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Happy Happy Finish Finish


30. A photo of you when you were happy. 11/30/2010 upon finishing NaNoWriMo 2010.

Another weird photo-a-day topic. “When you were happy.” Doesn’t that imply that I’m no longer happy? Well, dammit, I’m happy. So here’s a picture from right now. I don’t do fake-photo-smiles very well, so here’s a real creepy look at me.

Crossed the finish line a few moments ago. What joy! What yippy! This isn’t the closest-to-the-wire that I’ve gone, but it’s up there. Glad to have it done with. Now I wonder what it is I’ve done.

This story started in one place, with one idea, and thematically changed along the way more than anything else I’ve written. Here is what we’ve explored:

  • Responsibility
  • Living up to one’s potential
  • Zombies, both real and metaphoric
  • New Jersey
  • Storge
  • The beast within us all!
  • Other stuff. Yeah, that’s right. Other stuff.

Now is when I wind down, remember that the number of words I type no longer matters. Switch back from narrating things in my head. And let us lay Nano2010 to rest.

Many thanks to many people — the friends, family, and co-workers who let me sit in a corner and write and (mostly) didn’t bother me while I was doing it. All of you whose IP addresses show up daily (or thereabouts) here. It was great to know you all were there watching me write some absolutely ridiculous shit. And nobody told me to stop! Writing is a private, isolated task. It’s a lot more fun with friends.

Plus: Thanks, mom.

Word count: 50,125. Still could write a few more words to make the story connect to itself, but…. Maybe tomorrow.

And I suppose I promised another excerpt. Arthur’s having a rough time (again) and Paul is treating him as if he were his child — taking him upstairs and putting him to bed. I just reread this and out of context, that first paragraph sounds…well, whatever it sounds. What it is is what it is.

Paul led me into the bedroom, left the light off, sat me down on the bed, went and lowered the blinds and drew the curtains across the windows. The room went mostly dark, a sliver or two of afternoon sun slanting through. He turned back to me, found me still sitting upright, right where he’d left me, unmoving, unblinking, unmoved. He lowered my head to the pillow, lifted my legs, slid them onto the bed. His touch was so gentle, I remember that thought penetrating, that thought getting through, that feeling being felt. He patted my head. I could see a crooked half smile on his face in the dim room.

“Try to get some rest,” he said. “I know you just woke up. You slept all day yesterday too, huh? Maybe you just need some more. Just get some rest. Just lie here, Art, and maybe when you wake up you’ll feel a lot better. And I’ll try to figure it all out. Don’t worry.”

And he leaned down, with his hand on the top of my head, and he leaned down and he kissed my forehead, and I remember thinking how many times I had seen him do that to his kids, to his son and daughter, in a darkened room, a sick child in the bed, his hand on the top of his or her head, leaning down to kiss their forehead before leaving them to get their rest. He had told me before that he felt so helpless, so useless when his children were sick, that it was the most painful feeling in the world to know that his kid was suffering and there was nothing he could do about it but make them comfortable as possible and kiss their foreheads and hope they knew that he loved them. And something turned in me, something very slight, a slight twist, something, and I knew the love Paul had for me, the pity he felt for me, the protectiveness, that he would make everything alright, that it would all be okay, and for a second I could feel the comforting coolness of his hand on my forehead and it seemed to penetrate through everything, spread through my body, quelling the fire, bringing everything back into focus and I opened my mouth to tell him that everything was going to be alright, that I was going to be fine, that I loved him and trusted him and knew that he could fix anything, and then it was gone, his hand was gone, the words were gone, the feeling was gone, and Paul walked away from the bed.

“You wear the sins of yourself on the plastic sleeves of the hearts of your mind in these days this troubled times with happiness so near far so close but over there, the reasons never being what reasons shouldn’t be you wear the sins you were the sins, it’s never registered, it never registered that what you did is what you do is what you are is who you are is how you wear your hair is how you wear your face.” It came out in one unbroken stream, the words finding purchase on my tongue as easily as a mountain goat on a narrow ledge.

