NaNoWriMo!

Feel like a tool for not really blogging and never posting comments on other peoples' blogs and then I go and do something like this:

NaNoWriMo starts in about 16 days, depending on where you are in the world. I'm going to attempt it once again!

Will I finish 50000 words this year? If the growth in word count over the last, uh, four attempts is any sign, then yes!

Even if I don't accomplish it, though, I did send them a donation and would like to solicit any of you, who still pop by once in a while, to send them some bucks.

You can donate money. (Which is what I did and have done for the past three attempts.) Or you can buy stuff.

I'm sure the question is something along the lines of "Why should I pay money to a website that encourages failures who think they can write a novel in a month when they've never done it during the other 335 days in the year?" That's not the reason, though.

The reason to donate is the Young Writers Program. It helps to create a curriculum for teachers to set of a classroom version of NaNoWriMo and I think that's a good goal. Why? Well, here's a bit from the A Letter to Families section:

Some of the skills novel-writing builds:

• Fluency: Writing so much in so little time boosts students’ proficiency in grammar, spelling, and punctuation, and will help them approach future writing assignments with ease and confidence.
• Confidence: When creating so much text in such a short period of time, students realize just how much they can accomplish when they put their minds to it. NaNoWriMo leaves young writers asking themselves, “What’s next?”
• Creativity: Creating characters, situations, dialogue, and even whole planets from scratch helps kids think, but it also teaches them how to apply their fanciful ideas to a full project.
• Time Management: Our curriculum teaches students how to tackle a huge project by breaking it down into manageable bites!

Even though it's not mentioned, I bet that at least a few students out of every class that's part of the Young Writers Program will become readers, too. It seems to me that the USA, and the world, needs more people who read things, other than forums, on a regular basis. I wish the Young Writers Program had been around when I was a kid.

Cheers!

35000ish

And another month comes to an end.

Spent USA Thanksgiving at my parents' but ate food at uncle and aunt's house. She served food from Wednesday night to Sunday night. A different type of food each night. I missed ham night, due to pain, but the other three nights I went to were yummy. (Although, the mashed potatoes were disappointing and I learned that if your going to use a hand mixer to mash, put the potatoes into a bowl first, otherwise you leave huge chunks in the pot.)

I brought my Rock Band games and pho-instruments. The Beatles version was quite a success. (As if I expected anything less.) A request was made to bring it back for Christmas, and I will, but I'm also bringing my Wii to force my pa to play. He's such a pooper at trying new-fangled gadgets even if everyone says they're fun and he can hear the joy in their voices as they sing.

Nothin' else to report, that I can think of.

Hope all was well this last month and things will be well into the next.

NaNoWriMo '09 Update

Halfway through the month and I'm only two days behind! Hooray!

Once Again...

Trying is something, right?

Third

I plan to do as well as I did last year.

Fiction Friday #22

NaNoWriMo Part 5

Well, this is it for the NaNoWriMo thing as an actual NaNoWriMo thing. I failed even more spectacularly this year than last year, but that's okay; I knew it would happen like that. I'll probably come back to this at some point, but there are other bits of fiction I want to write more/first.

Here goes, it's the beginning of a chapter or section called:

Durden

One of the things that Tyler hated were malls. Either they're freshly cleaned and smell of disinfectant or they haven't been cleaned for a while and they stink like too many monkeys in a cage. Some people believed that they were for convenient shopping, but how could that be when there are eight stores, with different names, that sell the exact same clothes and three stores that sold games and all the so called music stores sold the same fifteen new albums and displayed DVD, not CDs, in the windows?

There was no variety at any mall, anywhere.

Tyler saw them only as locations built for too large parking lots where people could go inside and still convince themselves that they were going "out." They weren't out, though. "Out" was someplace more interesting than Forever 21 or Pottery Bar. "Out" was some activity that wasn't all about money. "Out" was some food that wasn't timed by a machine so it was exactly the same as all the other hundreds of convenient locations. "Out" was people talking about more than the thing in the window or what's on sale or what's new or the slowness of the escalator. Most people rarely, if ever, did "out."

And yet, here he was sitting in the food court on the second floor, sucking on a frozen coffee-like drink, in a mall. At least it was the open mall on K Street, so it didn't carry the stink of too many people crammed into too small a place trying to spend money as quickly as they were sweating. Not that he was comfortable there, but the gas heat lamps really kept the chill out of the air.

"Durden!" he heard and looked around him. No one. It had to be for him, though. No one had a nickname as stupid as this one.

"Durden!" he heard again, but still didn't see anyone.

"Down here, fucker!"

Tyler looked down into the kids’ play-pit and saw Krystia. She'd cut her hair short and dyed it some sort of fiery orange since the day before, but she was the only person he knew who would call anyone a fucker in public where little kids were in earshot. Most of his friends would only do that in front of their own kids, but leave the rest of the world's kids to be tormented by their own parents. Krystia never had that problem. She figured that the world was fucked up as it was, so who was she to pretend it wasn't? That was one of the things that Tyler liked best about her. Well, that and how every so often she came over to his place, licked his entire body, and rode him until they both burned off a Thanksgiving dinner, but didn't want anything crazy in return.

He stood up and said, "I'll be right down."

"Hurry up," she said, "or I may have to fuck one of these giant plastic animals! The rhino's horn's getting me hot!"

Tyler hurried, but didn't run, to the nearest way down, real stairs. He could hear Krystia screaming the Sex Pistols's "God Save the Queen" behind him. He smiled. She was always doing shit like this. Some days she got a crowd that thought she was doing some sort of performance art and started tossing money at her feet. Once she stood on a corner outside of Kaiser singing the word "bullshit" to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" for an hour; she made fifty bucks. Most of the time, though, people just walked a wide path around her. She'd never been arrested for any of it, though. I guess people figured that she was like the homeless guy down the block by The Crest Theater, only she was cleaner, was supposed to have breasts, and was white; those sorts of things always made people more comfortable.

He got to her just as she, with her eyes closed, was screaming, "NO FUTURE FOR YOU! NO FUTURE FOR ME! NO FUTURE! NO FUTURE FOR YOU!"

When she finished, he put his hand on her shoulder. She spun around and took up her generic Bruce Lee stance.

"You want to watch out, little Durden," she said. "I can, very much, kick your ass onto the rhino's horn." He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She smiled her overly toothy smile and asked, "So, what the fuck am I doing here?"

He led her away from the kids' play pit and said, "Well, you saw what my dad did?"

"Who hasn't? How often do you get to see the fuckin' president have a breakdown? Hell, he's crazier than Regan and Thatcher combine."

"He is."

"So?"

"That's all, really."

"Bullshit," she said, poking his arm. "I call bullshit on you!"

"Ow!"

"You want something." She hit him where she had been poking him.

"Yeah, okay, I do." He tried to fight her off, but it was hard with the drink in his hand.

"What" -- punch! -- "do" -- punch! -- "you" -- punch! punch! -- "want?"

"Help." Tyler backed away from her.

"With what?"

"Shopping?"

"Fuck," she said, and kicked him in the shin.

The things he would put up with to keep his friend with benefits thing going.

Fiction Friday #21

NaNoWriMo Part 4

Didn't get much done this week and what was done is sort of muddled, incomplete sentences and all.

