisted following her. He sipped from his own coffee cup and studied the walls around the library. Children had decorated them with construction paper drawings. There did not appear a constant theme amongst them, just various stories that were waiting to be told, stories about fires and dinosaurs and families. He squinted at the pictures, trying to imagine who drew them and what they were like, but nothing came to him.
He looked at one particular picture drawn in crayon showing a young girl with orange hair with two lines coming out of her head, looking, if Lenny concentrated enough, like pigtails. The girl was small in the picture, the background was colored in white crayon, a difficult color to draw with because it was hard to see against the paper. The artist must have spent a lot of time coloring in the white background. The little girl wore a pink sweater that was too big for her. The pink was bright, brighter than anything else in the picture, almost fluorescent. She held her hand up and a finger pointed out toward the border of the picture. There was nothing there but the white background.
Lenny stood up to get a closer look at the picture. In the bottom-right corner was the girl’s name in capital letters. It took him a bit to figure out what she had written, since the artist was very young and was probably still learning to control the muscles in her hands that would enable her to write. The artist’s name was Yeanda.
Word count: 2,054
Words left: 0 (50,049)
Caffeination: tall mocha
Feeling: Happy and sad. I now feel that there was a story in there to be told. It would take a lot of work to go back and tell it, but I think I’ve left enough kernels in there to maybe find it one day. I’m excited to start working on a new project. I’ll hopefully post a musing soon to describe how I feel and what this has meant to me.
On to musing:
When it rains in Seattle, the ordinary driver loses his mind—and I’m not talking about a good craziness, I’m talking about tens of thousands of drivers who refuse to go over a self-imposed ten mile per hour speed limit, turning what would normally be a happy twenty-minute commute home into a torturous hour and forty-minute commute. Now, I’m sure you’re saying to yourself, self—because that’s probably what most of you call yourself when you talk to yourself, or, at least, that’s what I call myself when I talk to myself in writing (I don’t actually talk to myself otherwise; I’m sane that way)—I thought it always rained in Seattle? That is a very astute thought—something I would expect of my reading public—but, regrettably, not a valid one. Just like Eskimos have more than a hundred words for snow, people in Seattle have more than a hundred words for rain. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Seattlians (I made up that word but I like how it sounds if not how it’s spelled) don’t actually have more than one word for rain. When they say rain they really mean a light drizzle that lasts for four months. When I, as a New Yorker, think of rain, I think of sheets of sideways water falling from the sky—what we called “buckets of rain” when I was a kid. You see, Seattlians don’t understand the notion of buckets of rain, and when it comes, as it did today, they get confused and begin driving all willy-nilly crazy-like, resulting in the aforementioned crazy Seattlian drivers.
Hi. I’m not sure if we’ve met. My name is David. It’s been a while since I’ve written one of these things, what I like to call a “musing,” mostly because I muse about different ideas I had during my day. Other times, I muse about story ideas or write actual stories. That’s where I’ve been for the month of November (up through today, that is). I’ve been participating in an event known as NaNoWriMo—and, no, I didn’t make up the capitalization or the horrible acronym (it is an acronym because you’re supposed to pronounce it: nano-rye-moe). The theory behind this was to write a novel-length story in the space of a month. I spoke about this before I started. What you’ve seen posted for the past twenty-three days (including this one, if you scroll up to the top—and, yes, I realize that my sad Blog technology does not allow me to post two entries in one day, which would have made this much easier to read. I had hopes of fixing that when I changed my scripting language, but I haven’t changed my scripting language or touched my server in months) was my 2,000-word entries that made up my 50,000 word story. Oh, I think I left that part out. The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words. That’s right: 50,000 words. For those of you who don’t write much, it might not seem a lot. But I’ll put it like this: most essays in school were around 2,000 words (I’m making this example up—I don’t remember any assignments or, now that I think about it, just about anything from school, but I figured I’d throw out a number). Think of writing an assignment for school every day for 25 days. Of course, I could have written 1,667 words a day over the course of the entire month, but such an uneven number offends my delicate psyche.
As I was saying, NaNoWriMo—which, I forgot to tell you, stands for National November Writing Month—is a time when aspiring writers write and write and write in the hopes of claiming that they wrote a novel. Nobody says the novel has to be good or even tell a story. There are whole forums dedicated to how to cheat—perhaps cheat is too strong a word, we’ll say manipulate, since that is one of my favorite words and better describes their unethical actions—your way to 50,000 words. There have been suggestions, for example, that people transcribe parts of the Bible or plagiarize other’s work to meet the goal. NaNoWriMo is more about the process than the goal. That didn’t sound right. NaNoWriMo is more about the goal than the process. There, that sounded better. You set out at the beginning of November as a non-novel writing person, and by the last day of November (or thereabouts, depending on how fast you type or how much you write) you become a “novel writer,” or “one who has written a novel,” or simply “novel artist” (which is similar to a Subway sandwich artist without the unflattering green golf shirt). So, after completing my 50,000th word today, I join the ranks of novel artist, one who has completed a novel-length writing. Technically, 50,000 words only qualify as a novella, but I’m not too picky.
As I write this, I find it hard to resist pressing Alt-C, which reports on my word count. You see, most of my writing days consisted of pounding out words and then pressing Alt-C with the hopes of seeing the number grow. My mentality was simple: when I started writing each day, I was excited to see my word count climb slowly from 40 to 50 to around 250 words. That’s the beginning section. After 250, the output slowed considerably. I would fight for the next 100 or so words, and by the time I arrived at 500, I was ready to throw in the towel, give up my dreams, make a run for the border, eat Taco Bell—I’m sure you get the idea. Getting to a 1,000 was a big deal for me. Remember, my goal for each day was a minimum of 2,000 words. Now, when I talk numbers, I don’t want you to think that I was sacrificing the telling of a story to make my goal. The reason I don’t want you to think that is because thinking it is not sufficient. You have to know it deep down in your marrow. That’s the only way you can truly understand where I’m coming from. What this month was all about was writing words, the story came second to the words. But I’ll get to that in a bit. Once I hit 1,000 words during the day, I knew I was about halfway. I would write a couple of hundred more words and usually call it an afternoon. Most days, I broke up my writing, writing half at the end of work, and the other half after dinner when I got home. There were exceptions to this rule, the most notable one being when I was sick. There were three or so days when I felt the ice pick driving into my brain. On those headachy days I waited until evening to start writing. I never missed my goal, knock on wood—wait, I’m confused and need a ruling on this. If it already happened, i.e., I never missing my goal, do I have to knock on wood to assure it won’t happen in the past? This is a very confusing aspect of the old wives’ tale, better known as my Jewish mother’s evil influence on my fragile little mind.
I’m starting a new paragraph because that last one was becoming too long. I can’t resist putting in one of the things that I learned in the process of writing The Pink Sweater (that is the official name I came up for the story—if you read the story, you would see the incredible humor in the name. Okay, I made that part up as well. You would be sick of me typing the word sweater in any and all contexts). I was originally going to wait until I got past the mundane aspects of explaining what exactly I was doing and how I did it before I dived into the lessons learned from this experience, but since I spent too many sentences explaining that I was originally going to wait but now I’m going to tell you something, I figure it’s too late to back down now. The thing is (and there might always be a thing) the foremost lesson I learned during November is how to write as verbose as possible and say as little as possible. I would spend whole sections (we’re talking 2,000 word sections) repeating myself in every way possible in the hopes of meeting my goal for the day. This has enabled me to open my fingers up to the possibility of typing diarrhea, something I am not proud of but a skill that I hope will take me far in the world.
Where was I? Oh, yes, I had finished my first 1,200 words and I’m now home—properly fed, and sitting in my living room waiting to start writing again. My tradition, which I started a week into November, was to light the fire in my fireplace. This enabled me to stare at the pretty embers and listen to the crackles of the woods when my inspiration grew slim and I needed something distracting. The problem with writing in the dark with only the LCD screen to illuminate the room is that when I have nothing to say, there’s not much for me to look at to find distractions. The last eight hundred or so words would either come out in a blinding flash of inspiration, or I would drag out, kicking and screaming. By the time I arrived at 1,600 words, I knew the end was in sight and no matter what I wrote or how long it took, the last 300-400 words would be the easiest. There were some days when I had no idea where the story was going that I would actually read through what I had a written (a horrible faux pa—that pa sounds awfully wrong) and start increasing the girth of the writing by adding asides and descriptions and repetitions that furthered the goal in the sections I had already written earlier—remember, the goal was not the telling of a good story, but the padding of the word count. There were some days, especially in the beginning when I thought (silly me) that I had a real story to tell that people might enjoy reading, that I would write more than my allotted 2,000 words. This explains how I finished on the 23rd of November and not the 25th of November, which, if you were as much a math whiz as I am—that’s a 640 on my SAT math, in case you wanted to compare penis sizes—would be the date that a person who was on a strictly 2,000-words a day diet would finish.
That brings me to the story. If you can remember far back enough, you might remember a time when I spoke about my story—the revelations of the twists and turns, the pencil character drafts, the changes in narrator, the alteration from a story about a little girl and her disagreements with her mother to the beautiful, if poorly planned, story of a man with, yes, you guessed, it a pink sweater, the, well, the everything I thought I knew about my story before I started writing it. I thought I had a good synopsis. Then the first day came around. I wish to quote something I wrote in ink (that’s ink on my TabletPC, not ink on paper, which I haven’t used since abandoning my beloved but seriously flawed Moleskine—the flaw, since I don’t want to leave everyone hanging, is that it took way too much effort for me to transpose my words on that beautiful small book to electronic bits), (and before you ask, I’m not adding these quoted words because I’m trying to grow my word count—I finished my 50,000 words, and this has nothing to do with word count, even though by adding this aside I get to my 2,000 word goal, assuming I had such a goal, actually, my 1,991 word goal without editing, but who’s counting?):
.
After that beautiful introduction, I realized that I had erased the inked notes. Damn it. Those were good. Before I even started writing, actually, the day I was supposed to start writing, I freaked out. I stared at the empty page and thought about my story and began having second thoughts. I thought and scribbled notes about trying to write something completely unrelated to the story. I thought the whole idea of a magical pink sweater was, well, ridiculous (which was a thought that I continued to have over the next three weeks and a few days, much to my horribly powerful chagrin). I thought about going in an entirely new direction with new characters and new magic and new everything. After practicing some breathing exercises, I calmed myself down and decided to stick with what I knew: the beautifully synopsized and outlined The Pink Sweater. Of course, as it turns out, the joke was on me.
I spent NaNoWriMo learning important lessons. There are some authors who talk about how their characters tell their story. How, once they create a character and let it start “living” on the page, it takes over. Those characters take control of the story and take it in directions that the author never expected or would have thought of. Stephen King was my model for this type of author. In his wonderful book, On Writing, he spoke about the joy of watching his characters develop the story almost without his help (sometimes while he was in a drunken daze, after which he didn’t remember writing the story). I wanted some of that magic. I wanted to sit back and experience the movie that is my novel. I wanted more than anything else to enjoy the experience and revel in the plot twists and chaotic events that would define my story. What I came to realize, however, was that my mind didn’t work like that—or, at least, it didn’t work like that with what the planning I had done. I spend a lot of time thinking and talking (well, not many musings, but it’s an underlying theme) about original thought, a painful but important part of being an intelligent person. I discovered through this process that I must engage in a lot of this original thought before I attempt to put down a story. My characters may go in directions I did not plan, but I unless I set up the characters, give them a plot and a setting, and push them off in an original direction, they’ll meander around the outskirts of a poorly thought-out world and—well—do nothing.