Must Marry Myrna

29. A photo of someone you find attractive. Myrna Loy (1905-1993)Another cheap shot of a photo a day topic. Someone I find attractive? I think you’re all attractive, you beautiful people, but I don’t have a photo that all of you are in. . So. Here is Myrna Loy, who I, like millions of men before me, fell in love with upon viewing The Thin Man. While writing Illinoir I was consuming as much noir literature and film as I could, and I don’t think anything topped Thin Man. As a husband and wife detective team, Nick and Nora are unsurpassed. And in portraying a strong, independent woman who was also a dedicated wife, a great detective and an amazing drinker, Myrna Loy. Well. Yeah. Dudes formed “Men Must Marry Myrna” clubs. That’s flippin incredible.

The word count is 47,532 which means that finishing is nearly inevitable. My revelation of the other day hasn’t really carried through as much as I wanted it to, and right now I’m doing more story mining, going back and padding out other sections of this thing because I don’t have much action that can carry forward. With that in mind, I present this second to last excerpt of Nanowrimo 2010:

“Say, you went to college, right?”

“Yeah, I went to the College of North Jersey.”

“And what did you get your degree in?”

“I got an Associate’s Degree in Photojournalism.”

“Photojournalism? Really? That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was a lot of fun.”

“And what are you doing with that degree?”

“Well, I’m…. I’m taking pictures of housewares.”

“Right. I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Microbiology. And a Master’s in Applied Macroeconomoneuroplastology. And what am I doing with those?”

“Taking pictures of housewares.”

“Exactly. Nobody’s living up to their potential. And who’s to say if that even is potential? Is there even anything that I could be doing with a Master’s in Macroeconomoneuroplastology? I just got it so I wouldn‘t have to join the real world for another couple years.”

“What is Macroeconomoneuroplastology anyway?” Therese asked.

“It’s the study of the impact of ‘take a penny leave a penny’ trays in gas stations and convenience stores.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. I totally was. “It’s a very specialized field. But, really, what good could that possibly do for anyone? Nothing. For nobody. I tells you.”

“That’s a pretty negative view too, Arthur,” Therese said.

“Again, I tell you, it’s not a bad thing. It’s great to accept that we are going to go nowhere and do nothing with our lives, because that frees us up to do what is possible. What is realistic. There’s no way I’m going to get a position on the Weekly Macroeconomoneuroplastology Review, the most respected Macroeconomoneuroplastology-related publication in the Western Hemisphere. I don’t want to teach Macroeconomoneuroplastology and 7-11 doesn’t exactly hire unknown Macroeconomoneuroplastologists off the street.”

“Why did you get your Master’s in it?”

“Macroeconomoneuroplastology has always been my passion. Even though I knew there was no future in it, I’ve always felt like those penny trays were calling to me, like they were leading me to the promised land, leading me to a better tomorrow.”

“That’s amazing,” Therese said. “That’s how I feel about photojournalism.”

“But it’s not, Therese,” I said. “It’s not calling me, or leading me anywhere. And there is no promised land, there is no better tomorrow. There’s only now and slightly later from now. And slightly later from then.”

“And what comes after that?”

“More of the same. Or something different. Who can say? And who really cares? All that we know is that it all ends. Eventually.”

“What did this have to do with what we were talking about?”

“Mardi Gras?” I asked.

“No, Fat Tuesday.”

“Oh. Right,” I said, and I experienced that first incredible eye-rolling urge. Paul would later tell me about the time he first felt it — five minutes after meeting Therese, she had commented on Paul’s dreadlocks and asked him if he knew Bob Marley. Not if he knew Bob Marley’s music, mind you, but if he actually knew  Bob Marley. Because of his dreadlocks. Paul’s eyes had nearly rolled out of his head. I think I should get some credit for having lasted more than a week.

Half Baked

28. A photo of something you cooked or baked. 11/25/2010. A batch of crackies.Â

Some of you want the recipe. Others of you want to ban me from dessert. Some of you fall into both camps, and I’m not so sure what to do with you. Here it is anyway.