Hell, on the other hand, was what her pre-flight pit stop was supposed to take care of. She got air sick. Not the simple air sick of the movies where a person vomits once into a bag and goes on with the flight, no, she got air sick like most people got sea sick. She started getting queasy when she felt the engines start up. By the time they were barely off the ground, she'd thrown up at least once.

Dramamine.


TV Time

Click --

"The nation is stunned this morning after a shocking speech given by the president yesterday afternoon in which he blamed the people of America for the problems he's been experiencing as president. We go live to Breanne Vanhoose who's in Washington now. Breanne?"

"I'm standing across from the White House on one of the most famous streets in America. But instead of the majestic mansion that's stood for hundreds of years, you'll see only protesters. They're here to voice their anger with the president and the words he spoke yesterday.

"I spoke with a few of the protesters earlier and asked if they knew that the President had gone home for the holiday and all said it didn't matter, they'd be here every day until he came back after the new --"

Click --

"-- the most brilliant thing he's done since he was elected. He's energized the base like no person since Martin Luther King Junior. They're all talking about what he said. They all have an opinion. They all --"

Click --

"-- idiotic move on his part. He's ruined the chances of his party during the next national elections. They're going to loose every seat they gained..."

"Are you suggesting that they made gains in the last election? Because I don't remember that. In fact, I think that President Gandbuth actually brought in up in his statment yesterday


Finishing School, or At Least the Quarter

Gretchen had only one more final and then her first quarter at college would be finished. The final was on a Saturday, though. She wanted to take the person who thought having the last final on a Saturday at three PM, drag him by his short curlies into the quad and let all the students who have ever had a Saturday final give him paper cuts and then pour lemon juice on his bleeding carcas.


Having her two Secret Service agents on campus was annoying, but managable. They lived together in the room next door and, along with Gretchen, shared the bathroom with everyone else on the floor. The Service tried to get her into a building that had suites set up, but her dad insisted that she have a real college experience by sharing her showers and toilettes with sixty other people.

On occasion, she had to attend special school functions and be paraded before the alumni, or parents of alumni, who had money so they'd give the school more. When she didn't want to attend those sorts of things, the president or dean or whoever was quick to remind her of all the compromises the school had to make just to get her Secret Service people into the dorm and wouldn't she like to help repay what would eventually be her alma mater?


At the moment, she was waiting for her father to show up for lunch. The were going to Sophia's for Thai


"Mom here?" she asked, but she already knew the answer.

"Nope, just me," he said, hands in his pockets, strolling toward her.

"Studio?"

"Studio. That okay?" He stopped walking right in front of her.

"It's expected."

"But is it okay?" He took his hands out of his pockets.

"Yeah," she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes and watching a bird start flying behind her dad just with her eyes, "I think it's okay."

"Good." He smiled, his warm, safe smile, one he didn't use on the campagin trail, but saved only for her, and hugged her.

"Hey, Dad." She hugged him back.

"Hey, Gretch."

When they finished, she put her arm though his and they headed off toward lunch.

"So, I caught you're speech on the internet."

He smiled again, "What did you think?"

"It was funny."

"You think?"

"Yeah. So, what's happening now?"

"Larry King called. He said he wanted to go live tonight. Do a special show focusing just on me, like when I was running for President, but this time the softballs the lobbed to me would actually be about the issues instead of that shameful Flock of Seagulls haircut I had when I was a kid."

"And?"

"I told him until I saw him and Ted Turner in a 69, complete with the messy ending, I wouldn't even consider his offer."

Gretchen laughed, "When's the show?"

"Oddly enough, he said no to that, so I suggested the two of them feltching."

Gretchen laughed again.

"He didn't know what that was, so I told him to Google it and be sure to check out some of the pictures and when he was through to get in touch with me." Her dad chuckled. "He hasn't gotten back to me, so far."

Fiction Friday #20

NaNoWriMo Part 3

By the time she got out of the school and into her car, they were running way more than an hour behind schedule and Cindy really had wanted to be at the air force base before her husband got there so they could get off the ground as soon as possible. She wanted to get back home and get to work. It was the only gift she wanted from Marc anymore.

Cindy knew it was odd for a president to leave the White House during Christmas. He was expected to be in Washington right up until Christmas Eve hosting functions and greeting important people from other nations and pardoning turkeys and meeting people who helped buy his way into the Oval Office and also meeting the people who failed to help get people of his party elected everywhere during the last election, and until Marc took office, that's what all the modern Presidents had done.

When Marc had first brought up the possibility of running for President, Cindy made him promise that at least twice each year, for two week stretches, they would spend time at home so she could work in her studio. When he was elected, he tried to talk her out of the promise saying that it was important for the two of them to be at the White House as much as possible because it would reassure the people, since the election had been so close, in the popular vote, at least. He also wanted her in Washington, near him, to show the traditionalists that, as crazy as some of his ideas may seem, being President may be his job, but being a husband and father was his real passion in life, so she couldn't spend most of the year 3000 miles away from him like she did when for the term he spent as a congressman. She stuck to her guns, though. It was bad enough that she'd be away from her studio for so long, but she wasn't going to be away from it all year long and she promised that if he didn't keep his word she would become an embarrassment to his entire administration and possibly for the first time make the American public want a divorced man as heir President. Together, they decided it would be best to take the time around Christmas and Easter since during their first eighteen months in Washington Gretchen would finishing her junior and senior years of high school and they figured since they had uprooted her three thousand miles already, they'd do their best to not disrupt her schooling any more.

A temporary studio was put together for her, complete with tools and a nice electric wheel in the White House because her having a real studio space out in Washington was out of the question, according to the Secret Service, but this temporary studio wasn't the same as the one she had at home or even one she would have set up for herself. The tools were all new and didn't have the same feel as the ones she'd been using at home, some ever since her first clay class her first year of college. The wheel was an electric one; in her studio, she used a kick wheel which gave her precise control over the speed she used to create with. The Secret Service didn't like her mixing glazes at all, let alone at the White House because they couldn't be sure that the powdered mineral and chemicals were actually what they were supposed to be and not something more dangerous, so there was no experiment for new, exciting colors, she could only used pre-mixed things that were shipped in from local colleges and she had to have faith that they wouldn't be awful. She also wasn't allowed to build a high fire kiln, which needed natural gas or propane to get hot enough, so everything she glazed had to be in the same little electric kiln she used to fire the green ware into bisque. What made even this worse was that she wasn't even allowed to Raku, where the potter took the still hot, low fired, glazed pieces and put it in a container full of pine needles or dry grass or paper shreddings (which the White House had plenty of) to create crackled glaze with deep, smoky black lines, or covered it to reduce the oxygen as much as possible to make wonderful iridescent colors, some looked gold, others copper, her favorite looked like oil on the surface of water. If she couldn't use the high fire to give the pottery great strength, she at least wanted to be able to use techniques that made her pottery more beautiful. On occasion, she could take her bisqued pieces to one of the colleges and use their high fire kiln or Raku with the students, but it was always a production that had to be made to look like she was there to teach the students or see what they were learning by sitting in on a class, with cameras around snapping pictures; worst of all, she was always expected to give some bullshit speech about how well the school was doing and how important the arts were for the students to get a well rounded education. And she was rarely allowed to handle anything deemed dangerous, which included hot pieces being moved from the kiln for Raku or even loading her pieces into or removing them from the high fire kiln.