That’s what I felt like during November. I realized that I had not spent the time planning and developing my character and plot enough to just write. Too much of my time I wasted on getting out words that in no way moved the plot forward or developed the characters. That’s not to say that it was all bad. There are a few days where I enjoyed writing and thought that I was indeed a writer, but those days were too few and far between. For my next magic trick, I will plan out my writing before I dive in. Now, I’m not talking about meta-writing, an exercise that, once Chuck identified it, I recognized was a waste of effort and words. What I need to do is synopsize my story in such a way I can describe it, talk it through. Once I have that and some character thumbnails, then, and only then, should I dive in.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m going to attempt to do this over the next few weeks and months and years as I continue to write. Oh, yes. That’s something I haven’t talked about yet. Another lesson I learned from NaNoWriMo was the importance of writing every single day. That’s three-hundred sixty-five days a year, for those that are counting. I haven’t decided how much writing I’m going to do, whether it will be 2,000 words a day, less, or more, but what I have decided is that if I want to write—and I do want to write, I really, really want to write even with this horrible experience behind me—then I have to start writing a lot. Tamer’s girlfriend (a professional writer—okay, a television/movie writer, but still someone who gets paid for writing) told him that she tries to write at least 5,000 words a day. I don’t think I’m ready for that, particularly with this whole “day job” thing that I still have to do, viz., don’t quit it, but I am ready for serious writing. Some of that writing will be editing, which is something that is discouraged during the month of November (if you’re not adding new words to the paper, then you’re not moving closer to your goal.) Obviously, to write well involves more than just puking words onto the page—I know, I know, how can I say that when that’s all I’ve been doing during November and, much worse, during the writing of this musing. That means that I’m going to write and write and write.
Finally, since this is becoming much longer than I had planned, I wanted to spend a few words thanking my mother, Julie and Chuck for their support. My mother actually read all the words I wrote, and it was nice to know that there were people out there reading what I wrote. Thanks Mom!
Chuck is an easy one. After twisting his arm to convince him to join me in the Marathon, he became a willing and, at times, brilliant participant. He kicked my ass on every day (but three, I believe) in the daily word-count battles, but, more importantly, he wrote a really great story. I don’t give compliments unless I mean them, but Chuck’s story (which you can read here if you have the patience—it’s worth it) is really good. We sent many e-mails and messages to our respective websites during this month to give encouragement, bait, and progress reports. While it became apparent rather early that we were both going to succeed in our goal of 50,000 words, having him there to support me helped get me through many, many tough days. Thanks Chuck!
Now, on to Julie: Julie, like she does way too often, kept me sane during the whole writing process. There were many, many (yes, I’m allowed to use that phrase because I successfully graduated from the NaNoWriMo school of increase-your-word-count-by-any-means-necessary) days when I lost all hope and wanted to quit. She pushed me forward, egging me on, and telling me to find new voices and new storylines to keep it interesting enough for me to finish. She reminded me countless times the theme behind NaNoWriMo: it’s not about the quality, it’s about the quantity, stupid. She also stopped me from getting too down on myself. That’s another lesson I took away from this. My humor (if you can call it that) is mostly self-deprecating, i.e., I like making fun of myself. What I learned through this process and because of Julie was that it’s important to keep a better attitude about my writing. I, regrettably, didn’t learn this until today, but I now realize that I should stop feeling bad about my writing, and just enjoy the process. If what I create is good, then that’s great. If not, then that’s great as well. It’s the journey (or road, if you will) that’s important. Julie’s great—really, really great for me. Thanks Julie!
Well, that wraps up this short synopsis of my time during November. I’m sure there are tons of things I didn’t say that I will say over the next few weeks and months as the whole Marathon ordeal sinks in and I see what came out of it, but that’s about all I can fit in today. I won’t promise you a part two because of my poor record. I’ll read through this and try to edit it, but it’s becoming late and I can’t promise much. What I will promise is new fiction or new edits every day. I’ll live with my audience of three and be happy that I have at least that.
It feels strange not to have to sit down and write another 2,000-word entry in The Pink Sweater. If I had been writing such an entry, at this point, I would be reaching deep into my brain cavity for something to write, trying to figure out either what problems Lenny should internally complain about, or which characters should talk. Overall, dialogue was the easiest writing. During the course of a short conversation, the words piled up quickly. Just asking ‘how was your day?’ was good from anywhere between twenty and fifty words. During the third day (or thereabouts) I made the decision to stick the ‘character said’ at the end of every dialogue line. I normally try to be clever about the identifier, only placing them when the dialogue itself did not indicate who was talking, and usually after the first part of the sentence to allow the reader to know who was talking without having to skip to the end. To do this well, I found, I had to edit the dialogue. What was easier and faster for the Marathon, was the simple said tag. Not only was it more efficient, it also increased my total word count. Those two words (sometimes more, e.g., “the insurance salesman said”) in a lengthy dialogue with short, punchy statements really added up. (Yes, I freely admit I was a word whore.)
While the dialogue was easy, introspection came in a close second. Here I could spend many paragraphs thinking through an idea, examining it, twisting it in every possible way, and then writing about it some more. While it did not create words as quickly as dialogue, it did allow me to type without having to give too much of—what’s that phrase?—original thought (OT). Opening up to OT required much more time to think clever thoughts and took away from the finger pounding. For me, OT comes in two places: description and action. While there is arguably action in some dialogue, such as the conversation when Jake fired Lenny, most of my dialogue didn’t accomplish much. When I talk about action, I’m thinking about moving the plot forward. I love creating good descriptive paragraphs, but to do it well, I find myself consulting the thesaurus (I try not to abuse it but at times it is difficult) and trying to think of what I’m describing from a different angle, preferably a clever one.
I was glancing through a book of short stories by Betham-something. He was describing an elementary-school game of kickball, and I loved his description of the ball. I’ll try to paraphrase it: he described the ball, among other things, as having the texture of a bathmat. He was obviously much more elegant than me, but because of the words he chose and my own experiences with that most-evil-of-games (remembering I wasn’t much of an athlete during grade school and spent most of my time either praying that the batter did not kick the ball into my part of right field, or striking out, which is quite an accomplishment if you think that all you have to do not to strike out is to kick the stupid ball), I felt the rubber under my fingers and saw the beautifully pockmarked ball. It was the same feeling when I watched “Fight Club” and listened to the line, “I ran until battery acid pumped through my veins.” How awesome is that imagery?
This is too much digression. Remember when I spoke about finger diarrhea (I’m going to try to type this word every day until I can spell it without the spellchecker’s assistance)? This is it. This is the opening up of my innermost thoughts and spewing them on the page. This is my musing style brought to a factor of two (or maybe four). Whether this will ever translate to a story voice, we will see. If I could somehow find a way to use this voice to tell stories—wow, that might really change things.
The following is just some character sketches I’m doing for my next story. I’m not sure what’s it going to be about, but I have a few characters that were going through my head as I took a nap before (I’ll claim that some of the naptime involved OT).
Karen was a large woman. When confronted with this truth, she did not try to duck behind or explain it away with sounds about how she was on a new diet or both her parents were fat or the schoolyard kids left her so emotionally scarred that she ate to get away from it all. Karen just accepted who she was and part of that was a five-foot-five, 200lbs woman. She had an outrageous sense of humor, poking fun at anything that came within reach of her strangely long fingers. She did not reserve her derision for others, but went at herself just as hard. That was why most of her friends loved hanging out with Karen. She never held back and sucked the people around her into her strangely demented world, a world where a fat woman charms, insults, and bewitches a man that was unlucky enough to fall within striking distance of her wit. While the stories Karen told after the event rarely matched with what had happened, her friends did not mind. Karen’s filtered world was a strange one, and even with her outrageous changes, her friends laughed—particularly if they were present to watch the less humorous event.
The most attractive part of Karen was her chin. While most overweight people have stretched-out chins, Karen’s chin was razor sharp, the skin pulling tightly in an almost mockery of her neck, which drooped on both sides like the floppy ears of a beagle. The chin gave her face a thin look and made what some would categorize a chubby face into an almost chiseled, sharp face. Her eyes were not special—she liked to tell people that when one looked into her eyes, they didn’t find an infinite well of insight or intelligence or mysterious mischief. Her eyes were solid brown, looking almost like a child used a brown crayon to color her eyeball. She wore sensible clothing for a woman of her size, neither too tight nor too loose, and did not try to hide her girth. She chose flattering clothing, such as belted dresses and loose fitting jeans, which gave her a professional and polished look. With that said, however, nobody mistook Karen for an athletically shaped woman.
Karen loved artists. She told a story about the first time she visited her hairstylist Enrique after moving into a small studio in the East Village. Enrique asked what she wanted done to her hair. Karen turned and faced him, tilting her head down and rolling her eyes high in her head to look at him through her then bushy eyebrows. “Do you consider yourself an artist,” she asked him. “Yes.” Karen harrumphed and said, “So, then create art, go crazy.” Enrique smiled and said, “When you say go crazy, do you mean, go crazy, but don’t cut my bangs and don’t take off more than three inches and don’t you dare change the color of my hair?” Karen laughed and said, “No. My hair is in your hands. I won’t ask you to make me beautiful—I just ask you to do something artistic. It doesn’t have to be unexpected—but it could be—I just want my hair to be your canvas.” Karen was like that with all aspects of her life. She enjoyed experimenting with new things, especially when she found an artist who wanted to experiment.
Karen worked as an executive secretary. She was a smart woman and knew that if she finished college, she could probably find herself a better job. But she enjoyed the job and the people, and the pay and the hours allowed her to develop a close group of non-work friends who lived in her area, and spent most of their free time, which in the case of Karen and her friends was a lot of time, with each other. They were mostly artsy people, but Karen never judged them and supported them in their own dreams. For Karen’s part, her dream consisted of one simple thing: capturing moments of happiness. She did not look to the future but instead focused on the now. She grabbed at every opportunity to enjoy a moment and took as much pleasure in the good moments as she could muster. While she didn’t try to avoid bad moments, they mostly avoided her. The worst life had thrown at her was when her dog died at 13. She came from a tight-knit, if overweight, family, who, against the odds presented in medical journals, remained healthy. She was the youngest of three, her older brother and sister were both married, and Karen enjoyed her seven nieces and nephew, five from her eldest brother, who married a fundamentalist catholic, and two from her sister, who lived in their aging parents’ home after her husband walked out on her before giving birth to their second.
Stan was a neurotic, elementary-school teacher. He was thin and his neck bent slightly forward, giving him a hunched sitting posture. Bones poked at strange angles in his face, creating deep shadows around his cheekbones and eyes. His nose hooked slightly, the bone clearly visible from his face to the tip of his nose. Hair peaked out from the neck of his shirt, leading up to his head, where he wore his hair shaved close. Bare skin led from his forehead to a semicircle on the top of his head. He wore rectangular wire-rimmed glasses, which gave his face an angular look. He was a small man, who, a particularly vicious previous girlfriend remarked, looked light enough to hold in one arm. The clothing he wore hung loosely on his body. His arms and legs were hairy, with rugs of hair coming together to form trees of hair.
Stan loved large women. He accepted that sexually, different people liked different things, and his fetish—although he would never call it that—was a nicely shaped, large woman. Unlike many men who shared his tastes, he was not ashamed to be seen with such woman. He felt that there were more of them to love. A theory of his held that larger woman felt better down in his special place because their heft added to the warmth. This was just one of Stan’s many theories. He shared these theories freely with everyone and never found a question that stumped him. It never took Stan long to derive a theory once someone posed a question—this was particularly true in the case of science or technology questions. In answering why his friend’s cell phone did not work well in rainy weather, Stan was quick to theorize that the rain droplets acted as magnifying glasses and diluted the radio waves sent through the air. Over the years, Stan built on his theory to explain how rain affected not just cell phone rays, but also radar detectors, noise, and light, theorizing that when it rained, a person’s surroundings became indistinct and hazy because the light waves bouncing off the surroundings and into the person’s eyes were altered by their trip through the raindrops. This, he claimed, resulted in the large number of accidents that occurred when it rained. Although Stan listened patiently and nodded at the appropriate times, he would never accept his friends’ alternative theory that the slick roads and low visibility was the cause of the accidents, and not the bent light rays.
Stan was always on the move, moving frenetically from place to place. He could not sit still for long, and when he did manage to sit for more than a few minutes, his leg would start shaking up and down. His eyes darted around and took in his surroundings constantly. He liked parachute pants and t-shirts, even in the winter, and disdained jackets. A blue ring hung from his left ear, the results of a bet he won with his parents when he was 13. While he changed the earring from time to time, he never stopped wearing it because he felt it sent a message to his parents. He forgot exactly what the message was, but he was sure it was important, and he was sure that even as he grew older, he was 32, it was important that he pass on that message to everyone.
