Illinoir

Got some NaNo swag in the mail the other day. It’s this badass temporary tatoo. How could I ever apply this? No, more likely I will save it in a drawer somewhere…forever. I found my “no plot, no problem” sticker that I got from way back in 2002. Still unstuck.

Word 25,000: haze
Time to 25,000, 2006: 11 days
Time to 25,000, 2003: 17 days
11 * 1667 (minimum successful pace): 18,337
Percentage complete: You do the math 🙂

Haven’t started writing yet today, but wanted to post a pic before I got going.

Word count: 21860
Percent complete: 43.72

Can’t write NaNo without old NaNo shirt.

Giving up on GlassWriter because I couldn’t add a prologue. Stupid program. I guess I’ll miss the notepads and the daily word count, but other than that, it’s just too sketchy. At one point, it killed 2000+ words (which I was able to recover thanks to frequent backups. Thank you.)

Prologue: Reach out and Touch Someone

My cell phone rings. I put down the camera and pull my phone from the inside pocket of my sport coat. The caller ID display shows that it is my wife, Livvy. I haven’t been around much lately what with one case or another always taking up my time and it seems that the only way we communicate now is through clipped, awkward phone calls. I flip open the phone.
“Bonnet,” I say – it’s a habit.
“Mr. Bonnet, this is Mrs. Bonnet,” she says. She sounds happy, her voice lighter than it’s been in a while.
“Hello there, Mrs. Bonnet,” I say. “It seems like it’s been forever since I’ve heard from you.”
“It certainly has been a dog’s age and a half. How are you?”
“I’m quite well, thanks very much for asking. How are you?”
“I’m feeling wonderful. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the flowers are blooming and the air is clear.”
“That’s quite an impressive list. I wish it were all the same out here,” I say.
“Oh, Charlie, I’m sorry to hear that. Is work bringing you down?”
“Don’t worry about me, my dear. I’ll pull through.”
“You always do, Charlie. That’s one of the things I love about you. Say, when are you coming home?” she asks.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Soon, I hope,” I say.
“I hope so too. I’d really love to see you tonight.”
“I’ll do everything I can to make that happen, Livvy. I promise.”
“I will too, Charlie. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby.”
We hang up. I drop my phone back inside my pocket and pick up the camera. As I look through the viewfinder, I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t get a chance to turn around before I feel a stinging blow on the back of my head and everything goes black.

Just yesterday’s picture. Went out with Kamplain tonight. He helped me find the way that this novel should go. The hard part is figuring out exactly how to get there without ripping the thing apart too much.

More importantly — right now I’ve got the hiccoughs something fierce (too much bread too quick from the sandwich I just ate) and each one is exacerbating (you heard me) the crap out of my rib/muscle/costochondral issue something frickin fierce.

Hit the 20,000 word mark today. The 20,000th word is….

…. “effort.”

Great pep talk email from Chris Baty today as well. He writes very good motivational emails. He’s at 8000 words. I wonder if he plans it this way every year though — to just start slowly and so he appears to be lagging behind so he can help herd along all the people who haven’t gotten off to a good start…. Or if it’s just how it is?

First time out of three years that I’ve been part of the people he mentions as: “those doing exceptionally well” which feels good, but as I sit here, having trouble continuing the great progress made last night, I wonder….

I try to take breaks between writing when I’m on a roll, so that I end on a positive note and can start on a positive note the next session. I wonder if I shouldn’t just keep on writing when I can and not worry about the next time. Also — breaking it up into days is being a little too restrictive maybe. Like I will write 2500 words and then stop, worrying about having enough words for the next day. That’s stupid. I should just…. Oh my GOD look at all these words I’m absolutely WASTING on this.

Goodbye.

Last night, I was up until 3AM with this pain in my side and with reading the old chaos canon stuff which I thoroughly enjoyed. I also missed the ability to go back and read about what I was doing at various times and etc. etc. etc. So, I’ve decided to go with a rebirth of my blogging.