Sometimes, to relieve tension or just to feel the clay between her fingers or to smell the fine dust left behind, she'd go to her White House studio and work. She was never left alone, though. People were always hanging around, watching her or coming in to see if she needed something. If she got up to go to the bathroom or answer a call from one of her kids, when she'd come back she'd often find her tools cleaned and put back in their "place" or if she was sculpting the bits and shavings that she left around her sculpture would be cleaned up and put in the bag with the rest of the clay block. All of this disrupted the whole flow of her ability to create. She needed the bits and shavings close at hand while she was sculpting because the clay had already been warmed and worked and had the same elasticity as the clay in the sculpture. With the tools on the wheel, she had to try and get things back nearly the way they were before she could start again because when she started she'd lay them out in the order she expected to use them as she coaxed the shape into the spinning clay.

The worst thing that ever happened when she had finished for the day, but hadn't finished the pot she was making on the wheel, so she covered it with a garbage bag to keep it moist. When she came back the next morning, she found it accidentally smashed because someone had tried to move it to clean up the wheel for her. She didn't enter the studio for more than a month after that and, for a while, tried to convince her husband to resign and go back to California forever. It didn't happen though and eventually she had to get back to her work because of all the inane photo-ops that were organized for her by the party’s staff.

The best thing about having a studio in Washington, though, was the easy access to a huge variety of different clays she had. All up and down those hills that Easterners called mountains there were clay pits all eager to serve the First Lady. There were several varieties dug up in California, but it was nothing compared to what was dug up from the Mississippi down south to the forests of Vermont and Maine in the north. Wonderful robust clays with a bit a grit perfect for throwing plates, mugs, and bowls that were meant to be used daily by a family or to lend its strength to larger sculptures that stood, dangerously, on thin legs. Fine grained clays that slipped through her fingers like a soap film for making delicate vases and other more artsy pieces, some so thin that she sometimes thought if she held one up to the light she could see though it. Some of the colors were amazing, too. She had one clay sent to her that, when fired into stoneware, was such a deep brown it nearly looked black. She'd had several different clays, coming to several hundred pounds, shipped back to her studio at home, in California, weeks ago so it would be waiting for her to experiment with it. True, she usually preferred to let the clay age for a few years, believing that the micro organisms that grew there helped to break down some of the more rocky components left, but experimenting with the glazes she created couldn't wait. She had to know as soon as possible how well they worked, or didn't work, with the new clays she bought.

The car jostled and they were through the gate. They drove across the tarmac toward Air Force One. Cindy had mixed feelings about this kind of luxury. She liked that she didn't have to deal with commercial airports -- the crowds, the noise, the security -- just to get home, but she didn't like the pomp that the Air Force seemed to think it had to put on when ever her husband used the base. She liked that she could be driven right up to the plane, but she missed having a warm walk from the car to the plane; even when it rained or snowed she had to walk and get wet and an umbrella could only do so much to protect a person when the wind gusted right into his or her face. She liked having a private plane with an amazing kitchen, chef, and staff there to serve her and help her to be more comfortable, but she could help but think that it was an extravagance that wasted tax money, an opinion she'd held since long before her husband seriously thought of running for President. Still, the one thing that had no negative side was not having to deal with other passengers who thought they were better than her. On Air Force One, only her husband was more important than she was, and if she didn't want to deal with the other people on the plane, she could walk away and there was nothing they could do to stop her. That was a luxury she would have paid thousands for on a commercial flight.

The door to the plane was closed, but the stairs were still there, waiting for her. Jan stepped out of the car, first, and took a quick look around to make sure it was safe for the First Lady. Cindy rolled her eyes; she figured that if someone was going to attack her on an air force base it was going to the Air force itself, or one of the other armed forces working with the Air force, and as soon as she was on the base it would be too late and there wouldn't be anything Jan, or any other Secret Service Agent, could do about it. So far, every Air force base had been perfectly safe.

Jan poked her head back into the door way and said, "It looks clear ma'am. You can come out now."

Cindy scooted from her seat to the one that Jan had been sitting on, put her feet out the opened door, grabbed onto the door frame, and pulled herself out of the limo. She straightened and smoothed her suit and took a deep breath to settle herself so she wouldn't try to screw with the young men and women "guarding" the stairs up to the plane. She wanted too, though. She wanted to be like Lucy in England with the tower guards, or whoever those guys with the pipe cleaner hats were called. Sometimes, she thought about stumbling in front of one of them to see if they'd try and catch her, or would they just let her fall like Gerald Ford. It could be fun; painful, but fun.

Before she took her first step on the tarmac, someone put a vice grip on her right arm. She turned and saw that it was her chief of staff, Joclynn Kernel, which had to have been an unfortunate name to grow up with. The name wasn't enough to explain Lynn, though.

Joclynn Kernel was hired simply because she was the youngest and least experienced person who Cindy had interviewed for the job. Lynn came for the interview and she still hadn't finished her Master's Degree, which had been a ballsey move. She also came in as a pretty blank slate. Yes, she'd helped to work on some campaigns and been a Senate page, but she didn't come in to push an agenda on the First Lady. Lynn had wanted to deal with some Take Back the Night things, but she was too young to be very forceful, so whenever she brought an idea or an even to Cindy, it was really easy to knock down with a distraction. Lynn didn't date much, if at all, so Cindy would just change the subject and talk about how well admired Gretchen, her daughter, was at school, always trying to wear some extra cover-up to hide the hickeys on her neck that she got from the boy, or maybe girls, or maybe both, there, then Cindy would ask Lynn how her boyfriend was and act like she forgot that Lynn's ex had dropped out of school and run off to Jamaica with some big titted ditz the summer before their last year in school together, nine months before they were supposed to get married. There were some days that Cindy was afraid that the evasion wouldn't work and she'd have to find another way to crush the younger woman's spirit, but so far, each time, Lynn's face would crunch up and she'd pull her long, dark hair in front of her face, to hide the tears, and start to sob. Cindy would, of course, apologize for the faux pas and hug Lynn back to a tearless state and then offer to leave her for some alone time, to get her thoughts together, and Cindy would leave.

One of Cindy's biggest fears, at least where Lynn was concerned, was that she'd finally go and discover the calming and centering powers of an orgasm, with or without another person's help, and come back to work a driven woman full of the righteous purpose too many of the young people in Washington had before they discovered how the soul sucking system really worked. So far, Lynn hadn't discovered the wonders of meaningless sex or a nice, warm vibrator, so Cindy was still in control.

"Mrs. Gandbuth, we have to talk," said Lynn, pulling on Cindy's arm.

"Cindy, Lynn," said Cindy, trying to free herself from the younger woman’s grip. "You can call me Cindy."

Lynn shook her head and said, "Fine, fine, but we have to talk."

"It can wait, Lynn. I'm getting on a plane. I'm going home. No more bullshit."

"Not bullshit," said Lynn. Cindy looked at the woman because Lynn never cursed. In Lynn's dark eyes was the usual look of uncertainty, but also some fear. "We need to talk. It's about him."

Cindy sighed. "What's the fuck up done today?"

"He... Well, he made an unscheduled speech to the press probably around the time you were getting into the car at the school. He, uh." Her eyes darted around like she was making sure no one was listening.

"Heeeeee, what?"

"He, uh... Well, he blamed the public for everything."

"What the hell does that mean?" Cindy asked, finally shaking Lynn's hand off of her arm.

"It means he stood in the press room and told them that everything that's gone wrong or going wrong with the country is the fault of the regular people out there."

"Shit!"