Stan joined Karen’s circle of friends through a mutual friend, Charles. Charles moved to New Jersey the week after he introduced Stan to the group, and the circle never heard of him again. Karen claimed it was better that way. Stan fell in love with Karen when he first met her. They dated for a few months before both of them decided that it was not going to work. Stan was too neurotic for Karen, and Karen was too unorganized and free-spirited for Stan’s carefully constructed world. But they still enjoyed each other’s company, and by the time Karen decided their relationship was not going to work, Stan’s membership in the circle of friends was established. Stan, however, still holds feelings for Karen, and one of his theories is that he can change her enough (i.e., make her more organized and reliable) to be the woman for him.
It’s nice to not meet a self-imposed 2,000-word goal. I did want to talk about Stan, but I can wait until I sleep tonight and dream up his characteristics. I might edit this on the flight, but no promises. I have no idea where this story is going, but at least I’m attempting to plan it out without relying on meta-writing to talk about it. That’s a good thing, right?
The Marathon is a week away, and I officially signed up today (after some prodding). If you remember (and if you read this, I’m sure you do remember, seeing as there are only three of you), the Marathon is my overly clever name for Nanowrimo, or the National Novel Writing Month, during which valiant and foolish souls try to turn their dreams of writing a novel into a concrete work of 50,000 words (including some semblance of a story with an ending). The month: November, probably because it fits in nicely with the whole NaNoWriMo lettering.
My last year’s effort is there for everyone to read and ridicule. The Pink Sweater was an amazing effort, and while it was worse than I had expected, I did finish. It weighed in at a hefty (and winning) 50,049 words, and I birthed it on November 23, 2004, with the painful delivery beginning on the late afternoon of November 1. I glanced through a few of the pages as I set up the links, and while the story and plot are god awful, there is some decent writing hidden in the draft. (And, yes, I’m saying that to booster my confidence for this year’s Marathon.)
Last year was not a complete waste. Thanks to my efforts, I go into this year’s Marathon wiser in that I know (besides nothing) that while 50,000 words is surprisingly a lot words, it’s not nearly as hard as it sounds (or I dreaded). Writing words turns out to be generally easy: it only takes dedication. Now, writing good words, that’s a completely different potato (stuffed with cheese). In preparation for the 2004 Marathon, about this time last year, I pounded out two-page short stories and musings as a way to build up to writing 2,000 words each day. This year, I didn’t do that. It wasn’t because I thought it hurt my writing (actually, it probably neither hurt nor helped), but because I’ve been concentrating on Julie and my wedding website for the last couple of weeks. It’s almost done (I know I keep saying that), and I’ll post it before the first of next month to clear my head to focus on other important things.
My planning for last year’s story was rather haphazard. I did work the clever twists and plot elements before I started, but I didn’t do much thinking about plot or character. This year I’ve done little better. Up through this past weekend, in fact, I had done much worse. I had no ideas, relying on a few science fiction story ideas that sprouted during unrelated writing exercises. This past weekend, though, things changed. As I walked between the Castle and my local restaurants, ideas started flitting through my head. The germ of the ideas lay in my purchase of Robert Jordan’s latest The Wheel of Time book, the 11th book in his 12-book epic fantasy series. As I embarrassingly told my Marathon cohort by mail this morning, high fantasy novels are my inspiration for wanting to write. It was when I first started reading fantasy novels (David Eddings’s The Belgariad in particular), that I began dreaming of writing. Imagine the life, I thought to myself, of dreaming up adventures and heroes, and making a living at it! Of course, the living part never happened, but I still share the dream of writing epic fantasy with the young David.
With that in mind, I picked the fantasy genre to write this year’s Marathon entry. And, yes Julie, you did make that suggestion many months ago—it just takes my brain a while to process it, and my heart time to accept it. (Although I keep using words like entry and contest, the Marathon is not a contest in that there’s nothing to win—there are no prizes for first to finish, or longest or best-written novel. This is a self-indulgent contest, where winning means you’ve accomplished a goal you set for yourself and of which the community supported you in achieving.) I won’t go into the details of my planned story since I wouldn’t want to be tempted to begin writing (and I’m not sure the ideas are in a sufficient state to share). I have sketched some of the characters and happenings, and I even named a few of the characters.
Of course, with all this sketching and planning, there is a good chance that next Tuesday (that’s the first of the month), when I pop open the computer to write my first line, I’ll freak out. Similar to the first day of the Marathon last year, when I stared at the blank screen and almost screamed with how utterly unprepared I was to begin that year’s story, which almost resulted in me ditching the story idea, the Marathon, and my own sanity. I took to wrestling with my demons and forced myself to start.
I had never thought about it in this way, but as I was reading the remnants of the first day’s work last year, I came upon this telling ending, where I threw out my fears and hopes of that first day:
“Do you think everything will turn out? What I’m trying to ask is: do you think I did the right thing?”
Lenny looked at her strangely. He didn’t know how to answer or what she was talking about. He felt a warm sensation in his chest and was overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness. He wasn’t sure why he was sad, but he thought it might have something to do with his aunt’s aging, or, more unexpectedly, something to do with the sweater. “I can’t say, but it’s too late to change it now,” Lenny said. It was not the reassuring statement he had planned, but he knew it for the truth.
Once you dive in, you’re in it for the good or the bad. I’m hoping this year’s good is better than last year’s bad. But if not, at least I’ll write 50,000 crappy words, adding yet another useless notch to my scarred belt.
Word count: 2,007
Words remaining: 47,993
Caffeination: Tall mocha drank halfway through the entry.
Feeling: Beginnings are hard. I feel like I have so much to say and it’s difficult to know where to start, or how I will manage to get from one idea to the next. I forgot how many words 2,000 are. After ripping through the first 1,000 words, I became stuck, and dragged through the remaining half. I spent too much time polishing and not enough time writing new words. I’ll hopefully get back into the proper, diarrhea-style writing tomorrow.
Word count: 2,208
Words remaining: 45,785
Caffeination: Americano earlier in the day.
Feeling: Another difficult day. I came home with little written, but enough ideas to fill the page, and a bit of a headache. I struggled through the next thousand words (you can see the extreme pain by reading through the first few paragraphs), before falling into the ending. I have a bit more written, but I’ll save it for tomorrow to keep this section moving forward.
Word count: 2,023
Words remaining: 43,762
Caffeination: Coffee of some type.
Feeling: Terribly depressed and disappointed. I have to keep telling myself that it’s okay if the writing sucks. It’s the story that’s important, and this is only a first draft. There will be plenty of opportunities to go back and replace the bad writing with good; in fact, that’s what the rewriting process if for. It’s just difficult to accept this as I have these events I want to happen, and then when I type the events to make them happen, I get the above drivel. It hurts. I’m so fucked.
Word count: 2,774
Remaining words: 40,988
Caffeination: A medium-sized Seattle’s Best mocha before getting on an airplane heading to see Julies (yeah!).
Feeling: I’m still writing crap, but at least I wrote a lot of it. Yesterday’s complaints were more of the frustration of my writing. I’ve been very busy at work and I don’t feel like I’ve had the energy to write. Today was no difference, but being trapped in an airport and on an airplane certainly helped the output. Things happened a bit quickly there (sorry about blatantly stealing Harry Potter wonderful-beans (or whatever they’re called) ideas for the buns, but I needed Shel to whip out his magic somehow), and I lost track of the words. I had a few more things planned for today, but they’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I didn’t do any editing because I remembered too much of the crap that poured out of my finger. I just have to remember that this is first draft material, and the chances are, nobody (except, perhaps, Chuck, and even that is pushing things) will read all the words. Enough wasted words. I should go back and continue writing while the caffeine is floating through my veins, but I’ll resist, and save something for tomorrow.
Word count: 2,425
Words remaining: 38,563
Caffeination: Mocha from Banana Bread (also known as Panera Bread) in Newport Beach.
Feeling: The words are coming easier if not better. I’m more accepting of this first draft thing: making things happen, and then research and rewrite later. For example, the descriptions are time-consuming and difficult to do well. I throw out a few to get me started, but I know that I’ll have to go back and redo them if I ever hope to “finish” this story. I also throw out random ideas in paragraphs to see how they fit, and to see if the ideas will further the story. I’m still searching for the best way to do this. Today, I’m testing out the finish in the middle of the scene so I can jump right back in tomorrow (okay, truth be told, I got tired before I finished telling the story). I still hate the writing, but at least I’m getting the scenes out. I have a few more scenes to finish before I have to start thinking up new ones. I’m not looking forward to that.
Word count: 2,182
Words remaining: 36,478
Caffeination: A mocha from Banana Bread (again). This time I dragged the Julies with me to BB.
Feeling: The first half of the writing was tough. I had some good thoughts on where this was heading, but Banana Bread didn’t inspire me, and I think that was reflected in the way I dragged out parts of the story. I wrote the second half of the scene on the plane ride back to Seattle. It came out much easier (and with many more words than it probably warranted—but isn’t that one of the goals of the Marathon?).
The story has gotten a little away from me. Things that I had planned to happen later (such as that last part), happened before I expected, but I’ll find a way to work it into the story. I’m generally happy with the way things are developing. I see much room for improvement in the rewrite, but that’s the point, I guess. Still, all in all, I feel much better about this story than the abomination from last year.
Word count: 2,036
Words remaining: 34,442
Caffeination: Tall mocha.
Feeling: Terrible. Today was a forced day. I don’t like how it turned out or what happened. It does not go with what I thought should happen, and ruins a few parts I had planned. After a late start, I started pushing out the words to meet the goal. About halfway through, I had to go back and rewrite large parts of today’s entry, filling in details to grow the word count. I don’t like doing it, but on days like today, where everything I type seems stilted and over calculated, I don’t know what else to do, besides, of course, calling it a night and giving up, which is not in my constitution.
I spent dinner scratching notes on what will happen over the next five days or so, but I still have no idea what will happen after they leave Varis. I keep jotting down plenty of ideas for the rewrite (at least for these early parts), but my mind empties when I look further into the future. I feel like I’m trying to read ahead in the chess board more than five moves, and I can’t do it. (Damn, my English is great today.)
Word Count: 2,166
Words remaining: 32,276
Feeling: Yeah, I started off with a summation. I needed to reorient myself and get some words out. I’m exhausted again. I’m very busy at work, and when I get home, the last thing I want to do is spend another couple of hours in front of the computer. Of course, I do and will. I’m looking forward to the weekend. The last half came faster, but I felt a bit like I was spinning my wheels. I’m still not convinced this scene is important, but it is allowing me to flesh out Samuel and Audrel a bit more, which should help me develop this part of the story and set some things up. Either way, I got my words.
Word Count: 2,027
Words Remaining: 30,249
Caffeination: Tall Americano (and a half a cup of drip coffee this morning as I tried to wake myself up to do some work).
Feeling: Yeah, I know I fudged his explanation. I hadn’t thought it all the way through, and I’m not sure if it even makes a lick of sense. I wanted to get past it, though, because it was slowing me down and I was running out of time. Julie came in for today and tomorrow because of her interview, and work was very busy (it’s still very busy, I have to finish some mails after I pound out the rest of the words). Let me get back to the words.
Word count: 2,015
Words remaining: 28,234
Caffeination: 1 Advil. It was very difficult concentrating on more than a hundred or so words at a time. I should have had my fix today, but my headache and tiredness scared me of from it.
Feeling: Into the double-digit days (finally). I know, I’m telling more than showing—but I figure it just gives me a chance to go back and fill in lots of holes. I’m just glad my headache left long enough for me to get this writing done today. I’m looking forward to the weekend, when I can take bookish walks and figure out where this story is going and how I’m going to get it over the hump. And, yes, I know, I’m barely making the goal each day. My strong days of destroying the 2k boundary are long behind me. I guess as long as I keep up even this small accomplishment, I’ll get around to the real Goal.
Word count: 2,131
Words remaining: 26,103
Caffeination: Tall mocha.
Feeling: I wrote about 800 words that I had to put it aside. It wasn’t writing, it was note taking about Tommy and her Littlelings. I realized it halfway through, and savaged the parts that somewhat made a story. I know, during November I’m not supposed to do that, but for my first part about Tommy, I didn’t want it to be too terrible that I wouldn’t want to return to it. Plus, it being a Friday with nothing to do tomorrow, I felt I had the extra time to do it better (I was going to say right, but we all know there’s no way I could do that in the first draft). In the end, I glued about 50% of the stuff I wrote about Tommy back in. I’m sure I’ll find areas to glue the rest in so I wouldn’t have wasted any words.
Word count: 2,409
Words remaining: 23,694
Feeling: A very late start, but at least today I did more showing instead of telling.