I think it’ll still be as self-encrypted and vague as it’s always been, just because that’s how I am. But it makes it fun, right?

This morning driving to work, I thought, “I have the perfect first blog entry.” And it ended with “There’s a lesson to be learned there.” The problem is, I can’t remember what the whole beginning of the story was. It was something about the exterminator who came and sprayed the apartment this morning.

So I guess there’s a lesson to be learned there: I’m getting old, losing my memory, and really need to focus on stuff if I’m going to retain it at all for any length of time.

Word Count: 19861
+/- (based on minimum needed per day): + 4851
November 9, 2003: 13305
+/- (in 2003): – 1698

Just wrote 806 words in about an hour on a plot-thread I thought I’d get 500 out of tops. (Side note: It’s interesting how good I’ve become at visually estimating word counts. I’m usually off by less than 10. For instance, I estimate this paragraph to be 53 words. [It’s 50. Ho ho! Look at me! I’ve got skills!])

A few months ago we got some new neighbors. One of these people is in a band and they now practice in the garage behind my building. I’m not sure what they call themselves, nor do I much care. All I do know is that they seem to practice incessantly and that their incessant practicing has done them no good, whatsoever. I’m not quite sure what makes them so bad. Is it the clumsy bass guitar work; the drummer who couldn’t keep time if you shoved a metronome up his ass, the singer who sounds like a cross between Eddie Vedder and Ethel Merman; or the guitarist who thinks he’s Stevie Ray Vaughn but plays like Stevie Ray Crap? What I do know is that in this garage, these separate elements combine to form a musical group so powerfully bad that they can not be stopped. They are The World’s Worst Rock Band a force to be reckoned with.
I have seen the band members only briefly. At various times, they take breaks for cigarettes and cheap domestic beers in the yard outside the garage. They’re a strange bunch, ranging in age from about 18 to 30 and seemingly from all walks of life. I could never figure out how they came to be connected with one another.
As I step out onto my back porch, coffee cup in hand, the band takes five. The oldest member emerges from the garage. I figure him to be the drummer: He is tall and thin, has grotesque drummer’s arms and ill-advised facial hair and drives the kind of van that is inevitably used in a kidnapping.
I head down the back stairs. When I reach the bottom, I can hear the other band members inside the garage, discussing the intricacies of one of their songs. Moustache-man lights a cigarette, leans against the wall, and studies the ground in front of him.
“Morning, buddy,” I say amiably as I near him.
He looks up at the sound of my voice and squints at me.
“Ey.” He half-grunts and half-says this word. It is certainly vocalization but I’m not sure if it can be counted as speech.
“My name’s Charlie.”” I say, extending my hand.
There is a full five second pause while he looks at my outstretched hand like it’s a threat. Finally he remembers how the ritual of introduction goes and grabs it and shakes. “Dustin,” he says.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Dustin. I really enjoy your band’s work.”
“Yeah?” He takes a drag off his cigarette, exhales through his nostrils, nodding his head like it’s a foregone conclusion. “Ey.” I guess this means “Thank you.”
“I really appreciate the opportunity to hear you guys while you’re still working it all out, still ironing out the kinks and whatnot.”
“Sure,” he says, still nodding, though less assuredly so. “Yeah.”
“You’re the drummer, right?” I ask.
The nodding continues, but no speech accompanies the gesture this time. Either I’m correct, or I’ve triggered some sort of never-ending tic.
“Yeah, you can always tell who the drummer is,” I say. I point at his cigarette. “You have an extra one of those?”
The nodding turns into a shaking of his head accompanied by a tapping of the foot.
“Is that a no?” I ask.
He resumes nodding, tapping and is now slapping his thigh, attempting to attain some sort of rhythm.
“Right on. Look, I was wondering if you guys could do me a favor,” I say. There is no change in his mannerisms or gestures at all, so I simply press on. “We — me and my wife, I mean –” He looks up at the mention of a woman, sees nobody else around, and resumes his previous stance. “Well, we’ve been hoping that maybe you could turn down the instruments when you’re playing. Don’t get me wrong; we’re both really big fans. She even talks about being a groupie –” Again, Dustin looks up, remembers that the female being discussed isn’t around and looks back down. “But we both work from home and it’s really distracting to have you guys playing so loud. I mean, you guys rock. Er… You fucking rock, man. But you know. Just rock a little quieter, if you could. That’d be great.”
No response at all. Dustin is oblivious.
“Dustin? Seriously, if I could just get–” I am interrupted by the arrival of one of the other members of the band. Bad hair, bad clothes, bad skin — probably the singer.
“Yo, Dustin, dude, come on, we figured out how to go from the verse to the chorus in ‘Rat’s Live in My Veins’.” he says. Hearing his voice, I know I’m right about his role in the group. “Wait, who’s the old dude?”
Dustin shrugs and flicks his cigarette butt into the alley. The singer retreats into the garage and Dustin follows him inside. Moments later, the musical diarrhea begins again.
Time to head to the office.