"And he ended his speech by flipping off the cameras and telling the people to," Lynn's voice dropped to a whisper, "fuck off." Her brown cheeks got even darker when she blushed.

"Okay. Okay." Cindy started to pace along the side of the limo, Lynn following along beside her.

"What are we going to do?"

"So, he ruined his presidency."

"Yeah."

"He's alienated every fucking voter in this nation."

"Yeah."

"He told the truth to the public."

"He did?"

"He's going to have his own party up in arms."

"Yeah."

"People will want to do to him what the French did to Louis the sixteenth."

"Damn."

Cindy stopped her pacing. "It's over," she said, "isn't it?"

"What are we going to do?"

Cindy turned to face Lynn and grabbed the younger woman by her shoulders. "I'd recommend getting your resume all up to date. I mean, even if Marc and I get lynched being the First Lady's Chief of Staff has to mean something, right?" Cindy let go and smiled. "Besides, if we're not killed, I'll see you in about two weeks. I promise."

Lynn took a deep, quavering breath, looked at Cindy with the glassy eyes of a person trying to hold back tears, and nodded.

"Good," said Cindy before she turned toward the plane. "Let's go, Jan. I've got an ass to kick."

Jan walked toward the staircase in her usual long stride, Cindy followed close behind. There was no press to speak of at Andrews today. They were supposed to get dramatic shots of her husband boarding Marine One on the South Lawn surrounded by Christmas decorations that had been around for a long time, some more than a hundred years. Marc had convinced her to go to the stupid school thing because the press on the lawn would be a huge ordeal that she didn't want to go through, and she didn't; she hated dealing with the press. If Lynn was right about the sorts of things her husband had said in the press room, it was probably even worse than usual.

At the stairs, Jan stopped, moved to the side to let Cindy pass, and asked, "You want me to find him for you?"

"Yes," said Cindy, patting her stomach. "I have to make my usual pre-flight pit stop."

"You want us to stay, or take off?"

"Fuck. I want us in the air right away. I'm going home. I'm going to my studio. And no stupid move on my husband’s part is going to stop me. Nothing, short of some sort of rocket could stop me from making this trip."

Jan pulled her sun glasses low on her nose and said, "Don't joke that that, ma'am. It's not funny."

"You're right," said Cindy, stepping up the first stair, "it's not funny. You know where to find me when you find him?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

As she climbed the stairs, Cindy tried to figure out what she was going to say to her husband. She was angry at him in a way she hadn't been angry at him in a long time. Waves of heat worked their way through her body from her feet up and it felt like all the heat was collecting in her throbbing head. She tried hard not the clench and grind her teeth, she did enough of that in her sleep, but it wasn't an easy thing to do. How was she going to deal with this? She wondered if she should just walk up to him and start yelling, or was there a better way to handle it. She figured, though, that no matter how she started, the talk was going to disintegrate into a screaming match for all of Air Force One to hear. She was so happy that this was just a trip home, so there was no press flying with them. She could just imagine her muffled screams being psychoanalyzed on one of those pompous NPR shows by some quack who had never met her.

At the top of the stairs, someone greeted her. She wasn't sure if it was a staff member of someone from the Air Force. She didn't care. She wanted to get out of the cold Virginia December weather and into the warmth of the plane and then get off the ground and in the air heading to her home.

The first thing she did when she stepped through the door was take off her shoes. Her pain in the leg, barely heels. Of all the things she disliked about being a politician's wife, the shoes she had to wear were what she hated the most. When she was a kid, she never wanted to wear heels of any sort. They made it hard to run around and they made walking too much hurt after a little while and they all seemed to pinch in places regular shoes couldn't. The only thing she liked about them was trying to balance herself just on the heel parts when she got bored out of her mind by the wedding or funeral or whatever pointless family event they were at; she'd wobble like a Weeble trying not to fall down. Her mom and aunts and grandma had insisted that she'd get used to them with practice, but Cindy didn't want to practice, so she only wore them when she was forced to. When she finally left home to go to college, she'd stopped wearing them to any sort of function. If people couldn't accept her in decent, clean shoes with soles that totally touched the ground, that was their problem, not hers. When Marc had first gotten into politics, at the city and county level, no one cared about her shoes, but when he got into the state assembly and started getting invited to swanky parties that included lots of important people, her husband's people started hinting to her that it'd be better if she started to wear something that was a bit more appropriate for a woman who was with a man of his rank. So she started wearing them to fancy occasions, again. And as the list of occasions they had to attend started to grow, so did her time out of flats. Now she reveled in those moments that she could put on a worn comfortable pair of Keds and not feel any pain in her calfs. She thought that if there was a heaven, it must feel like a worn comfortable pair of shoes.

Hell, on the other hand, was what her pre-flight pit stop was supposed to take care of. She got air sick. Not the simple air sick of the movies where a person vomits once into a bag and goes on with the flight, no, she got air sick like most people got sea sick. She started getting queasy when she felt the engines start up. By the time they were barely off the ground, she'd thrown up at least once.

Fiction Friday #19

NaNoWriMo Part 2

Marc didn't feel as confident as his smile made him look. His palms were sweating, his heart fluttered, and his stomach was trying to reenact Stomp. He hadn't felt this way making a speech since he was in high school. After that, he had full speech written by him or with someone else or by someone else; sometimes he just had a few notes with him so he would sound more off the cuff and personable; on those rare town hall style occasions where notes would make him look weak, he'd at least have discussed most of the possible topics with his staff before hand. Today, he had nothing. No one knew he was going to do this. His secret service guy for the day, Agent Grant, only knew that the president wanted to go to the press room.

He wiped his hands off on his pants, planted them on the sides of the podium and started to talk to the reporters.

"So, good afternoon everyone, and merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Presidents," a few of the reporters repeated back. All of them looked surprised. Not one of them had expected Marc to come out here the afternoon before his vacation started. Or maybe they were just surprised to see him in the press room at all. While he preferred to greet crowds of regular people in town hall settings so far, since his election two years ago, he'd only ever given speeches to the press and when he was finished he'd be ushered off by aides or secret service or both before anyone could get a question out.

Marc smiled again. No one in this room knew what they were getting today. This would be fun. His stomach flipped again.

"I know you weren't expecting me here today," he said, hand on either side of the podium. "Hell, I can't remember even being in this room since my family and I took our tour of the White House before I moved in."

Most smiled. A few laughed.

"So, I bet you're all wondering why I'm here, right? What would you think if I told you that I'm here to give you and the rest of the American people the greatest Christmas present, ever? What if I told you that I'm here to tell the truth, the actually truth? Not some bullshit" -- the reporters gasped -- " speech that a committee of aides and speech writers thought you wanted to hear based on polls, but the actual truth?"

"We'd think you were feeding us a load of crap," someone in the back had said; Marc wished that he knew the names of these people, but he didn't. The rest nodded and a few mumbled.

"Yeah, I guess I wouldn't believe me, either. I mean politicians, for thousands of years, have been saying they'll tell the people the truth to gain support, right?" There were some muttered agreements. "So, how about I just talk and you listen, okay? And then, later, when you and your editors are pulling what I said apart to find my 'true' meaning and CNN and MSNBC and Fox News are taking things I said out of context to make me look like more of an asshole than I really am, then you can decide if I'm telling the truth." His palms started sweating and he felt flush. He couldn't remember ever feeling this nervous before, in his life. Not even the first time he got laid.