Word count: 2,138
Words remaining: 21,556
Caffeination: Tall Americano and 1 Advil (taken late into the writing)
Feeling: Headachy again. Today was a bad day, and I ended up forcing too many words. It’s mostly just filler with a couple of hints for what will happen. I did make some big decisions that’ll take me out over the next week or so. Now I’m going to bed to try and get rid of this headache.
Word count: 2,016
Words remaining: 19,542
Caffeination: Who cares anymore? I’m an addict. I can accept it.
Feeling: Damn, writing was hard today. I had a bit of a headache again after a not-so-fulfilling sleep, but it passed when I started writing. The writing still felt jilted and forced, and I was happy to put enough words on the page to meet today’s goal. I’m excited about where this is heading. My list of what needs to happen over the next few days keeps growing. I know I should be working on building to the climax of the story, but except for the episodes I have planned, I’m not sure what or where the climax will take place. Suffice to say, I’m happy today is done, and I’ll be even happier when I delete this entire scene in lieu of something better. And, yeah, I tacked that last part on at the end to make count. Stopped bothering me already.
Words remaining: 17, 519
Word count: 2,023
Feeling: Holy bad melodrama, batman. I had plans to write a different scene, but my writing energy is at an all-time low. I didn’t get off my butt to start until after 9pm. I’m waiting for that third wind to set in. It’s keeping its distance, as if it knows something it doesn’t want to tell me.
Word Count: 2,237
Words Remaining: 15,282
Feeling: Bleh. THAT WAS TERRIBLE. I was hoping this would take me out of my rut, but after spinning my wheels, the rut is deeper than ever. The end is in sight—at least the end of the count. I have to work toward wrapping this up. There’s much to work with, but I sit down to write when I’m tired, and I leave little time to think on what it is I will write. I’m throwing stuff down that I haven’t thought through. It shouldn’t surprise me why it’s so difficult. With but a few words of summary, how do I expect to understand all sides. Or it could be fatigue from my new job and the work it entails. I’ll fight through it until the number above is zero, I hope. As for climaxes and conclusions, at this point, I have no idea, and I’m not willing to hold my breath to find out either.
Word Count: 2,079
Words Remaining: 13,203
Feeling: I’ve turned a corner. I now accept that the writing is terrible, the story will go no where, and the characters are pathetic and uninteresting. With all of that behind me, I can churn out words with a clear conscience, which considers only meeting the Goal and calling this done. Sure, everything about the story will be terrible and uninteresting, but at least it will be an uninteresting finished work. Every day you should try to learn a lesson. I learned mine today.
Word count: 2,235
Words remaining: 10,928
Word Count: 3,374
Words Remaining: 7,594
Word count: 3,287
Words remaining: 4,307
Word count: 3,875
Words remaining: 237
Word count: 3,526
Words remaining: goal met but not finished (53,477)
Word count: 2,013
Total words: 55,676
Word count: 2,658
Official final word count: 58,470
Feeling: It’s over. Sorry for the lackluster ending and the incredible number of loose ends. I did want the last fight to mean something and tie some of those ends up, but I’ve been thinking about the story too much lately, and it needs too much work to close it properly. When I started writing, I didn’t realize it would all take place in Varis. It makes more sense to me now, and I need to create much more about the town and the reasoning behind the slaughter (if it still happens, that is). I don’t think this part (along with the majority of the writing) will survive in the rewrite (if I rewrite), and with these thoughts, I finished most unimpressively as I barely mustered any will to write the ending. Anyway, I got it done and that’s that. As to quality—well, I’ll write down thoughts later about that. The one truth we all share: there is no such thing as quality in November.
It’s snowing in Seattle (well, it was when I originally wrote this; it took some time to finish, thanks to a bout of post-Marathon writing blues, but modern sewcrates.com technology allows me to pre-date entries, and in that small way, rewrite history as I would prefer it happened). It feels strange saying that in my own voice. But there it is. The Marathon is officially over as of yesterday. As I said before it started, it’s not hard to write 50,000 words—well, let me correct that, it is hard in that the process is at times painful, but it is not difficult to complete. Anyone with a small amount of fortitude and decent typing skills can finish it. Telling a story (I’ll even leave off the “good” part), is a different matter.
I won’t dwell too much on this year’s still unnamed work. I think parts of it were good, and most of it, not surprisingly, was bad, particularly “the writing” and “the story,” neither of which seemed important during the Marathon. The best thing was I fell upon a decent writing process. Using my trusty Moleskine, I managed to take a few notes while writing about my plans for the story and even some ideas for the rewrite. This turned out to be rather effective, more so than the type-random-words-and-hope-something-happens strategy I employed last year.
I’m unsure what will happen with this year’s entry. As I was writing, I had thoughts of rewriting it after November (and, of course, the book tours and large money sacks that would result). I won’t know if I’ll return to Varis until I reread the mess probably sometime next month.
Word count: 2,030
Remaining words: 47,970
Feeling: I wrote too much exposition and not enough of the story. The ideas were there and I wanted to get them out. I was also guilty of editing quite a bit. First day jitters, I hope. Once I get into a better flow, I will stop worrying about style and grammar and substance, and start barfing on the page. Trust me, I’m a big fan of barfing. It’s just that it takes a while to find the sweet spot when I stick my finger down my throat. I was stuck at about 1,000 words. I forced too much. I was afraid to make things happen. Luckily, tomorrow is a brand new day, with another 2,000-word goal. Oh joy.
Word count: 2,078
Words remaining: 45,892
Thoughts: I realized I wasn’t enjoying myself with yesterday’s writing. I tried to change that today. The name “Ashken” reminded Julie of Ashton Kutcher. While this pained me greatly, I did like the name “Ashken” when I thought it up, and since I like to pretend Ashton Kutcher does not exist, Ashken stays. Sorry, Julie! (Although, now that Julie told me this, every time I type Ashken, I think of Ashton. It hurts me physically to admit this.) I have nothing. I thought today I would enjoy this, that the story would begin to flow and characters would reveal themselves. Instead, I brought in uninteresting characters to do uninteresting things. Isn’t it nice to have a place to waste words? Too bad these words don’t go toward my count. I could write thousands of these. Now, if I can only write a few hundred more of the other words, I can call this a day. Two days and my anxiety levels are increasing. I can’t wait to see how I am tomorrow. Things improved when I wrote past the thousand mark. I went back and filled in all the holes I left in my earlier writings. Sometimes it’s easier and more efficient to flesh out a scene than to write a new one. Now, if I only knew what the next scene entailed.
Word count: 2,097
Words remaining: 53,795 (6,205 words in)
Feeling: I know it’s terrible. The writing. The story. The typing. But that’s what this is all about: writing lots of terrible things. This is one of the reasons I put a lock on the writing. The less people that read the first draft, the better I’ll feel—irrespective of what I’ve said in the past about not caring about my non-existent audience. The last half was easier, faster. The not caring about the writing and the not editing certainly helped. I really wanted to get my characters out of the house—but it wasn’t to be today. Until tomorrow.
Word count: 2,298
Words remaining: 41,497 (8,503 total words written)
Thoughts: I don’t know how many times I had to remind myself that this is only a first draft today. It wasn’t that I edited—I’ve outgrown that nuisance. It’s just that I can’t stand how terrible my writing is. I know it’s bad when I’m writing, but I keep putting one word in front of the next, taking the steps that I know bring me closer to my Marathon goal if not my real goal. I spend most of my fantasies on imaging rewriting my old stories, turning them into something they’re not. Okay, enough procrastinating. I’ve found the secret to word output: write on a computer with flaky internet access.
Word count: 2,253
Words remaining: 39,244 (10,756 words written so far)
Thoughts: I wrote a few lines, particularly some of the dialogue, and felt like sticking an ice pick into my eyes. I somehow resisted the urge and left the words in to increase the count for the day. I started late but found the words rather easily. Action scenes seem to eat them up rather quickly. Shakespeare none of this will ever be. Okay, so I deleted the disgustingly horrible dialogue. It was terrible. Truly terrible. You’re probably asking yourself how it can be worse than what’s currently there. Trust me, if you read it, you’d probably go blind. I’ve done you a favor.
Word count: 2,314
Words remaining: 36,930 (13,070 words written so far)
Thoughts: It was difficult starting today. I lost some momentum after yesterday. An inner part kept telling me that I’m wasting my time, that my story is valueless and hopeless, and if true (and it’s hard to argue that it’s not true), why would I bother continuing with it. And to that inner part I responded by typing, as I do each day, the “Word count:” and “Words remaining:” headings, knowing that at some point today, I would fill them in and post this. My inner part does have some interesting points. This is not the time, however, to analyze those arguments. That’s for December. It was a struggle getting any of these words down. I did have a direction, thanks to a discussion with Julie about my story. It felt good telling her the story (she is a bit behind on the reading). She made a few suggestions, and I took them. I realized with her help that it was time I moved the story forward. I knew what had to happen, but I was too lazy to make it happen. It’s not that I had any feelings one way or the other (with this bad writing, how can anyone have feelings?), I was just tired of this whole scene and I wanted it done with. Today’s mantra: write to the goal, write to the goal.
Word count: 2,296
Words remaining: 34,634 (15,366 words so far)
Thoughts: This is the first words. I stared at the blank page for what seemed an eternity today. I figured if I can’t write the first words up there, I’d write the first words down here and see if that gets me typing. It did. So many death soliloquies. I knew I had to get parts of this exposition out, but I didn’t realize how painful it would be to write. Yes, I know, “just die already, Tenos!” I was thinking the same thing the entire time I was typing away. Luckily, this writing is about words, and the easiest way to write words is to stick them in a dying man’s mouth, or so I learned today.
Word count: 2,003
Words remaining: 32,631 (words so far: 17,369)
Thoughts: This is going to be a long night of writing. After yesterday’s deathfest, I’m fresh out of ideas and places to go. That’s not completely true. I do know where the characters will go, I just don’t want to take them there. Surprise, surprise. I need to think of something clever to get this moving again. I thought a game of Freecell would help. It didn’t. Don’t believe those little voices in your head. They’re usually trying to lead you astray. At least I can write filling. Today was about filling. I was hoping for the creamy filling. I settled for stale and stifling. Terrible, terrible, terrible! The misery, the pain and horror and all sorts of dark and nasty thoughts. I take deep breaths and try to push over one thousand. Just a hundreds words at a time, just another hundred and you’ll be done soon. Really. Can this story move any slower? Can nothing happen for this many words before my computer explodes? Stay tuned until tomorrow to find out. I need an outline of scenes. I need to know where this is going, what I’m going to spend my time on. If I have to spend my writing days like this much more, this will be an impossible month. Much consternation today. Much wasted consternation, I should say. Much resist sticking my finger down my throat. Must. Resist.
Word count: 3,059
Words remaining: 29,572 (words so far: 20,428)
Thoughts: Today was easier. The story is no better, but the words were not painful (at least on the way out—no idea how they’ll feel on the way in). I guess I should be thankful for little things.
Word count: 2,091
Words remaining: 27,481 (words so far: 22,519)
Thoughts: Today did not flow as well as yesterday, at least in the beginning. I kept starting and stopping, and the siren’s call of the internet was, well, siren-y. But things happened, and they happened of their own volition. It’s not necessarily what I had planned, but when the drumming starts, what am I supposed to do? March forward, of course. I did start figuring things out toward the end, though. It's weird how things start becoming clear after I've written them--like some of the foreshadowing that I had no idea what it meant until now. Strange things are afoot in Washen's Enclave. Strange things.
Word count: 2,261
Words remaining: 25,220 (words so far: 24,780)
Thoughts: Ah, I thought I had something today. I had big plans and I felt the words would roll out of me. Again, I admit I was wrong. Now, if I can only fight through this and get my words for the day, I’ll be happy. Another day where I felt my writing, my dialogue, my descriptions, my inane internal discussions were absolutely painful and worthless. Oh well. I’m keeping to the goal. On days like this, all I can think about is first-draft quality, first-draft quality. Almost halfway done!
Word count: 2,475
Words remaining: 22,745 (words so far: 27,255)
Thoughts: Not a strong day. But things kind of happened, I guess. And there were words of some sort, so I guess that’s good. I need to move forward and get away from this constant fake action. Maybe get back to more thinking and doing nothing. That seemed to make the words move faster or something.