Fudgie Scotch Squares (Crackies)

1 cup semi-sweet chocolate morsels
1 cup butterscotch morsels
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1.5 cups graham cracker crumbs (about 18 squares, if you’re making your own crumbs)
If you like nuts in your sweets (I don’t) you can go with some chopped walnuts as well. Coconut also works nicely.

Preheat oven to 350. Mix all ingredients. Press into a well-greased and floured 9″ square baking pan. Bake for 30-35 minutes. Let cool for 45 min, cut into 1.5″ squares. Let cool completely, cut again, remove from pan.

You’re going to want to eat them right away, but trust me when I tell you that they’re infinitely better on their second day.

Wordcount: 45,868. Today’s excerpt is based on a conversation I actually had recently, and have related a couple times to various people. Getting to the point where mining real life is all I have left in the tank….

I approached her desk. She nodded me into a chair. I sat.

“…that’s why it’s flawed,” she said into the phone. Her anger was palpable. “I explained it already…. No, it’s not because it’s cheaper…. What don’t you understand?…. They’re replica Muslim prayer rugs…. So, devout Muslims leave an obvious flaw in each rug they make because only God can be perfect…. It’s true, I asked a Muslim guy at my gym…. Fine, I’ll get you his number…. Fine, bye.” She hung up the phone.

“That flaw thing is bullshit, and if it’s not it’s incredibly asinine.”

“I don’t care what you think, Arthur,” she said.

“Seriously, it’s all a marketing ploy by Muslim prayer rug weavers. Some tourist was pissed because the quality of the souvenir prayer rug he had bought wasn’t up to his incredibly high standards and complained about it. Rather than just swapping out the rug for one that didn’t have a flaw, the guy just fed the tourist that incredibly ridiculous line. Can you imagine if everything they did they did like that? It makes no sense.” I paused. Kelly was barely listening. I went on anyway. I didn’t really have anything better to do. “But check this out, the flaw in the whole story is the idea that unless the rug makers deliberately leave a flaw in the rug, that it would be perfect which is just not true, since not only is God the only one around who’s allowed to be perfect, He’s also the only one that can actually be perfect. Even if the rug maker doesn’t leave the flaw, his prayer rug wouldn’t be perfect. It’d just be a prayer rug of some certain amount of quality.”

I stopped, thought it about some more.

“Are you done?” Kelly asked after a moment or two.

“Not really,” I said, for I had considered another angle. “What the hell is a ‘perfect’ prayer rug anyway? Is there some Platonic ideal prayer rug out there? Is perfection a prayer rug that will perfectly cushion a  supplicant’s knees as he prays? Or one that will somehow expedite the delivery of the prayers from prayer to prayee? Or is it just some perfection of the pattern in the rug, some ideal design that would make the rug superior to all others?”

“Please, stop,” Kelly said.

“Ok, but one more thing: what if the ideal, perfect prayer rug is one that ostensibly appears to be perfect except for one particularly obvious and purposely made flaw? What if by making that flaw, the rug maker is accidentally making the most perfect prayer rug that was ever made?”

“You don’t ever stop, do you? And you don’t ever actually have a point.”

“My point is this: by interfering with the process of making something, by putting something into our creations in order to placate an imaginary friend who lives in the sky, we are limiting ourselves in ways that we shouldn’t be. We should all just strive to do the best work we can, knowing that no matter how hard we try, we will never attain perfection, whatever perfection might be, whatever that nebulous concept might be.”

“‘Strive to do the best work we can?’” Kelly asked. “That sounds like good advice for you, Arthur.”

“Oh, without a doubt. My efforts are often paralyzed by the fact that no matter how hard I try, I know I’ll never get it quite right.”

“So it’s not laziness then?”

“Oh, that’s a big part of it.”

And Then Suddenly…

27. A photo of last summer. 8/30/10. Adam, Erin, Sarah, Nick, Aaron. Sarah's new front steps. Photo by Sarah Larson.

Normally I’d say you couldn’t have a photo of “last summer.” The best you could do would be a photo from last summer. But this photo pretty much does it. After we moved Sarah into her new place, the five of us relaxed for a couple hours on her front steps, eating pizza, drinking beer, enjoying the evening. It was the summeriest moment of the year, and it was very very good stuff.