"I haven't spoken about this with my Chief of Staff or the leadership of my party or anyone in congress or even my wife. So, this is sort of a Christmas surprise for them, too. This isn't going to be like the State of the Union which is just bullshit politics. Can ever of you remember a State of the Union address that didn't start off with 'the state of our union is strong'? I can't. And do you want to know something? The state of our union isn't strong. Our union is weak." His fingers dug into the wood of the podium. He had to hold on tight or he was afraid he'd fall forward.

"It's weak and everyone out there is afraid to say so. They know how close to crumbling our nation is, and they're afraid to tell you. Do you understand that? They're fucking afraid. Hell, I've been afraid of it too. But no more.

"What's worse is they don't know what to do about it because they're afraid to try to fix the problems. They spew out 'facts,'" Marc freed his hands from their death grip on the podium and made air quotes around the word "facts." "They spew out buzz words. They get your fear up by saying immigrants, especially illegal ones, are here to take your jobs from you. They remind you that there are scary people out there who want to attack in the night, and not in the honorable way, but the cowardly way; they want to bomb your local Wal*Mart and you have to keep shopping, 'keep American strong,' right?

"I've done it. Dan was up here doing it just a little while ago. He was throwing out statistics and fact and stories to keep you all distracted from the problems that everyone should really be worried about."

He ticked his fingers off as he said, "Education. National health. Global warming and the environment. Farm subsidies Common sense gun control. Debt, and I'm talking about personal debt, not the deep, black pit the last president dug for us. Social Security money for Social Security benefits rather than another freeway through Nevada.

"Instead, you worry about people saying fuck or shit on TV. You worry about video games where characters can rip the scrotum off other characters." He smiled and shook his head. "You try to keep kids from reading books that they can actually enjoy and then turn around and bitch about how kids don't fucking read. And why should they when you get rid of all the good stuff?

"I'm sure everyone out there knows where I'm going with this. You," Marc pointed at one of the cameras, "are pretty much to blame for all of problems. And I'm talking about every adult out there. I'm talking about those who vote in every election. I'm talking about those who vote only in presidential election. And I'm talking about those of you still don't fucking vote. You are the problem. You vote people like me into office over and over again.

"People like me aren't here to make things better; we're here to make money. We gotta support our families somehow and still get elected the next time our term comes to an end. Do you really think we get paid enough to be able to do those things and not get a little extra on the side? And I'm not even talking about the illegal things. Most of us don't even have to do anything illegal because we make the laws that keep us getting paid."

Marc closed his eyes, stepped back from the podium, and took a deep breath. He stepped forward, opened his eyes, and said, "Let me tell you a story:

"When I was a little kid, I didn't live a horrible life. My parent's made enough money so my life was pretty good, but sometimes we'd go into the city and I'd see the people sitting on the street holding cups and asking for some money. I watched the men and women in suits pretend that they weren't even there, like they didn't exist. When I walked past them with my parents, they put me in between them and tried to keep me from seeing the homeless people. I didn't understand and I didn't ask why. And, like everyone else, I grew up not seeing what was around me, not seeing the things I didn't like.

"Once upon a time, though, I thought I could change this. The day I was elected into this office, this grand office, the office of the most powerful man in the free world, the day I knew I'd be president, for a full minute, I thought that maybe, maybe I could change things. Maybe, I thought, this time things would be different and I'd be able to do things that the guys before me couldn't. I'd be the one to get this country going again, to get it to care again. Then I started the job.

"For some reason, you people out there thought it was a smart thing to split congress between the two parties. 'Let's make the House one party and the Senate the other,' you thought. 'Let's see what our new president can make of that.' I thought that, like me, they'd want to work together to make our nation stronger. That when my first hundred days started counting down.

"I don't know where the idea came from, but for some reason, in this modern time, people think that those first hundred days of a president's term are the ones that will set the tone for the whole damn thing. Do you know what I achieved in those first hundred days? Nothing. Do you know how many bills I tried to get through congress? Something like fifty. Do you know how many came out in the end? None. Do you know how many bills came out during my first year as president? Twenty-eight and that includes the budget that almost didn't happen on time.

"I was called the most ineffectual president since Andrew Johnson. At least he was hated and couldn't accomplish anything because he was trying to put the Union back together in an unpopular way. Shit, he was trying to do something that had never been done before, but me? I was just trying to do my job.

"In time, I realized how useless it was, though and I figured that when the next election came around you people would be as sick of the bullshit as I was and you'd actually elect men and women who wanted to make this place we live better than it is, better than it ever was. You didn't, though. In November, you just elected the exact same people into office. Nothing's changed.

"And what, please tell me, am I supposed to do about it?

"Am I supposed to go about trying to do my job and fail because you people want me to? Maybe, but I thought I should tell all of you what I thought first.

"The truth is a jagged fucking pill to swallow and I hope most of you choke on it. And while you're at it," Marc stepped out from behind the podium and grabbed his crotch, "you can choke on this, too."

He stepped back behind the podium, planted his hands again, and asked, "Any questions?"

The crowd was silent. More than one reporter had their mouths open so wide that birds could build homes in there and raise chirping families. Even the ancient dyke who had been sitting near the front row for half a century looked like a deer frozen in headlights. Marc felt great about that. If he could shock someone who'd been covering presidents since Johnson or Nixon, he couldn't wait to see the reaction the "average" person would have.

They'd want him impeached, or dead.

This was going to be fun. The most fun he'd had over a holiday since he was in grad school and spent spring break in Rio de Janeiro drinking anything handed to him and fucking anyone, man or woman, who was sober enough to say yes or drunk enough to start sucking on his cock without even being asked. Thinking about sucking and fucking under the watchful gaze of that giant Jesus still made him laugh. God, that had been one hell of a week.

"Well," he grinned again feeling better about himself and his career than he had since he left local city and county politics, "I can tell by the looks on your faces that you don't have any questions and I have a plane to California to catch. I look forward to reading and hearing all your reactions tomorrow and in the weeks to come. Enjoy your time off and have a very merry Christmas with your families. Hell, give your moms a big sloppy wet one for me."

He turned away from the podium, and then turned back. "Oh, yeah. One more thing." He flipped off the cameras trying to do his best Nixon impression. "Fuck you, too," he said, laughing.

He turned again and walked away from the podium. He stepped down the two steps and headed to the door.

"Come on, Grant," he said to the Secret Service agent waiting there, "I want get out on the south lawn and onto Marine 1 and be on the way to the airport before this bunch regains consciousness."

"Yes, sir," said Agent Grant. He lifted his wrist up near his mouth and said, "People, Peter Piper's on his way to the market."

Marcus Gandbuth felt so good that he had to keep himself from skipping through the halls and out to the helicopter. The world was a wonderful place and it could only get better.



Flying Back Home

Cindy Gandbuth didn't arrive at Andrews Air Force Base until two hours after Air Force 1 was supposed to take off. It wasn't her fault though. She wasn't one of those First Ladies who had and agenda and she wasn't one of those First Ladies who went out of her way to support matronly causes like schools and poor little orphans. Sometimes, though, she had to go out and do crap like that, for her husband, for his career. When she thought of that she'd sigh. She'd done a lot of things for her husband's career. And today was another one.

While waiting to get onto the base, she sat in the limo, staring blankly out the window, thinking of the day before they finally arrived there.