Word count: 2,017
Words remaining: 20,718 (words so far: 29,272)
Thoughts: The blank page scares me today. I have to stand up to it. I’m bigger, stronger, and by golly it’s not going to scare me. Not again. Can’t I just kill all my characters in a large fire and be done with this badly thought-out, worse-ly written story? Isn’t that how all happy endings happen? Okay. I’m going to start writing now. Enough of this white page staring. That’s 69 words I wish I had written for my story. Help! It’s still not happening. Agh, this is going to be another one of those days with another one of those bad sections that don’t make any sense (unlike the rest of my nonsensical story). I was very tired when I finished writing this. I was out late, and I wasn’t able to finish it earlier as I had planned. Some of the plot points kept changing—I’m sorry for the inconsistency to my one reader. I do have an idea about where this is going, but I made some wrong choices along the way. Who am I kidding? I have no idea what I’m talking about anymore. I’m just trying to make my word count. I’ve given up on this whole notion of “coherency” and “storytelling.” Now I’m all about word count. If two words make sense together, consider that sentence a good one. Unlucky 13.
Word count: 2,267
Words remaining: 18,461 (words so far: 31,539)
Thoughts: I experimented with a flashback to see if it would get me out of my funk. I should stop wasting my time with politics. I’m just not good at it. And writing too. I’m definitely not good at that. At least the words came easier today. I spent most of the time telling instead of showing—but somehow, the telling ate up the words. I guess there are worse things. Now, if only I spent October telling so I could have spent November showing, the world would be a better place and dogs and cats, well, you know where I’m going with that. It’s getting worse. I’ve completely lost all coherencies in the story. I don’t even know where it’s heading or what it’s about. Ah, now I remember: words. Lots of them. This will be heading to the trash bin soon enough. I just need to cross the line to start crumpling.
Word count: 3,050
Words remaining: 15,411 (words so far: 34,589)
Thoughts: It started terrible, but toward the end, the caffeine fought my headache, and I wrote words.
Word count: 2,042
Words remaining: 13,369 (words so far: 36,631)
Thoughts: Okay, so I managed to say nothing in 2k words today. I don’t know why I couldn’t move the story forward (as if there is much of a story to move forward), but I couldn’t and didn’t. I guess there’s always tomorrow. At least I ate up more words. Mmm…tasty.
Word count: 2,398
Words remaining: 10,961 (words so far: 39,029)
Thoughts: I need to keep moving and stop trying to write filler, at least on my first run through the words. Filler is time consuming to create. I will write short and sweet sections, and then go back and fill in the gaps later to pad the words. Yes, I’m writing instructions for Marathon writing after my terrible efforts yesterday. I’m hoping typing worlds will get me moving again. It feels like I don’t know where this is going and because of that I can’t go anywhere. Not that there’s anywhere I can take this story that would be interesting or worthwhile. I’m thinking of it backwards: I have to write it first and then once I’ve written it I’ll find out where it goes. That’s much easier said than done.
I’m leaving for Taiwan tonight. I will continue writing every day but I might not be able to post every day. Until that number above passes 50,000, expect me to keep plodding away. (Another five days should do it. It won’t be pretty but it will be finished.) Things may get a bit challenging with the loss of a day on the flight. I’ll try to figure out whether I have to write on the plane, or if I can write tomorrow—I mean Sunday night. Time zones are very confusing.
Word count: 2,146
Words remaining: 8,825 (words so far: 41,175)
Thoughts: And the story continues to make less and less sense. As Ashken thought to himself, “This was making less and less sense.” I’m okay with that. I have about four more days of writing left, and I expect there to be a very abrupt ending once I reach the Goal. I’m done with this story. I fully accept that this was a failure in the storytelling sense. I had such big plans: robots and samurais and lost religions and finding meaning in choices and growing up. But alas, none of that came about. All I ended up with was meaningless whiney characters who didn’t develop and do much. And I won’t even go into the inner turmoil or the repeated thoughts. But that’s okay, as I said. There’s always next time and the time after that and the time after that. As long as I keep putting one word in front of the next, I’ll get the hang of this.
Word count: 2,371
Words remaining: 6,454 (words so far: 43,546)
Thoughts: Three more days. Woo hoo!
Word count: 2,729
Words remaining: 3,725 (words so far: 46,275)
Thoughts: I’m biding my time trying to finish. Isn’t filler great? I can say the same thing four different ways and call it progress. Less than two days to go. I already hear them carting the fireworks into position.
Word count: 2,016
Words remaining: 1,709 (words so far: 48,291)
Thoughts: I started late and I didn’t think I would finish today’s count. I thought today would be the first day that I would miss my self-imposed goal. At this point in my “story” (from the word count perspective, that is), I will not miss the Marathon’s deadline (there is more than a week left). But even knowing that, I managed to fight through the slow start and finished my count. If I’m serious about writing every day, then I can’t start making exceptions even for days when I’m tired (check), jetlagged (check), and headachy (double check). Somehow, over the last few days, my skills in word padding have increased tenfold. I wish I used some of these skills earlier in this failed project. Even my thoughts sound padded and forced. Yeah me!
Word count: 1,780
Words remaining: 0 (words so far: 50,071)
Thoughts: That’ll put a wrap on this bad boy story. Sorry for the exposition at the end, but I did have some ideas I wanted to get out, and there was no way I could incorporate all of those ideas into an action filled last scene. Well, except for the very end. That was my little gift to me.
Today was an exceptionally rough day. Julie and I spent twelve hours getting our wedding photographs taken at various locales around Taipei. I was exhausted, and I had to take a quick nap before writing. The quick nap took longer than I expected, and I woke up late into the night to finish the Marathon and this entry. My head is pounding as I type this from a day with too little sleep, too late food, too many little-warn eye contacts, and too much work. Julie is asleep as I pound out these last sentences. I’ll hopefully post these last two entries tomorrow and call it good. Or, at least, call it done.
It’s over. The Marathon, that is. I stuck a fork in it last night. I still don’t have a name for my “finished” story. From the looks of those quotation marks, it should be obvious my thoughts on the work. When it comes to saying nothing in many words, I have this exercise down to a science. I haven’t yet decided if this year’s writing is worse than The Pink Sweater or only almost as bad as The Pink Sweater. (I’m weaning myself away from using too many words to say something insignificant, if you hadn’t noticed.) Either way, I am once again not happy with my plot, story, or characters. And the writing, yeah, that wasn’t too good either. But other than those minor complaints, I’m generally satisfied with this year’s efforts. November is about making the Goal. The published best-selling-novelist part comes later (much, much later).
At its essence, the Marathon is about perseverance. Chuck in his wonderfully inspirational Nanowrimo podcast, The Sixty-Second Pep Talk, spent an episode talking about this. Everyone is capable of completing the Marathon. For most people, the difficulty arrives between capability and performance. A real marathon requires a certain level of fitness before a runner can even think about starting their training. The Marathon (with a capital M) requires only words. And, as I aptly demonstrated this year, the words don’t even have to make much sense when placed together. The real skill necessary for the Marathon is the ability to sit in front of a computer screen or blank paper each day and writing to a daily quota. It’s that simple. Okay, I’ll admit that it is easy for me to say that now that I’ve completed the Marathon. And perhaps it’s a bit simplistic for me to think that it doesn’t require any training to write 1,667 words in a day. Some people have not written a total of 1,667 words since completing school. What I meant to say is that at its essence the Marathon is about moving fingers for a month. The doing is hard work. But you have to ask yourself, if it wasn’t hard work, would it really be worth all that much?
With that said, this year was a struggle for me. There were many days where I started later than I planned, and then invariably blamed Julie for my procrastination. She would insist that we eat around dinnertime, and I would roll my eyes and point my finger at her and claim that she was single-handedly attempting to hinder the talents of a would-be-best-selling novelist with her insistence on sustenance. I would always feel terrible later, and crawl back to her to apologize profusely. As always, Julie understood and supported me by dealing with my insanities. She even tried to assist early in my story planning. (She’s very helpful with my planning. Remember, she rescued The Killton Academy for the Insane from terribleness.) But after the first week, I realized that her help was no longer necessary because there was nothing to plan as I did not possess even the semblance of a story.
After I arrived in Taiwan, my last four days of the Marathon were particularly painful in the literal sense: late-night headaches ascended from the lowest levels of hell to torment me as I stared at a blindingly bright screen in a darkened room attempting to convince myself that the pain would go away if I wrote just one more word. For the record, the pain did not go away with each word. If anything, it intensified into a blinding point of insanity until I finished the two-thousandth word and put down the computer for the healing confines of blissful sleep.
But the worst part of this year’s efforts were the uncountable days and nights where I sat in front of my computer knowing that my story had ground to a halt, my characters had abandoned me (and never bothered to write to at least let me how they were doing), and my plot, well, my plot, which had seemed so promising in my head weeks before, had turned out to have abandoned all semblance of coherency only to be replaced by a vacant pit so deep and discouraging that I was divinely gifted in the most visceral sense with the knowledge that this year’s story was an unmitigated failure. (Chuck wrote me mail as I penned this entry letting me know that I may be too close to the story; that it only took me 40,000 words to find a story peeking out of the ground. I wish to thank him for his sincere encouragement. I must be still too close to the story to consider anything more than an attempt by a good friend to keep me writing no matter how terrible the output.)
Through all these obstacles and excuses, I did manage to write my 2,000 (well, 1,700 on the last day to hit the Goal) words each day. And I even came away with a few nuggets of wisdom:
I’ve grown to accept first-draft quality in my Marathon writing. It took me a few days of writing, but I somehow managed to write without worrying about quality. Part of the cause was my decision to lock my writing. Although I did unlock the story for a few readers, my knowing that most people could not see the writing quality lowered my fears. (For as much as I claim not to care about the readers, I obviously do care—even if there are no actual readers besides the ones for whom I unlocked the writing, with the exception of my Mom, and as the above should make aptly clear, she did not miss much.) I’m hoping this first-draft acceptance spills over into my short-story writing. It’s a good skill to have because when I get around to it, I’m much better at the second and third draft than the first. The trick, of course, is getting around to it.
I discovered that saying the same things multiple times was good not only for my word count, but also for the quality of the story. I know that sounds ridiculous after everything I’ve said about how bad my story was this year. I have a tendency to keep my writing short and to the point—it’s the same tendency I have when speaking. When I talk, I am always watching the other person for the first signs of boredom. That doesn’t always allow me to relate my ideas fully. There are times where I stop talking, even though it would be better if I continued to explain the idea a few different ways. Similarly, when writing, I sometimes say too little to fully develop the idea. I leave too much unsaid about what I already know but the reader has no way of knowing. Repetitiveness, at least in a first draft, is better. There’s always the cutting floor after the second draft.
After writing 2,000 words for the past twenty-two days, I’ve decided not to take a break. If I want to pretend to be a serious writer, then I have to write every day. I won’t promise 2,000 words every day (today I came up a few hundred short of that goal), and I certainly won’t promise that the writing will be of any quality or related to a story. What I will promise is that I will sit down and pound out at least 1,000 words of musing or story or story planning, or some combination every day. We’ll see how this works out.
Word count: 2,108
Word total: 2,108
Words remaining: 47,892
In the past, the first days were always scary. Today was different. I had few expectations going in, and I just started writing. It was terrible, of course, but it was words. Not surprisingly, nothing happened. I had one piece of action planned for today, and I never got there. Simon, my protagonist, started on his porch and ended on his porch. He was wetter than he started but in no way changed. Something may happen tomorrow. I never can tell.
Word count: 2,012
Total words: 4,120
Words remaining: 45,880
I made it to where the point I hoped to arrive at yesterday. That’s where everything fell apart. I pushed through the rubble and ended with enough words to call it a night. I have no idea what to do with this mess tomorrow. It might be time to introduce characters or a goal or a story or something. I’ll worry about it then.
Word count: 2,089
Total words: 6,209
Words remaining: 53,791
This started as a bad day. I wrote late because of a morning headache—I either slept too much or not enough. It’s always difficult to tell. I’m writing these words after finishing only forty words for the day. I have no idea what should happen in my story. I’m spinning around describing things in the hopes that a description triggers more words.
I eventually moved beyond my bad start. I introduced another character. If my protagonist is going to do a quest, he’s going to need a gang of friends with him. You’ll be happy to know the writing is terrible. I remember terrible from my previous attempts, but some of today’s words...I’m doing you a favor by hiding them. Aren't consternations fun?