Four days left until the 30 days are up. At 43,813 right now, which isn’t too bad of a position to finish…if I don’t go play Halo after I post this. Words aren’t coming so easily this time around. Writing has taken place in fits of 150 words at a time. Wendy just sits there and spits out a thousand in a heartbeat. I used to be able to do that.

Arthur’s having a bad day. Imagine going to your friend’s house for a barbecue and finding all your co-workers there.

(it'd be a lot like this, but worse.)

Oh, and also, you’re turning into some sort of hideous monster.

I turned back to look outside. Trammel was on Paul’s back deck, wearing an apron from our Lighthouse Living Decor series, manning the grill. Steph was standing uncomfortably close, leaning against him, laughing at everything he said. I rolled my eyes in disgust. Trammel was known to be something of a ladies man, constantly hitting on every female that worked for him. Rumors abounded of his success with the women, and what impressionable, starry-eyed 20-something housewares company employee wouldn’t want to go to bed with the boss? One of the very few one-on-one interactions I had had with him had been outside the front door of the building. I was returning from lunch and had watched as Trammel smacked the ass of his PA as she went inside only to turn around and flirt shamelessly with a sales assistant. As I approached, Trammel had winked at me and said, “It’s good to be the king.”

Certainly it was. Who was I to deny that? When you’re ambitious and lucky enough to rise to the top of an empire, no matter what empire it is, you’ve got to take advantage of the spoils, right? That it was a third-rate housewares producer in a nowhere town, making money by exploiting cheap Chinese labor and cheap American aesthetics was neither here nor there. The man owned his own company, his own multi-million dollar company and you had to hand it to him, he knew how to play it.

The part I hated, the part that made my skin crawl every day since then was that when Trammel winked and said what he said, I smiled and laughed and winked back and I had felt good about it. God help me, for a minute there I had felt flattered that Trammel had brought me into his confidence, had made a joke with me, had not chucked me on the shoulder, but had very nearly, very spiritually, might as well have chucked me on the shoulder as he passed me on his way to his cherry red Corvette. The feeling left quickly, left completely as he gunned his engine, peeled out of the lot, leaving for the day at one in the afternoon, I couldn’t deny that it must be good, that it was undoubtedly good, and should be the goal of every man, to be the king, to be on top, to have the power. But I couldn’t deny that I also felt dirty, that I needed a shower. I was ashamed that I had let him charm me, that I had let his power lead me on. And I had hated him ever since.

And then there he was, directing his charm at Steph, pretending to be an every man, pretending like he knew how to use a grill all his life, like he was like one of us, or like he could take on any task that any common man could do, and do it better, because he was that good, because he was the king. And Steph, goddamn her, she was falling for it. But I couldn’t really blame her either. She basked in his attention, glowed from it, glowed like no woman had ever glowed around me. They were at the center of my vision, the edges hazy, blurry, indistinct, as if a spotlight was shining down on them, obscuring all else. My hand, planted against the wall, shaking, unable to support my weight, and I went to my knees again. All this in a matter of moments. Down on my knees, on the floor again.

It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like…

26. A photo of you at Christmastime. 12/24/1979. An unhealthy addiction to video games is born.

34 Christmastimes have produced a bunch of choice pictures. I debated sharing one of the photos from my awkward years – long hair, baseball hat, bad skin, ugly sweater, stone washed jeans, high tops, etc. – but I have a particular love for this photo. We’re in Pittsburgh at Grandmommy and Granddaddy’s (Mom’s parents’) house. Dad and I are playing my brand new handheld baseball video game (well, it was all LEDs and beeping noises, but still) on Christmas Eve. I am wearing my brand new “Mork” suspenders. I dig the closeness, the father-son nature of this picture. Not pictured is a bigger family bond — my Jewish-raised-then-Unitarian-living father celebrating (in a secular manner) Christmas with his wife and kids and his wife’s parents. The year before is even more interesting: Grandma and Grandpa (Dad’s parents) also joined us there. 2 Jews, 2 Presbys and 4 Unitarians, all getting together and hanging out.