She went out to some measly ass school somewhere out in Virginia. It was supposed to be near some famous Civil War battle, but she figured that was normal Virginia bullshit since, as far as she could remember, the entire state was covered in "famous" Civil War battles that no one wanted to remember except for the good ole boy assholes who lived near by and the anal retentive Civil War buff assholes who thought living their lives through a war that ended one hundred and fifty years ago is a good way to live their lives. The school was also named for some supposed guy who supposedly died in some supposed battle at some supposed time, but he supposedly grew up in the area and supposedly died a hero's death, so he deserved to have an elementary school named after him. Frankly it should have been called "Too Far From Washington To Matter Much" school since its paint was peeling and the heat in the rooms wasn't working and there wouldn't be any one out to fix the heat problem until after Christmas and the paint problem wouldn't be fixed until it all came off and left the building looking like some sun beat abandoned farm house from the dust bowl.

It was for the kids, she kept reminding herself. She was there to bring a little Christmas cheer by showing up and smiling and sitting in the gym slash auditorium slash cafeteria and watch a bunch of kid sing songs and put on short skits. She was expected to laugh and clap and cheer when appropriate so the kids would have their fragile egos protected rather than learn the truth, that their lack of practice and enthusiasm had made for a terrible time.

Worst of all, the time there went on forever. She got there at eleven and ate lunch with the kids, some sort of chunky turkey juice stuff poured over a lump of flake potatoes in the big rectangle on the tray with a scoop of green beans in cream of mushroom soup in the circle to the left and in the three squares on the top were a little carton of milk, a brick of green Jell-O, and a roll. The food was actually okay, not a five star meal or anything, but really good for a little school that was on the verge of falling in on itself. Cindy ate at a table in the cafeteria with the kid surrounding her, with her current favorite Secret Service Agent Jan Stakenov standing behind her the whole time.

The kids were, well they were kid. They were loud and messy. Some of them thought it was strange having a grown-up sitting at their table eating with them and were shy. Some thought it was funny and whispered to their friends about it. Some simply stared. One little boy even pulled the "see food" gag on her, which struck her as a pretty brave thing for a kid to do to any first lady; she figured that any other first lady would have been shocked and taken aback at such a crass display, but Cindy thought it was ballsy and did it right back at him, then showed the food on her tongue to the whole table. When the blob of mashed potatoes and chewed up green beans fell off her tongue onto her tray, they all started to laugh with her, and when she picked the blob up with her spork and ate it she was treated to lots of kids saying "eeeewww" and then more and even harder laughter. She briefly wondered if any cameras had caught her little food show. It would make for quite a story, but she didn't remember any flashes going off at that time. Part of her wished one of the kids had started a burping contest, and then they would have seen her family award winning performance. The lunch with the kids only took forty five minutes. The pageant started at noon.

During those fifteen minutes, the kids ran to their classrooms to get ready and she watched a couple of women fold all the lunch tables up, roll them to some room behind the little stage, do a quick sweep of the entire floor, and put out mats for the kids to sit on. Later, she found out that the two women also helped in a couple of classrooms as teacher's aides and each drove a bus in the morning and afternoon.

It show was only supposed to last an hour, but it went ninety minutes longer. The principal said that when the kids learned that the first lady was coming they got so excited they kept wanting to do more for her. Cindy wasn't stupid, though, she knew that it was when the teachers found out she was coming they thought they'd show off for her by making the program longer. She wasn't sure, though, if they were trying to show her how much they can accomplish on such a limited budget or if they were just showing her how little they had.

If it had only been an hour, the show would have been fine, but by the third performance of kids singing "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer," with the echoes -- "LIKE A LIGHTBULB!" "LIKE MONOPOLY!" "LIKE COLUMBUS!" -- shouted by the audience, Cindy was imagining horrible scenarios of men dropping down from the ceiling with huge automatic weapons and firing into the crowd of children an parents while Jan pulled her out of the room into the parking lot. Sometimes, one of the bullets caught her in the head or chest and she fell to the floor laughing. Other times, Cindy would find a machine gun, somewhere, and open fire on the guys coming from the ceiling, and then she'd hop around the room kicking terrorist ass, Batman style. Still the kids sang on and then performed a scene from A Christmas Carol, then sing, then something from "The Gift of the Magi," and then another song. Maybe if they did a scene from Santa Claus Versus the Martian, with the audience doing some MST3K, there would have been something worth watching after the first hour.

When it was finally over and all the children had taken their bows, she stood up and thanked them and lied to them when she told them that they were all wonderful and she hadn't ever seen a performance as good at the one they just put on for her. She clapped at them and then the teachers started clapping at her and, after a few seconds, the kids started clapping and yelling, too. Cindy didn't roll her eyes. She wanted to, but she didn't. Cameras snapped and flashed around her as she stood among the students and teachers and parents who were cheering her. She hoped she looked grateful. It wouldn't help her husband's career if she looked tired and annoyed in a roomful of children.

By the time she got out of the school and into her car, they were running two hours behind schedule.

Fiction Friday #18

The Fiction Friday posts are going to a different for a little while. Instead of me rushing to write about a thousand words of a story I'm going to post what I've written for NaNoWriMo. I'm not going to post the whole thing over and over again, I'm just going to post the new stuff I wrote between Fridays. So, some may start in illogical places and all will probably end without logic. Just deal with it.

This week's is short because it's just what I wrote all day yesterday and today here at work.

This is the way Fiction Friday is going to go until
1. The first Friday after the 30th, which is the first, I think.
2. I finish the 50,000 word and/or the novel.
Or 3. I decide to give up on NaNoWriMo.

Day Zero

Marcus Gandbuth walked into the press room by himself and stood off to the side of the platform. He didn't want to announce his presence just yet. He wanted to get a sense of the room before he let them know he was there.

More or less, it was a normal Friday before a holiday crowd. About half the seats were filled with their usually reporters only halfway listening to what Dan had to say. And he had nothing to say. There were no big bombs to drop on them this week. No hostages. No attack. No overtime basketball games just ending. Beside, most of the reporters in the press room went over the video tapes that were made available afterward. The only reasons any reporters showed up anymore was in the hopes that they could catch Dan, and therefore the entire administration, off guard with a pointed question, but since the Vice President hadn't been caught sucking geezer midget cock this week, Marc didn't think anyone was going to even try. Besides, they all wanted to get on their Christmas break as soon as possible, too.

Marc cleared his throat a little too loudly and stood there watching the reporters. The young guy in front did a double take and was the first to start staring. Slowly, the other people in the room turned to look at him, too. Then one camera, CNN, he thought, turned and then another and then another, like dominoes being knocked over. Not Dan though, he always focused on his notes instead of the actual people and was reading, word for word, some report put out by the Secretary of Agriculture about the restructuring on some farm subsidies they hoped to get through Congress next year.

Actually, it was Dan's sort of incompetence that helped him get the job of Press Secretary. He could hardly remember anything, so he always used notes. When he was asked a questions, he'd rifle through pages of information trying to find an answer. Sometimes he got lucky and the information was in the top couple of pages, but more often it was somewhere in the middle of his stack. When that happened he start searching and if the search took more than a few seconds, he'd ask all the reporters to quiet down, even if they were already quiet, because he needed his concentration and as he looked through the papers he'd mumble to himself, but into the microphone, that everyone needs to keep quiet. But the incompetence was masterful. By the time he found the answer most of the reporters had forgotten the question, so there were no follow-ups. Marc wasn't sure, but he always thought the reporters didn't ask more follow-ups because they were afraid that Dan would have to go through his notes, again. The best way to keep people from getting the information they wanted was to present it in a way they didn't like.