Word count: 2,096
Word total: 8,305
Words remaining: 41,695
I can’t believe this is only the fourth day. Things are not looking good. This started as another painful day. We’ll see where I go with it. I’m not feeling very good about the writing. I know that what I’m writing is not important. I just can’t seem to get past it today. Depression struck as I stared at the screen. I’m not sure where this will take me, if anywhere. I’ll keep pushing words and hope for the best. I guess I have to think of hope and springs and eternity. I’ve spent most of my time flipping between Word and the Internet, writing a paragraph every thirty minutes or so. This is getting ridiculous.
Where the last few years, I ran out of things to say or said things badly, I at least had a plan of what to say. Unlike this year, where I’m afraid to reread what I’ve written because I know it’ll not make sense. I need a break. I need a few hours of deep thought to see where to take this. I need to stop consternating and get writing. The one good thing about this year’s writing is that I’m the only one tortured by the words. Sure, these annoying consternations, the only evidence that I’ve written anything, are slightly annoying. But, and trust me on this, they are not nearly as annoying as the two-thousand words of crap written above this fold.
I managed to get the needed words tonight. I took a few steps at the end to try to salvage at least this part of the story. I won’t know if I’m successful until tomorrow. Until then.
Word count: 2,053
Word total: 10,358
Words remaining: 39,642
Today was very busy at work. I finished up my writing at around 9pm. The words came easier and the story took on a bit more form after a few ideas popped into my head last night. I can’t say I’ve turned the corner, but I am hopeful, somewhat. I’m enjoying not publicly posting the words. I don’t have to worry about explaining my sudden and rather drastic changes in direction or story. I haven’t had the nerve to read much of what I’ve written. At this point, it’s probably a good thing.
Word count: 2,060
Total words: 12, 418
Words remaining: 37,582
Work has been very busy these past few weeks. It ended (the busyness, not my job) early this morning. I felt drained the rest of the day, as I do whenever I finish a large project. I didn’t start writing until late tonight, after Julie left for her jazz group practice. After a few false starts, I managed to move the story in a definite direction. Not sure if it’s a good direction, but I was sick of the stagnant conversations and my continued failure to take my uninteresting characters and have them do anything.
Word count: 2,085
Words total: 14,503
Words remaining: 35,497
Today was another late night start. We went to our favorite restaurant for dinner, and then played a bit of Halo 3 with Steven. We’re one level away from beating the game on Legendary. I don’t have much to say about the story or the writing. The words speak for themselves. I wish the story would do the same.
Word count: 2,071
Words total: 16,574
Words remaining: 33,426
I feel as if I’m writing only for the sake of writing words. For every two thousand words I write, there is less than ten words that are any pat of a possible story. The rest is useless filler. It adds nothing to the color or the actions or the characters. I don’t want to complain and consternate here, but that’s all I feel like doing after slogging through another day’s work. I did strike gold: I took a person at work that I’m beginning to dislike and stuck them in the story. The description alone was enough to entertain me. Now, I have to somehow have this person turn out evil.
Word count: 2,035
Words total: 18,609
Words remaining: 31,391
Another day, another dollar.
Word count: 2,033
Word total: 20,642
Words remaining: 29,358
Today was an easy day. It’s amazing how I manage to drag out the simplest of actions. It took me all day yesterday to visit a rest area. Today, my characters managed to get out of the car. It was touch and go for a bit, but after two thousand words, they managed it. Sort of. There’s some sort of monster or something that I’m building up to. Or at least that’s what it looks like.
I’ve given up asking why I bother. Sure, I can meet the goal every day. It’s easy. The real trick is whether any of these words will ever be worth anything. I guess I’ll stop kicking myself and keep writing. It does raise questions about whether I will do this again next year.
Word count: 2,122
Words total: 22,764
Words remaining: 27,236
Word count: 2,048
Total words: 24,812
Words remaining: 25,188
I am rapidly approaching the midway mark of this year’s marathon. Things happen regrettably slow in my story. At this stage, I don’t have much hope for what I have written or what I will write. I guess at a certain point, value or content doesn’t mean much. I am way passed that point. I will keep pushing forward until the end. It’s the least I can do.
Word count: 2,076
Words total: 26,888
Words remaining: 23,112
Do you notice how I swap “words total” and “total words” each day? Yeah, me neither. The story moves along. I complete one thought or action a day. Thankfully, I drag out that thought or action to the full two thousand words, allowing me to sleep well, safe in the knowledge that all is good with the world because I am on target.
On happier notes, as I was writing, I was installing a Windows Home Server on a new computer I built. For $400 I pieced together a rather nice looking computer from spare parts. It worked on first boot, which is amazing looking back on my last experience putting together a computer. I still have to finish configuring the software, but soon I will be able to watch my DVD collection from my server. I know, it’s the little things that make me happy. The very little things.
Word count: 2,024
Word total: 28,912
Words remaining: 21,088
Word count: 2,024
Total words: 30,936
Words remaining: 19,064
It’s very late and I’m very tired. This was another painful day. We watched “Shaolin Soccer,” a rather enjoyable Chinese film, and ate a comforting pizza before I sat down to write. It was a good evening until I spent the last two hours banging my head against the screen. Tomorrow is Friday. I am looking forward to Friday.
It has begun. You might see this Horrible for quite a while. Watch
sewcrates.com to see how things are going.
Update: I figured I'd take a few moments to report back on how things are going. I'm a bit more than halfway through the horror show. I have only drawn one Horrible during November, so I decided not to dip into my backup store until I finish.
I'm looking at this break in a positive way: I was floundering a bit in my newer doodles looking for topics. I would draw the little guy and then stare at it for long periods, not sure what situation I should put him in. It turns out, except for my movie/anime drawings, I rarely put my horribles in "situations"--which is similar to my storytelling where I don't actually tell a story.
That's enough consternating. When I do return to full form, I promised myself I would not do this as much. I need to be more positive. Move forward, make the world a better place, cure cancer, you know, be good.
Word count: 2,023
Word total: 32,959
Words remaining: 17,041
The weekend is very welcome. I need to catch up on some sleep after too many late nights (not all caused by writing). I also have Windows Home Servers to play with and new Zune waiting for us in the FedEx delivery center. Fun all around.
Word total: 4,405
Words total: 37,364
Words remaining: 12,636
If you hadn’t noticed, I missed posting yesterday. I wrote about two hundred words early in the day, and by evening, a massive headache and a scary cough descended on me. I’m not sure what brought it on, but after watching a late movie with Julie, I went to bed without writing. It was the first day in my Nanowrimo history where I had not met the Goal—at least as far as I remember. There were a few days in the past where I fell asleep before meeting the goal, only to wake up in the middle of the night to pound out the remaining words for that day. Yesterday, I did not wake until late this morning.
When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I immediately began pecking on the keyboard. I aimed to finish yesterday’s words. I surprised myself moving past yesterday’s goal and hitting today’s by mid-afternoon. I spent much of today writing exposition for what should have happened earlier. It’s not exactly good storytelling, but at least it provides a somewhat fragile framework for what could have been a story. I will continue pushing through the last six or so days of writing. I will not have actually told a story, but I will have successfully written lots of words.
I have been formulating plans to write after finishing. It is unlikely that I will tell many more stories. I plan to write often about interesting topics, interesting to me, that is—and I’m using ‘interesting’ in the sense of writing about things I care about, not in the way of blowing off people I don’t want to hear. I’ll give it a go after finishing this year’s Marathon. (And, yes, I realize how easy it is to plan and how difficult it is to follow through with plans.)
Rereading the above has given me a headache. I have included editing as a big part of my going forward plans. The Marathon does a few things very right. What it also does is destroy any ability I have to write coherently
Word count: 2,074
Words total: 39,438
Words remaining: 10,562
Today was a good writing day. My exposition continued and the words came quickly. I finished early to be done before a free work dinner. I was left with only the last hundred words and this summary for when I returned home. Because I was not home to cook Julie dinner tonight, we now have a full duck roasting in the oven. I won’t be awake when it’s done (or when Julie turns it over four more times and coats it with the Chinese basting sauce), but Julie will eat at midnight. For now, I am going to post this and head to sleep. The day before a vacation always means lots of work to finish.
Word count: 2,013
Word total: 41,451
Words remaining 8,549
I hit the single digits—that is, the single thousand digits. This is a good day. I have only about four or five days left in this contest. Today moved a bit slower than the last two days, but I hit target and threw down more exposition and perhaps set up a bit of action for tomorrow. We’ll see if I ever hit that action. Ziggy is upstairs locked behind his new and improved gate. I’ll post about it when I download the photographs. He’s whining and clearly not impressed by my handiwork.
We leave for NYC tomorrow. When I return to Seattle, the Marathon (and two oversized turkeys) will be a thing of the past. I will have more to say about pasts and futures then. For now, I am going to bask in my last hour alone in the Castle. Julie is at her Jazz group practice, and the men (or at least man and dog) are left along to rule the nest. I’ll spend my freedom watching television. Nothing says freedom like doing nothing. Nothing.
Word count: 2,148
Word total: 43,599
Words remaining: 6,401
We’re flying to New York City. It’s been a stress-free travel day. We dropped off Ziggy this morning at the boarding place. He passed his Doggy Day Care exam, where they put him in a room with two other dogs to make sure he didn’t tear their legs off. While he tried, he has very weak jaws, and they checked the “Plays Well with Other Dogs” box, allowing him to join the day care.
We arrived at the airport a few hours early. I always try to get to airports early. When I travel, I tend to stress on missing flights and connections, and when I’m early, my stress levels go way down. We completed our shopping, ate breakfast, bought a book and magazines, and settled into the airplane. We lucked out with a pair of exit row seats, and after boarding first (Julie flashed her Continental airline Elite card), we settled in for the long haul. After a quick nap, I finished my writing for the day, and now plan to doodle a bit before a few more naps. We’re currently flying over Montana passing Bighorn on our way to the East Coast. I’ll post this when I arrive in Brooklyn.
Word count: 2,129
Words total: 45,728
Words remaining: 4,212
Two more days and this thing will be complete. The weather in NY was nice today. We met with Steven and Jennifer, and wandered around Brooklyn, before settling in to our first of two Thanksgiving dinners. My sisters and relatives will be joining us tomorrow for a repeat performance, with a new bird playing the starring role. Julie is watching Heroes as I put the finish touches on today’s entry. I finished most of the words this morning. The last eight hundred words, which I had left until we dropped Steven and Jennifer off at the subway station, were more difficult to push out. I guess when you say nothing, saying more of nothing grows uncomfortable.
Word count: 2,226
Word total: 47,954
Words remaining: 2,046
With day two of the Thanksgiving extravaganza, I didn’t get to write much yesterday. After a late-night video game session, I woke up (earlier than Steven and Julie), and managed to write my allotment for yesterday. This leaves me with less than a day of writing to cross the finish line of the Marathon.
We stayed at Steven’s last night, and played Champions of Norrath, on Steven’s PlayStation 2 until three in the morning. We made it past Act II. I rolled a Cleric, which was not nearly as powerful as Julie’s warrior. These games never do the magic users justice.
Yesterday was the unveiling of my Grandmother’s gravesite. The unveiling is a Jewish custom that occurs somewhere between a month and a year after burial. The memorial stone is covered with a white filmy material, and the rabbi says a few prayers before the closest relative, my father’s younger brother, removed the cloth. It was sunny but brutally cold yesterday in the openness of the cemetery.
Afterwards, my sisters and their monsters met back in my mother’s house for an afternoon with the Figatner family. I’m not sure if it was the traveling or the time change or just the end of the week, but Julie and I were exhausted after the first hour with the monsters. They have this amazing power that saps our energy. We napped a few times during the day, before settling in to the huge dinner later in the evening.
Julie and Steven are getting ready now, and we’re meeting Jennifer for brunch in the city. We leave on Monday to return to Seattle.
Words: 2,059
Word total: 50,013
Words remaining: 0
It’s done.
It took me awhile to finish the last two thousand words. I was on the airplane, returning home from New York, when I put a bow on it, and called it a year.
I wish I could say I found a story at the end, that the characters came together and sang in harmony for at least a few stanzas. I wish I could talk about how I found characters with voices of their own; characters who surprised me at different turns. There is a lot I wish I could say about my writing this year.