Word count: 18492
Pain in abdomen: Pretty freakin intense. I think maybe a strained rib cage? Hairline fracture? All from leaning against a bar (I was not drunk — I was working and trying to grab a bar towel….dammit.)

I finish off my drink. “I should really get going, pal. It was great to see you. How much do I owe you for the booze?”
“Aw, Charlie. It’s on the house, of course,” Bart says. “Just come by more often. And remember to tell your woman that if anything happens to you, I’ll be happy to take care of her,” Bart says.
I laugh, “Oh, I’ll be sure to let her know. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. But what if something happens to me?”
“Oh, nothing will ever happen to you, buddy. You’re Charlie Bonnet.” Summoned by a patron, Bart walks off to pour a beer. “I’ll be seeing you!”
Yeah, that’s me, I think to myself. Charlie Fucking Bonnet. Nothing happens to me except everything that’s happening to me right now.

This picture makes me look bald as all get out.

Word count: 15971
Pace: slowing down
Reason: I’m just as mystified about what’s going on as Charlie is.
Today’s excerpt: from chapter 2. Sorry to go back and forth like this, but you know how it is.

When faced with a situation like this — and I’ve seen more than my fair share of intimidating messages written in blood on the door of an unknown room — I find it best to take a deep breath or two and start over. I give myself something of a little reboot, begin at the beginning. Take a deep breath.
Take a deep breath. And let it out. Hold your head high, keep your back straight. Do everything you can to maximize the flow of your own blood and maybe it will feed your brain and help you figure out who this other blood belongs to. Start at the beginning.
My name is Charles Bonnet. I am 34-years-old, and aside from being a private investigator of above-average skill and moral fortitude, I am average in every way. Mine is not the face that you will remember from a crowded room. I don’t tower over the crowd, nor am I towered over by it. I don’t stand out from the crowd; I’m right smack dab in the middle. While this hasn’t particularly helped me with the ladies, it has undoubtedly aided in my investigative career. Until I became a private detective (please, please, never call me a “private dick”) I cursed my forgettable features, my average height, my neutral voice, everything about me that made me blend in. Now I know they’re my greatest gifts. I know, I know — it doesn’t seem like that’d make me the most interesting guy in the world, but what can I say? I am what I am.
I grew up here, in this city. I realize I’m making an assumption here — this anonymous room with its anonymous lightswitch and once anonymous door (now covered with…well, covered with chapter one’s eponymous message) could be just about anywhere. But, I’ve got a feeling about these things. I told you that already, but believe me, I’d know it if I wasn’t in the city anymore. Anyway, I was born here, like I said, 34 years ago, and from what I can gather, I had an average, run of the mill kind of childhood. The average kid doesn’t get beat up, the average kid doesn’t get abused. The average kid just gets ignored. And while it seems the average kid also doesn’t find a permanent home, at least he makes it through his childhood relatively intact — a goal of mine that has lasted well into adulthood. There’s nothing better than being relatively intact, especially considering the alternatives, which again, I’ve been forced to consider on more than one occasion.