Once, the Chief of Staff, Alan Zimmerman, and Marc made a drinking game out of one of Dan's press conferences. Every time Dan said quiet loud enough for the camera to pick up, they took a shot. Forty minutes into the conference, Zim was a happy drunk, the kind that figures no one else can tell he's drunk and he wants to go around telling everyone how great they are. Marc just sat and focused on the TV so he wouldn't miss a single "quiet." Neither one of them had much memory of the rest of that day; Marc only had flashes of toilette's and grinding rolling chairs and asking people to keep quiet because he and Zim, they were looking for something so everyone had to keep quiet.

It was probably one on Marc's most productive days since he started working with these people.

Marc watched as Dan finally looked up into the half full room to answer the question he had been asked and noticed that no one was looking at him. Dan looked back at his notes and then at the reporters again. Marcus let his grin get huge because he knew that if he tried to hold it back, he'd laugh and Dan never took well to being laughed at. So he waited.

Dan cleared his throat once and then a second time, more forcefully. He opened his mouth, and closed it, then opened it again. He cocked his head to the left and followed everyone's gaze to his right. When he noticed Marc standing there, he closed his mouth with an audible snap.

Marc smiled as warmly as he could and half waved at Dan.

Dan half waved back.

Marc pointed to himself and then to the podium Dan was standing behind and then to himself again and nodded.

Dan straightened up with a jerk, pulled his coat straight, pushed glasses higher on his nose, and leaned toward the microphone. "Uh," he said, "ladies and gentlemen, I, uh, huh, I give you the, uh, the president of the United States of America. Um, Marcus Gandbuth."

Marc climbed the two stairs as the small group of reporters sat in silence and Dan collected his notes in a messy pile from the podium. When Dan turned toward him, Marc shot out his hand and grabbed Dan's and started shaking. Notes flew everywhere.

Dan and Marc both crouched down and started pulling papers into a pile.

"Sorry, Dan," said Marc. "I know how you hate surprises, but I thought it would be nice to come and talk and, maybe, answer a few questions. You know, as a sort of Christmas present."

"It's okay, uh, sir -- Mr. President, sir."

They got the pile of notes together and into Dan's arms. Both men stood up and Marc leaned in close and whispered, "You may want to watch this from your office."

Dan winced, nodded, and scurried down off the lift.

Marc walked over to the podium and smiled the smile his staff told him won the election. A friendly and confident smile, he was told. One that inspired people to flock to his cause. A smile that dentists could put up in their office to show what years of painful orthodontic work and bleach treatments could do for anyone of any age. And having such a big smile and such white teeth nestled in a light box tanned face made it all the better.

Marc didn't feel as confident as his smile made him look. His palms were sweating, his heart fluttered, and his stomach was trying to reenact Stomp. He hadn't felt this way making a speech since he was in high school.

NaNoWriMo!

Once again, I'll attempt to write 50,000 words in a coherent story in just 30 days!
Will I succeed?
I think not, but I'm going to try!

A Few Bits

The First Bit:

I'm not going to finish the NaNoWriMo thing. A couple of weeks ago my main character started to become me and I really lost interest in writing it. I'm hoping to get another 2000 words out so I'm at least over the 20000 word mark. I may not, though. Who knows.

The Other Bit:

While I enjoyed my time back in Cowtown, part of me wishes that I hadn't gone because it just makes me loathe being here. The city is okay, but it's about to go through a growth spurt that will ruin the small town feeling that it's somehow kept even though there are over one hundred thousand people. Next year starts construction on two buildings in the downtown area that are going to be fourteen stories tall. If I wanted to live in a city with buildings that tall, I'd have moved to one when I started this job.

One More Bit:

I'm also going through a bit of post holiday self loathing. I'll try not to let it overflow here, too much.

How To Have a Three Day Weekend And Fall Even More Behind On Your NaNoWriMo Novel

Be in a really bad mood on Thursday. So bad that you forget that it's Thursday and think it's really Friday and plan on going to a movie to make yourself feel better.

Get to the theater and realize that the movie you want to see starts the next day.

Wander around the town for an hour with no purpose other than to try to get rid of your mood.

Stop in at the comic shop and pick up some comics, but don't bother to read them because you're in such a bad mood it'd only ruin the experience.

Wander some more.

Eventually, get back to your apartment, turn on reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond, even though you don't like the show, and heat up leftovers that aren't fuzzy and don't stink, yet.

Call the good movie theater to see what's playing there.

Go to the only showing, the last showing, of Death of a President, which isn't the cheeriest movie out there right now but is still excellent.

Climb in bed and sleep as soon as you get back.

The next morning, actually sleep in, but wake up with that bad mood hanging on like a tick on a dog's stomach.

Stare at the sausage that's been in the freezer for three months and wonder if it's safe to eat.

Cook it and eat it with scrambled eggs.

Call the downtown movie theater to find out when the movie you wanted to see yesterday is playing.

Shower, get dressed, and walk to the movie theater for the first showing.

See a huge line and offer a quick prayer to Cricket Christ that they're all there to see Borat or The Santa Clause 3 and not Stranger than Fiction.

Sit back with popcorn with lots of greasy fake butter stuff to enjoy the movie.

Laugh out loud at parts you think are funny, even if the rest of the audience isn't laughing.

Feel a little better, but don't head back to your apartment.

Instead, look at new shoes since two of the three pairs you own have holes in the bottom and the other pair is so old that there's only most no traction left, especially when it's wet out.

Find shoes you like, try them on, and walk around a little.

Don't buy the shoes because you're not sure how much money you have in your checking account at the moment and you don't have your credit card with you because you leave it out of your wallet so when you are going to use it you actually have to think about using it to decide if it's really worth it.

Don't go right back to your apartment to find out how much money you have or grab your credit card, instead keep looking at shoes and then expand into looking at all the things you can not, should not, and would not buy.

Dream of what you would do with all the things you can not, should not, and would not buy.

Be horrified at the "shoe stores" that devote more room to hats and hoodie sweatshirts than actual shoes.

Watch the people walking around the mall and marvel at how people of all races and religions can get along here, but not at a high school football game.

Wonder if the only true form of worship in this day and age is the accumulation of money and stuff.

Get bored and head back to your apartment.

Cook ramen for dinner.

Turn on your computer and promise to sit down and start writing soon.

Put on headphones and listen to music.

Sit down at computer.

Instead of typing, get up and change the sheets on your bed.

Clean the toilet.

Wash the dishes.

Decide you're tired and want to sleep.

Take off headphones, turn off the computer, promise you'll work hard tomorrow, and climb in bed.

Wake up early the next morning.

Gather clothes for trip to the laundry because socks should only stand up when they're on your feet.

Shower.

Go to the laundromat and wash and dry and fold clothes.

While there, try not to stare at the better looking people.

Stop by the store on the way back to your apartment for milk and batteries.

Find milk and batteries.

Wander around the store just in case there's something you forgot you needed.

Find many things you forgot you needed.

Chat with the girl at the checkout counter about the weather.

Hope it made her day better because all it did was waste two minutes of your day.

Drive back to apartment.

Carry everything, including the clean laundry, up the stairs in only two trips.

Read a comic book to celebrate.

Turn on your computer and plan to get to work soon.

Put milk and other perishable groceries away.