Well, it’s just kinda cool.

Word count: 42,302 (84.6%)

Here is the brand new beginning of the novel, required to round out what will eventually become the end of the story.

The cicadas are here, hovering about my head, mating on the wing, getting ready to die. I am too, I suppose. Getting ready to die, that is. I wish I could say I had a good run at it, but that just wouldn’t be true. It would be nothing more than a comforting lie, an attempt to placate myself at the very end. It would serve no other purpose but to make these last few weeks, or days, or minutes — there’s no telling how much longer there is — more bearable.

Love the Night

25. A photo of a night you loved. A basement show, sometime between '89 and '93. Photo by Steve Parkes

It’s tough to say how much I loved this night at the time. Some nights only become dear years later, so I say I loved this night looking back on it with the wisdom that comes with 20 or so years of separation. We used to play music. In basements. All the time.

Not much writing yesterday, but a strange revelation while standing outside Morseland in the rain. I have the ideas for the finishing touches on the novel. Now it’s just up to me to execute over the next five days. Think today will be a zero word count, but tomorrow will rise again. Or something like that. Standing at 41,770.

Also: Hoping everyone has a happy and healthy Thanksgiving. I am off to join (amongst others) the two people in the foreground of this photo for a friendly neighborhood dinner.

“Thanks for dinner, Sharon,” Therese said as she got into my car.

I turned the key in the ignition. “Yeah, thanks for making us spend more time together instead of just giving us cash,” I said under my breath.

“You’re such an ass, Arthur,” Therese said.

“Do you still want a ride?”

“Of course I do. How else am I going to get home?”

“I’m not sure. You might not want to have to find out.” I backed the car out of the parking space, honked twice at Paul as I passed his car and turned out onto the main road. “I hear there are wolves out there.”

“Why you….” Therese started, searching for words. “You’re just a monster!”

“I’m not just a monster, Therese,” I said. “I’m also a monster.”

And that shut her up for the duration of the ride to her house. Aside from a few mumbled directions, she was silent. Yeah, I’d borrowed the line from a John Barth novella, but it was a good one, and I felt it applied. I wasn’t just a monster. I had my moments, though. My moments of monstrosity when my inner demons fought their way to the surface, taking hold of my personality, making me, an otherwise reasonable person, into some sort of beast. They made me do things like threaten a good hearted, albeit annoying, young woman who wanted nothing more than for everyone to get along, for people to do their jobs, and for things to be okay. Unfortunately for Therese, that was against everything I stood for.

Cassie

23. A photo of one of your pets. February, 1982. Cassie as a kitten.

That’s Cassie!

Writing continues. Past 40,000. (Word 40,000 was “booze.”)

Resigned to the fact that nothing really happens in this “novel.”

No excerpt today? No excerpt today.

Enjoyment

20. A photo of something you enjoy doing. 11/2009. Adam plays video games.

Video games. My constant companion.  Lots of debate lately about whether or not video games can be considered “art” and I don’t know where I come down on that. Games contain art: graphics, story, even the programming can be artistic. Elegant, beautiful. But are they art themselves? Well. My response is: Blah blah blah. Let me shoot something.

Wakka wakka.

What was yesterday’s word count? Oh. I didn’t post one. Good. Today, we’re at 36,278, and nobody has to know that I wrote absolutely nothing yesterday.

Alright. Here’s the second half of that phone conversation from the other day. Be warned, it’s very sweary.

I heard a female voice yelling in the background. It was unmistakably Paul’s wife, Paulette. No, I’m not kidding about that. You can’t make this stuff up. It was unfortunate, but the heart wants what the heart wants; you can’t choose your soul mate. They were definitely made for each other, right down to their names. If I ever met a girl named Arthurina, I’d want to get to know her because undoubtedly we were meant to be together.
“Paul! Get off the fucking phone! You’re supposed to be tending the fucking grill!”