What I will say is that I once again discovered the worth of these Novembers: they force me through the painful process of throwing down words. This year, with nothing in front of me except a vague idea, I managed to squeeze out at least one good idea as I scribbled. I will not know until I go back through the words in a few months or years time whether the idea remains good. For now, I am thankful for it to be over.
We’re back in Seattle now, tired but no worse for the wear. I’m hoping these are not the last words I write for a while. We’ll see how strong momentum is and how long it lasts.
Since I officially won the Marathon, I could not wait to post a new Horrible in place of the long-running On Hiatus. Here it is. I did not technically draw this with the Marathon in mind (it was drawn back in September), but when going through my collection of unposted doodles, I thought it was the appropriate one to open the festivities. I have much more depressing Marathon-related ones still in the queue.
I lowered the frequency of posting to the Horribles to three times a week. This is in preparation of using a few of my post-dinner/Julie's Jazz Choir hours for activities other than doodling. I hope to write more and perhaps explore a few programming ideas/posts that have been marching around my tiny head. We'll see how that goes.
My Marathon doodles continue. I drew this one about a week before I finished. You can tell what I was thinking at the time.
We've had a busy weekend so far. We spent yesterday in the coffee shop, tennis center, dog park, and visiting Scott to play three hours of Rock Band. My wrists are very tired from all the strumming on my bass, or more exactly a plastic replica with five colored buttons and a cheap switch. Today is equally busy with breakfast, house viewings, tennis, dog park if the weather clears, and pizza dinner. Yummy.
Letters! It's letters! (I drew this after finishing the Marathon.) I love the bruise on top of the little guy's head.
Julie and I are in intense negotiations for a new house. It's quite fancy. Once (and if!) we sign the contract, I'll post photographs and descriptions, and describe the process.
My headaches have returned lately. It might be the stress of the negotiations, or just bad sleep habits. I'm not sure which, but I'm sitting here nursing today's minor headache.
Too many eyes look upon this page. There is much to hide and even more to show. It is the first of October, an auspicious day as it is one month from the first of November, the start of the Marathon. We’re flying back to Seattle after a long weekend in NYC. We left early and often and now we’re heading back. I’m typing with tiny type, avoiding the lingering eyes of those who don’t care enough about what I’m writing to care. A strange woman sits behind me. She’s a New Yorker, her voice shrill, she speaks only in complaints. If I wonder where my consternations grew from, I need wonder no longer. I consternate because I’m a New Yorker.
I wish I had more thoughts about what I planned to write next month. I know a few things: there will be strange plots. The protagonist will learn that there is a world outside of following rules; it will change him when he realizes all that he lived for was a mistake. That in itself is not plot or a story. That will come later. The problem is that it doesn’t always come. I need to force it and pretend like I know what it is more often than not.
I will return to the world of fantasy, where anything I can make up I can make up. I don’t need to worry about things I know. I can worry about things I can never know.
Silence will greet me as I figure out what more I need to say. I will write during lunch time, driving forth a thought or dream or something that will push me to new heights. It will not have the element I hid from people last year. There is no need for such elements. I will push through the elements and pump words and wonder why I didn’t pump before. I will tell a story fit for a video game.
It will be about a wizard coming into his own. A wizard in a world of warriors who know better than him in everything. He is weaker than they until he realizes that there are other worlds that he can tap into. He doesn’t need to live within their rules. His power is not defined by what they can do and what they want him to do. Fighting is not replaced by magic. That is how the magic users work. They learn formulas and algorithms. They don’t lift weights or bang shields. They use their magic to replace the normal martial skills. There is more to the science of magic. There is more to the gifts he was granted than just the words that he thought he received.
That is the world I will write about. It is something more than I expected and hoped for. He carries a sword as a focus. That is the first thing he must do away with. It is his family’s sword, they do not make swords like that anymore, but he must rid himself of it. He must not rely on it or use it as a focus for the power that he reaches for.
Magic is like programming in the descriptions. It’s a way of manipulating the world around him, of creating strategy in lieu of action. The action is in his mind and he moves beyond it to find something.
There is also a king, a true monarch. The monarch is chosen by the prophets who know the thoughts of God. It is Judaism without the rituals, without the truths. It is books that are run by the prophets. The prophets chose the king. The king does not have a family. His family is his nation, and he cannot have children. Princes and princesses would fight amongst themselves. The king would worry about his or her legacy. Such thoughts are removed from the king. It is good to be the king. Until you are replaced. He is not killed but allowed to live out his days with his advisors and the people who once cherished him. He is allowed to rule the smaller businesses.
Okay. So I have things that look like story elements. What is the plot? There is a king with an illegitimate son. The son is the protagonist, he is the magic user who realizes that there is more in the world than using the magic to replace arms. Does he want to become king? He wants to work on magic, he wants to share his magic with others, teach them, show them that there is more out there than what the prophets promised them through obedience.
I still don’t have a plot. Pick something simple: illegitimate son of the king is born. The king protects him. He grows to be a great magic user. His father wants him to be the next king. There is a plot to convince the prophets that he should be chosen. Hilarity ensues.
It’s a start. We need a name for the prince. Jongular. Jan. Jon. There needs to be more characters. He needs sisters and brothers, fellow orphans. The world doesn’t work. The king is corrupt. The kingdom is becoming more martial as it looks around to its neighbors and deigns to rule them. The way you keep a kingdom together, the king tells his advisors, is to expand. As long as you are growing, reaping the riches of others, internal problems, no matter how insurmountable they appear, can be overcome with gold.
There is an evil mother. The mother of the king. She knows of her sons illegitimate children, and she doesn’t want her line to die with her son. She wants them to achieve. She is overprotective, visits them in secret, fills the ears with the secret truths.
Word count: 6,291
Words remaining: 43,709.
Today was a good start. The story was not terribly good or engaging, and I spent most of the time telling instead of showing, but it was a good few hours of heavily caffeinated writing. Unlike most years, I did not have any problem with turning off my internal editor and just writing crap. After I hit around 4,000 words, I went back and reworked a few parts to pad words and change the direction slightly. I wish I had left the end with a hook to start tomorrow. I guess I’ll worry about that tomorrow.
As last year, I decided to keep the writing hidden. It's more for your protection than mine. It is terribly written with no story or words that are worth reading. Perhaps in time, when this is over, I'll go back and create a second draft that is worth reading. Until then, you'll have to accept these brief musings as my progress.
Word count: 5,650
Words remaining: 38,059
I wrote lots of words today. Similar to yesterday, most of them were telling and not showing. I’m comfortable with that approach for now. This reminds me of the last few days of most Nanowrimo years: I get to a point where I’m pushing words to get to the end, and coming up with ideas for what the story should have been. I’m only telling the story in the technical sense. There is little craft involved and the words themselves show little in the way of skill. What I am doing is putting the pieces and characters of the world together. What I need to do is go back through those pieces and turn them into scenes that develop story. I think that’s known as a second draft.
We’ll see how tomorrow goes when I return to work. I highly recommend Marathons that start on weekends. There’s great freedom in having an entire morning with nothing to do but push words.
Word count: 2,787 (14,728)
Words remaining: 35,272
It was more difficult to find the time to write today. I took a big step backwards in the telling. I decided that some of my back story for certain characters made more sense as the actual story. It took a bit of jiggering, but at least I have something of a plot with a conclusion in mind. That I did this with lots of telling again (are you noticing a theme?) instead of showing, I’ll try not to worry except to complain here.
Julie convinced me to restart my Warhammer account this weekend. She needed amazingly little convincing. So far it has not hurt my output, as I’ve tried to finish before late evening. We’ll see if this remains true in the coming days and weeks.
Word count: 2,008 (16,736)
Words remaining: 33,264
With the presidential election (go Obama!) and an incredibly busy day at work (not to mention wanting to save an hour to wind down with, yes, video games), I only managed to eke out my word goal for the day. There’s a downward trend in my count. Putting the words to paper was not painful today. The story moved slowly in a direction (with still little in the way of plot). I’ll take what I can get, however.
Word count: 2,114 (18,850)
Words remaining: 31,150
There was almost action at the end of today’s scene. Almost.
Word count: 2,020 (22,885)
Words remaining: 27,115
I’m approaching the halfway mark. This year’s story is very similar to my 2006 story. If I put both of them together, there may something be there. Throw in a bit of the Pink Sweater and . . . okay, that last part was a joke.
Word count: 2,004 (24,889)
Words remaining: 25,111
An early morning headache kept me from excelling today. I went to the bucks of stars in the morning and stared at a blank screen for an hour before returning home and hiding under the covers until the afternoon. Julie managed to get me out of the house to enjoy a surprisingly mild and clear day with the dogs. My head cleared in the evening and I pounded out words.
Word count: 2,877 (27,766)
Words remaining: 22,234
Word count: 2,098 (29,864)
Words remaining: 20,156
Word count: 2,061 (31,925)
Words remaining: 18,075
Word count: 2,054 (33,979)
Words remaining: 16,021
Word count: 2,092 (36,071)
Words remaining: 13,829
Word count: 2,070 (38,141)
Words remaining: 11,859
Word count: 2,040 (40,181)
Words remaining: 9,819
Word count: 2,010 (42,191)
Words remaining: 7,809
Word count: 2,018 (44,209)
Words remaining: 5,791
Word count: 2,028 (46,197)
Words remaining: 3,703
Word count: 2,053 (48,290)
Words remaining: 1,710
Word count: 1,815 (50,105)
Words remaining: 0
It is done. I’ll write more about my experience tomorrow if my fingers feel up to it.
As you know from my incessant consternations and three-line posts, I spent the last twenty days competing in the Marathon. Yesterday I won. Similar to most competitors in real marathons, the only reward for finishing was a sense of smug self satisfaction. There are no prizes for most words or fastest to Goal or even best written story. This may come as a shock to some people (particularly my mother), but if there were such awards, I certainly would not have won.
As always, I hoped this masochistic exercise would stretch my creative and finger muscles, and move me closer to my goal of writing something worth reading (WSWR, pronounced “wiz-ee-wer”). This was my fifth year finishing the Marathon, and this year’s effort felt easier. I got off to a good start thanks to the Marathon beginning on a Saturday. I spent the first weekend chocking up 11,941 words. It goes without saying that none of them were good. After that first weekend, I devolved into my normal 2,000 words per day, never missing the daily goal (although I did come close twice).
When I start the Marathon, it usually takes me a few days to turn off that part of my brain that wants to edit what I’m writing and make it good. I did not have that worry this year. I went into November with only a few vague ideas of the story that I wanted to tell. I had a few pages of nonsensical notes, and hoped that the muse would push me to the finish line. She did but not in the way I had hoped.
The morbidly curious asked for a synopsis of my story. There were actually two stories set in the same world this year. I had hopes that the two stories would come together. I did manage to bring them slightly together in the last few days of writing. The rest of the time these stories meandered through the no-plot zone, searching for obstacles and finding only bland descriptions with a coward at the helm forgetting to spin the world.
Like most of my worlds, this world involved a small country in a valley completely surrounded by mountains. (My worlds tend to be enclosed—too large of spaces scare me.) It was a civilized country with a class system similar to what was found in the early United States (I’m reading a biography of Theodore Roosevelt—his early life influenced this part of the story).
Living in the caves inside the mountains was a race of people known as elves. They were a short people with an abbreviated life span. In exchange for this short life span, they moved and thought much quicker than humans. They were a wiser people, valuing scholarship and deep and long thought over fast decisions.
The elves rescued the ancestors of the people living in the valley. Every hundred years, there was a catastrophic event that shook the very foundation of the earth. It caused massive damage and famine, and threw a substance known as orange dust into the air. Outside of the valley, the dust was everywhere: in the air, in the water, in the food. The mountains protected the people in the valley from the orange dust, and they thrived.
After the elves rescued the people and brought them to the valley, the elves set up the human government. There was a human council that was elected by the people. Ruling over this council, however, was a monarch. The monarch was a human selected by an elven prophet. The prophet remained the closest advisor to this king or queen. In exchange for the kingship, the monarch was never allowed to marry or to have any children.