Replace batteries in smoke detectors.

Read two comic books to celebrate.

"Clean" the pile of comics on the floor of your bedroom by pushing them around the floor while trying not to read any of them.

Fail.

Find a game you haven't played in a while in the pile and decide to play it, but only for a little while because you have to write more.

Suddenly realize it's 9:30 and you haven't eaten anything since you got back from shopping and you're hungry.

Eat something then turn off the computer and go to bed, after reading the rest of the comics you bought.

Enjoy Franklin Richards, Son of a Genius: Happy Franksgiving! and Phonogram 1 and 3 quite a bit. (You bought 2 the month before because the cover is beautiful.)

Wake-up the next morning later than usual, but earlier than you'd like and wander around your apartment trying to figure out if there's anything that you should be doing that's important.

Watch an episode of Star Trek while eating breakfast.

Clean the bathtub while showering.

Watch another episode of Star Trek.

Turn on computer and sit at it saying to yourself that this is the time to get cracking.

Play Minesweeper and Solitaire and Hearts and Spider Solitaire and Pyramid for an embarrassingly long time.

Finally open the file and look at it.

Play another game of Minesweeper and promise yourself that it'll only be one game, this time, but know that you're lying to yourself.

Turn on the TV and watch an info-mercial about a little blender and one about coins; switch quickly between the two in case you miss something important.

Put on another episode of Star Trek.

Play the game from yesterday, but only for a little while; help that by setting a timer for two hours.

Make dinner and watch another Star Trek while eating.

Turn off the TV after you've flossed and brushed your teeth.

Sit down at your computer once again.

Put on headphones and turn on random music.

Skip to a song you like.

Finally start writing.

Write until you get enough words to put you at where you should have been at the end of Thursday, if you had been on time then.

Turn off the computer, climb in bed, and go to sleep with the feeling of guilt gnawing away at your stomach.

Walk Sleeping

I only wrote about 800 words last night. I wasn't feeling well, though. I shut the computer off and climbed into bed around eight and pretty much fell asleep right away. (Well, after I read the latest issue of 52. I don't want to be confused when Newsarama posts their weekly interview with the editor of the comic.)

I woke up this morning just as tired as I was when I went to bed, but I climbed out of bed and shuffled to the kitchenette and made a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich for breakfast. (I wanted strawberry jam, but it's gotten a bit old and sort of crystallized to the jar.) The food didn't wake me up, neither did the shower, nor the walk to work. (No rain today, just clouds that I'm hoping will open up and dump down on us.)

I'm afraid this means I'm approaching the ill event horizon. I'd like to pull away before I get caught in it, but if it's unavoidable, I'm ready for the ride. The main thing I wonder, though, is why, if I'm going in, it had to happen on the weekend? Couldn't it have held off until Sunday night so I could ditch work on Monday?

If I'm out on Monday, which I doubt I will be I'll probably be just fine then, I'll spend the time that would have been spent at work watching Wonderfalls, which I had returned to me last weekend. It's a good way to spend a sick day.

Blog Post Idea Realized

This may ramble and not make a lot of sense, but here's where my NaNoWriMo is going to be coming from.

After the World Trade Center fell, my aunt was so afraid that she questioned letting her kids go to school. She lives 3,000 miles from New York. The green sign on the side of the highway that tells you that you have entered the town she lives in has about two hundred people. The entire county has about 55,000 people in it. The tallest building is, I think, six stories, but that's three miles away from the school her kids went to.

When I school started a few weeks later, I heard some of the students saying that they were scared to be there. What if something like what happened in New York happened there. And I thought they were crazy because no one was going to crash a plane into a university that no one, outside of the state, had heard of.

But hearing these sorts of things got me thinking. How would people like my aunt and those scared students react if terrorists attacked the US like they have attacked Israel? What would the average person here do if coffee shops or pizzerias were bombed? What if the places bombed were a store that had hundreds of branches in the US, earns billions of dollars each year, and nearly everyone has visited at one time or another? What if several bombings happened at exactly the same time? What if there was at least one bombing in each state?

How would people react? How quickly would people be able/willing to get on with their lives? Would those people try to have the exact same life as they had before? Would people be able to simply go to the grocery store to pick up some milk? Would the people in the cities and towns that weren't bombed be able to move on faster than the people in the cities and town that were bombed, or would they constantly be waiting for the other shoe to drop?

What would the government do? If the multibillion dollar company began failing, would they bail it out? Would stores start placing metal detectors at the doors? Would government security be provided for the stores? Would people be screened before they could enter a store to buy some ice cream? Would only a limited amount of people be allowed in at a time? (At the time, I wondered if the government would start looking at passports to get into the US from Canada or Mexico, but since that's starting at the end of this year I no longer have to speculate.)

So, I've been wondering these sorts of things for about five years, but I couldn't figure out how to use them (other than log on to some terrorist website and say, "Hey, guys, I have a suggestion..." but that didn't seem like a smart thing to do). Last month, I figured out how I can use them. Looking at all the thoughts now, it would probably make for a decent political thriller, but that's not my sort of thing (Okay, I enjoy watching political thrillers, but I don't think I could write one, at all.) and it seems like the usual way an idea like this would go.

Late last month, I figured out how to use this stuff and make it a real human story, how to make it about someone more than about something. I filed it away in my brain and assumed that I'd never write it. A couple of weeks ago, I was reading a blog that mentioned the writing month and, after much hemming and hawing, I decided that this would be the place to get this out of me.

I only hope it works.

An Idea For a Blog Post

I've been having trouble writing the things that I want to be writing here. Mostly stuff about comics (especially the JSA, apparently there are some comic fans (more specifically they're DC comic fans) who don't get it) and some horrible news about one of my favorite TV shows and the general loathing I have toward my job and, by extension, my life right now. Also, there are two letters that I should really respond to right now (I should have responded to one last week, actually). I can't/don't, for some reason.

In my private stall this afternoon, I was pondering the reasons for the lack of motivation. Am I just lazy? Do I have nothing to say? Am I trying to save writing for NaNoWriMo? Which I thought was silly. You can't save writing, can you? Maybe you can. Maybe you want to write, but don't and that need to write just builds up inside of you until, in a fluffy of activity, you churn out four long blog posts and a rough draft for a short story and an outline for a screenplay in on day. What I really mean is that I can't save up writing. If I don't do it, it just disappears. Gone. Forever gone.

That led me to thinking about my idea for my NaNoWriMo and how I haven't written anything down. I haven't written sketches about the main characters, not even their names. I haven't outlined the main points the plot should hit. I haven't even come up with a title. Should I be doing these things? Is it cheating? It won't be part of the finished product, so I could do it, right?

And then I was wondering if I should just share my idea here. I'm going to be seeing many of the people who read this stuff on a semi-regular basis on Saturday and I expect that at least one person, who isn't a parent, to ask me about it. (Although he could be distracted by the goings on, and even if he's not distracted by the goings on he's usually easy to distract with certain topics.) Maybe I should head off any questions and just write about my idea here.

That's when some jackass voice said not to. Said that I should keep it a secret. Why keep it a secret? The only person I (sort of) know who's doing this madness as well has her own ideas and would never use mine. So, what's the point of keeping mine secret.

The jackass voice had no response to that.

So, guess what I'm going to do! Tomorrow, though, because it's almost time to go and I'm going to see a movie tonight.

I'm Nervous

Because I signed up.
Why don't you sign up, too?