“Hold on, Art,” Paul said. I could hear the noise of him lowering the phone and cupping the mouthpiece. “I’m fucking talking to Art, Goddamn it!” I could still hear him as clearly as if he were speaking directly into the phone. They yelled at each other like nobody’s business, but it was all out of love. “Get off my fucking back!”

Paulette’s response was not as clear. I could hear that she was yelling, but Pauls hand did manage to muffle that.

“That’s what I’m fucking trying to do, Paulette!” was Paul’s reply. “That’s why I’m on the fucking phone with him!”

Again, Paulette’s muffled response.

“He knows to bring some beer!” Paul yelled. “You think he’s a fucking idiot? You think I’m a fucking idiot? You think I didn’t tell him to bring some beer? You think I didn’t tell him to bring some food? A dish to fucking pass? Like some fucking pasta salad?” Real quick, Paul was back: “Art, you’re going to bring some pasta salad, right?”

Before I could reply, he was gone again. “Yeah, he said he’s gonna bring some pasta salad. Now get off my back!” He brought the phone back to his face. “Sorry about that, Art.”

“No worries, Paul,” I said. “Tell Paulette I said hello.”

“Hey!” Paul yelled away from the phone. “Art says hi!”

Paulette’s response – “Hi, Art! Get your fucking ass over here!” – was clearly audible.

“She says for you to get your –“ Paul said.

“Yeah, Paul, I heard her. In case you hadn’t noticed, your wife is loud as hell.”

“So what’s all this about losing your Saturday?”

“Shit, man, that means tomorrow’s Monday,” I sighed, realizing the implications. “I only get one day away from Cola?” I shuddered.

“What a drag,” Paul said. “But hey, look, you’d really better get your ass over here. You feeling alright?”

“What? Yeah. I feel great. Better than I have in a few days, actually.”

“I guess that’s one benefit of sleeping a day and a half, huh? Maybe you just really needed it.”

“Yeah, I guess. After Friday night, I must have. Dude, it was so crazy. After you left O’Irish, I was about to leave but I heard this noise coming from the woods –“

I was interrupted by another shriek from Paulette: “Paul, get the fuck off the fucking phone and come make a fucking hamburger for your fucking son!”

“Art, I really gotta go. Just come over here and we’ll talk, ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.”

“Hey. Don’t forget to take a shower,” Paul said, and hung up.

This city’s got big buildings. I like food. Bye.

19. A picture of you at a restaurant. 6/15/2004. 29th birthday dinner. Princeton, New Jersey.

I forget the name of this joint. It was somewhere around Nassau & Tulane. This is at the end of my 29th birthday which was spent touring historic Philadelphia. As you can see, the food was eaten. Also, I am halfway through a cup of coffee and wearing a black shirt.

Our hero has returned home after a long day (and, we learn, a lost Saturday!) Thank goodness Paul has arrived back on the scene.

I found my way into the dining room – it wasn’t so much of a room as the empty space between the kitchen and the living room. I had turned it into a mess of an office: desk, computer, chair, phone, boxes full of stuff I should have thrown away rather than cart halfway across the country. The phone rang again. I checked the caller ID: Paul. I picked up the handset and pressed the talk button.

“What’s up, Paul?” I asked.

“Art,” he said. I could hear exasperation and anger in his voice. “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m at home, Paul,” I replied. “I don’t want to be a dick, but you did kind of call me on my home number.”

“Ha fucking ha,” he said, unamused. I could hear what sounded like a party coming from his end of the line. “Why aren’t you here?”

“I just woke up. Say, do you know how I got home last night? Shit got kinda weird.”

“Last night? No. Why would I know how you got home last night? We didn’t hang out last night.”

“Sure we did. We went to O’Irish, stayed there late, left around 9:30. I think. I mean I know you drove off without me, but I thought maybe. I don’t know. Something happened to me.”

“Art, that was Friday night.”

“Yeah,” I said, starting to get a little exasperated myself. “I know. Friday night. Last night. Whatever.”