Enter our characters. The first was a well-to-do boy in his late teens named Tsomis. He was a university student studying law. His father was on the council and he was popular at the university. He met an elven woman named Sada who was enrolling in the university. This was strange as the elves did not associate much with the humans. In fact, except for the elven prophet, few elves were seen in the valley. The elves were dying off. They lived in their caves and for reasons we find out later, they had few children. They knew their time was limited, and they spent their remaining days in the caves studying and trying to save their race.
The queen was not liked because of her policies, and many of the people blamed the elven prophet who selected her. The council members encouraged this belief, using it for their own purposes to promote a platform of fear, which allowed them to control the council. Tsomis was involved with this platform through his father who was on the council. Sada and Tsomis began a relationship, and after writing many, many words, they became friends.
Interspersed with this first story was a second story that took place outside of the valley in a place known as tent city. The orange dust was heavy here, and the city was located at the foot of the mountain. I introduced four bunkmates named Theodore, Trident, Melinda, and Samuel. They lived in the tent and grew up together in this city. The city was watched over by a bunch of old women and their husbands, who were guardsmen. Only the women interacted with the children in the city, and then only with the oldest of children; the guardsmen remained outside of the city, ostensibly to guard the city against bandits that were said to plague the area. The old women and their husbands spoke a different language than the children, and when they spoke to the children, they spoke with heavy accents. The children did not remember how they arrived in tent city. The children ruled over themselves, with the older children supervising the younger children.
The children worked during the day farming the land around the tent city. The orange dust did wonders for crops, and the crops grew quickly. The children worked the fields during the daylight hours, and spent the evening hours socializing and in some cases learning about the world.
Melinda was the rebellious one of the group, and she explored the area in and around the tent city. She would bring back books she stole from the old women’s tents, and they would learn about the countries outside of the tent city. Samuel was the quiet yet strong type. He was the strongest child in the camp, and the children and even the old women and guardsmen gave him much leeway. He was quiet intelligence but very slow to communicate this intelligence. Trident was the other girl. She was short and sarcastic and timid. Unlike Melinda, she was obedient to the whims of the older children.
Theodore was the main protagonist. He was shorter and sicker than the other children. While all the children’s skin was dyed orange from the dust, his was a deeper orange. His movements were quick but he did not have much strength. Melinda and Samuel spent much of their time in the fields covering for his weakness.
These two stories went on for a while. Eventually, the four characters in the tent city escaped the city at Melinda’s urgings, and followed some guardsmen up a pass in the mountain where the food was being transported. They came upon the guardsmen and the women at one of the passes, and found them froze in stone. This was never explained. Eventually, the four children arrived at the city and were taken in by the council members.
Sometime afterwards, Theodore’s history is revealed (in yet another instance of telling instead of showing): it turned out that the queen and the prophet had been intimate and had a child. They hid the child from the rest of the country. The elves found out about him, however, and whisked him away. The elven prophet did not have any say over his own people. His only power was in the valley. The prophet did not love the queen; although the queen loved the prophet. He agreed to have the child because he knew that was the only way to save the valley and the elves. The queen was heartbroken over that, and let the council rule over the people. The council used the queen as the scapegoat for their bad policies, which they used to enrich themselves.
The elf who took the baby out of the palace did not kill the child. He dropped him off at an orphanage, not able to bear killing a half-elven child when the elves themselves were dying off. Theodore was that half-elf child. The orphans from the valley were used as child labor by the people in the tent city. There was a bit of hand waving on who authorized this; the monarch was involved in this decision.
Sada’s relationship with Tsomis evolved into a love interest. At the climax of the story, the queen and the prophet were assassinated. In the mayhem that followed, Sada ran back to the caves. Tsomis followed her and broke one of the oldest elven laws: he went into the cave after her. He witnessed the funeral of the last prophet, and saw Sada being crowned as the new prophet. The elves captured Tsomis and threatened to kill him as that was the penalty for a human entering the caves.
And then . . . .
Only joking: Sada saved Tsomis because she was in love with him. She saved him by naming him the new king. History repeats itself.
There were other parts involving the other four characters from the tent city. They were never tied that well into the other story. In the end, it petered out.
So there you have it. Another year, another NaNoWriMo. Would I do it again next year? Ask me in eleven months.
We're approaching last year's Marathon. I didn't manage many doodles during that time, but there are a handful. Here's the first.
The sun in shining this morning. Luckily, I don't have a repeat of yesterday's headache. Good times are planned. Good times.
I remember this. I had such high hopes for this year's Marathon. I always have high hopes until the end of the first day.
It's a wonderful Sunday morning. I'm sitting in the bucks of stars, enjoying my Kindle and my computer and the sun shining, visible only in my peripheral. I feel like a new person. I need more days like this pre-Spring day where the possibilities seem endless and the pains distant. I know it's the caffeine talking but I do feel wonderful.
Here's a doodle I eked out during the Marathon. Notice the word count (not scribbles count!). It didn't last long. As soon as the initial euphoria around writing dissipated, so did the scribbling.
Another beautiful day in Seattle. This is our last one, as tomorrow the rain and seasonably cool temperatures return (if you believe the weather people). It was fun while it lasted.
We're heading to NYC on Thursday for Pesach. My Kindle is fully charged and ready. I have lots of reading to catch up on. Our visitor took over most of my evening and weekend reading times.
Word count: 2,988
Words remaining: 47,012
The first day is always hard. It took me over three hours this morning to get a few thousand words. Whether my plans this year will amount to anything still remains to be seen. But I’ve had worse beginnings.
Word count: 2,309.
Words remaining: 44,703 (5,297).
Word count: 2,134.
Words remaining: 42,569 (7,431)
Word count: 2,094.
Words remaining: 40,475 (9,525).
Forgot to post this last night. More hopefully coming today.
Daily Word count: 2,635.
Words remaining: 37,840 (12,160).
Daily word count: 2,196.
Words remaining: 35,644 (14,356).
I had a bit of a headache today (probably thanks to the strange weather—it hailed last night and lightning today). Luckily it’s the weekend, and I hope sleep and relaxation gets me back on track.
Daily word count: 2,116.
Words remaining: 33,528 (16,472).
Daily Word count: 3,141.
Words remaining: 30,387 (19,613).
Daily word count: 2,223.
Words remaining: 28,164 (21,836).
I wrote a tremendous amount of exposition today. I’m not proud, but it did eat up lots of words and set the story back on track. Well, sort of.
Daily word count: 2,029.
Words remaining: 26,135 (23,865).
Daily word count: 2,270.
Words remaining: 23,685 (26,315).
I passed the midway point today. I left off in the middle of another action scene. I’m a bit interested to see where it goes. I had another headache today. The weather has been strange in Seattle. It was sunny and almost warm during the day. It was freezing this morning and raining yesterday. I just wish it would make up its mind.
Daily word count: 2,177.
Words remaining: 21,698 (28,312).
The sun chased my headache away. I can’t believe it is Thursday already. The week and my story are flying by. I don’t want to jinx it, but this has been the easiest Nano in recent memory. As I approach the middle of the story (plot-wise), I can see two paths: either a strong finish where the different plot and storylines come together, or another year where everything flies apart and I end by forcing words to meet Goal. I almost prefer not to know which path will choose me.
Daily word count: 2,344.
Word remaining: 19,344 (30,656).
The first thousand words were difficult today. Then the plot did something unexpected and the rest of the entry wrote itself. My fingers and hands are a bit tired. I can’t seem to press the spacebar accurately anymore. I’m glad for the weekend.
Daily word count: 2,353.
Words remaining: 16,991 (33,009).
Daily word count: 4,215.
Words remaining: 12,776 (37,224).
Daily word count: 2,030.
Words remaining: 10,746 (39,254).
I have to start wrapping up the story. The three plotlines are just starting to cross. I wish I could see the end game. I keep pushing words that don’t bring me any closer to resolution.
Daily word count: 2,032.
Words remaining: 8,714 (41,286).
It took a while for me to say anything today. My hands were hurting and the characters didn’t want to do anything. Somehow the characters not doing anything turned into a wonderful backstory for the villain. How I wish I had this backstory earlier. It would have been fun to describe it. At least it left me with a slight direction for the next few days. I can see the finale slowly forming. I just have to give the characters a little push in the right direction.
Daily word count: 2,049.
Words remaining: 6,665 (43,335).
Still struggling with the ending. Two of the plotlines finally converged in a less than spectacular confrontation. I gave up halfway through the scene when I hit my words for the day. Instead of swords and naginatas swinging to and fro, they sat down and discussed exposition. Talk about anticlimactic. Hopefully the steel will fly when I return to it tomorrow.
Update: Oops. I forgot to post this yesterday. It was sitting in my secret folder.
Daily word count: 2,043.
Words remaining: 4,622 (45,378).
Man, that shark, it’s totally jumped. I can’t wait to see the carnage tomorrow.
Daily word count: 2,391.
Word remaining: 2,231 (47,769).
Almost there.
Daily word count: 2,372.
Words remaining: 0 (50,141).
And so it ends. I’ll write up my thoughts on this year’s Marathon tomorrow. For now I plan to rest my wrists and fingers, start my recovery from caffeine addiction, and try not to think too hard on what could have been.
I started to write a post mortem of Nanowrimo 2009. When I used the analogy of a car crash in my first paragraph, I realized that perhaps this was not going to be the best use of a musing. There were many problems with my story, but even with all the problems it fulfilled my goal of writing again. Looking back through my website, except for notes to my Horribles, I have not written much of anything in almost a year. It was good to write words again, even though I knew I’d never post those words.
This year’s story was about a group of immortals loosely based on the The Highlander movie. The gift of immortality was an incantation that was passed from teacher to student. The immortality spell stopped the aging process. There was a catch: any immortal who cast the spell beyond their 121st birthday lost their soul. They were the same person but they did not have the ability to distinguish between good and evil.
The immortals were loosely governed by a guild. The guild’s primary goal was to ensure that soulless immortals did not run amok and destroy civilization. As the price of immortality, new immortals had to hunt and kill the soulless immortals.
The story took place after the shattering of the guild. On his 121st birthday, Frankie Names, the guild leader, threw a party to celebrate the end of his leadership and immortality. He invited the leading guild members from around the world. At the end of the party Frankie blew up the building and killed all the immortals. He was the only person who escaped the party. Frankie was interviewed widely as the sole survivor of the tragedy. During his interviews, he revealed to the world the presence of immortality.
The story unfolded to reveal this backdrop through the viewpoint of three protagonists. James Pleasant was a Naginata student whose immortal teacher, Tomlin, used her class to identify potentials to recruit. Tomlin introduced James to the bloody world of the immortals. Tomlin was a member of a splinter group of immortals who left the guild before Frankie shattered it. Her group took a more spiritual approach to immortality, believing that they should use their immortal gift to improve the world.
Craig Stevens, an arrogant news broadcaster, weaseled his way into being the first person to interview Frankie on national television. Craig was a skeptic who built his reputation by outing frauds who claimed to have magical or spiritual powers. During the show Frankie whispered the secrets of immortality to Craig before disappearing from the studio. Craig involuntarily received the gift of immortality, and was hunted and forced to join the arm of the guild that controlled the federal government. This fragment of the guild used its powers to control the non-immortals for the benefit of the immortals.
Samantha was a short, overweight dual-sword wielding immortal hunter. She spent the past fifty years perfecting her physical training to the exclusion of all else. After falling in love with Esther from a distance, Samantha attempted to recruit Esther, a tall lithe potential. Esther already shared her body with Henry McDougal, a much older immortal who escaped the 120-year immortality limitation by sharing bodies with other immortals. Henry used Samantha and Esther to help Frankie Names in his attempts to reunite and retake control of the guild.
The story told how the different factions of the guild fought each other for the future direction of the guild. Each faction searched for Frankie Names for different ends. While this internal guild war went on, the rest of the world began to react to the existence of immortals. Part of the world wanted to capture and study the immortals. Another part wanted to learn their secrets by joining them. The factions of the guild used these willing recruits to further their aims in the internal war.
There was more, of course, including an ending of sorts. The story I summarized above is a slightly idealized version of the story I actually wrote. Many of the larger themes and plot elements didn’t come out until the end—usually through overly long dialogue expositions. Also, the end didn’t resolve much. The main characters met and fought and there was resolution only for my word-count goal.
As happened last year (and the four years before that—I can’t believe this is number six), what I ended up with was a rough outline of a story. Whether I will one day go back and actually tell these stories I do not know. What these rough (and wordy) outlines give me is hope.