“Today’s Sunday, dude.” I could hear him sigh and shake his head and then silence. He was probably holding the phone away from his face. Exasperated. “What happened to you?”

“It’s Sunday?” I asked. “Hold on a second.”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d never lost a day before. I swiped the computer mouse across the desk. The screen lit up. I moved the mouse pointer up to the upper right hand corner of the screen where the system clock lived. I clicked on it, and it displayed the day and date. It said it was Sunday too, but I still wasn’t convinced.

“Art?” I heard Paul say.

“Yeah yeah. Hold on.”

I put the phone down and looked around for my cell phone. It was where I always put it when I get home: on a bookcase just inside the door. Lying next to it, perfectly neatly, were my keys. I picked it up, pressed a button on the side illuminating the display. Sunday. Noon.

“Paul! I’ll be right back,” I called to the phone, not knowing whether he could hear me or not.

I unlocked the front door, pulled it open. Unexpectedly, it only opened six inches, snapped to a halt by the chain which I must have fastened last night. Two nights ago. It was starting to sink in.

I undid the chain, threw the door open and walked swiftly outside, down the stairs, to the sidewalk. It was a pleasant day and the concrete should have been warm under my feet, but I ran so fast towards the newspaper box by the main road, that I didn’t register it. I skidded to a stop at the box, and peered inside. It was the Sunday fucking paper.

Breathing heavily, I jogged back to my apartment.

“Hell, Paul,” I said, gasping for air. “You were right.”

“You were checking to see if I was right?” Paul asked. “Jesus, Art. Did you actually think I might fuck up what day it was?”

“What? No, Paul, of course not. I don’t think you’re that incompetent. I just…. I dunno. I don’t remember coming home last – Friday night. And either I slept all day and night yesterday, which seems unlikely, or I completely lost Saturday.”

“Weird,” Paul said, not sounding particularly concerned or sympathetic.

“It’s more than weird, Paul,” I complained. “It totally sucks. You know how much I love Saturdays!”

“You do love your Saturdays,” Paul agreed.

Working Title

18. A photo of you at work. 3/15/09 In the office at Morseland.

It’s not all pouring drinks, making friends, and living the glamorous life. Sometimes I have to do actual work.

No, I’m just kidding. Here I am, in the office at Morseland, where I do work on the website, and send out emails, and research new beverages, and try not to make Dave angry. Also, I drink coffee sometimes.

So, ok, the old novels have been posted. There’s a link over there on the sidebar on the right.

Proceed carefully.

Word count stands at 34,011. I’m falling behind the goal pace (36,000), but still ahead of the minimum pace (30,000). It’s always been important to me to get way ahead of this thing. The last couple years I’ve finished a few days early. Prior to that, it was mad writing sessions on the 30th. Nobody wants that.

Also, the prose style has taken a distinct turn. Where the beginning of this thing was structured prose, with complete sentences, the current state of affairs is that I’m just typing out these fragments with long strings of modifiers. To wit:

And came to, thrashing wildly, lashing out, eyes wide open but not seeing for a moment, spitting, trying to get rid of the cicadas in my mouth, but there were no cicadas in my mouth, just Stella, standing back, looking horrified, probably sorry she stopped to try to help me, but saying my name quietly, repeatedly.

It works, sometimes, especially when in the heat of a scene, but let’s try that differently:

I came to, thrashing wildly. I lashed out. My eyes were wide open but I wasn’t seeing anything. I spat, trying to get rid of the cicadas in my mouth, before realizing that there were no cicadas in my mouth. Stella stood above me, at a safe distance, looking horrified, looking sorry that she’d stopped to check on me.  She was quietly repeating my name.

More words. Less…fun? Dunno. But I do know easier to write. Been having a hard time escaping scenes lately, not knowing how to get from one scene to the next. Been just leaving them for later. Maybe slightly-in-the-future Adam will know what to do. I sure hope so. I’m counting on that dude.

The road I was on twisted. Turned. Doubled back on itself. Became a cruel joke of a road designed years ago by city planners who had waited all this time for me to arrive and take it, my desperation providing them with unceasing joy and amusement.