NaNoWriMo: Day 4

Day 4 stats: 1129 words written, $50 of $600 raised for my trip to the Night of Writing Dangerously.

Today's excerpt might be familiar to some of you. I've posted this bit previously, but it's gone through a moderate overhaul since then (I didn't really have an actual plot in mind when I first wrote this; now I do). I hope you like the changes.

The Excerpt you've all been waiting for:

Apple pie and coffee: breakfast of champions.

When they were kids, her Ma had let them have leftover fruit pie for breakfast, when they had it. That didn't happen very often. Ma said it was healthy because it had fruit in it. That was one of Jacq's fonder memories.

She took a bite and set the fork down. Then she reached into her satchel. Her fingers met her tarot cards and she pulled the deck out. Shuffle, flip: Ace of Cups, an opportunity for emotional growth.

That seemed ominous.

She put the cards away and took another bite. The coffee was still too hot. She’d be long done with this pie before she could take a sip. No matter.

Jacq was kicked back in her chair, watching the crowd pass by on the other side of the windows when Alice Signay spotted her.

“I knew you’d be here,” she told Jacq, triumph in her voice.

Jacq sat up, startled by the intrusion and more than a little flustered by Alice’s trim appearance.

“Glad I could be of service,” she muttered, uncertain she needed the company of her trendy friend.

Alicewas, as always, the picture of high feminine fashion. The bold turquoise of her silk dress emphasized the spectral paleness of her skin and darkened her green eyes. The elegant styling and copper inlays of the dress reminded those who saw her that she could afford their lives. Only her white blonde braid, trailing well below the bottom hem of her bodice, was spared the whims of the times. That would always be spared – it was the mark of a Sister. When Alice sat, she had to tilt her head just so to swing the braid out from under her or she’d risk sitting on the tip.

Alice’s eyes always seemed to disapprove of Jacq’s attire.
“Jacq, you’re so predictable.”

“And you, Alice, are... lovely as ever. Good to see you too.”

“Well, I was just – is that pie?”

“Yes. What’s left of it.”

“You’re having piefor breakfast?”

“No, supper, but very early. Why?”

“Oh Jacq, you’ll never find a man if you don’t act like a lady.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re killin’ me Jacq.”

“No, that corset is killing you. But this isn’t what you wanted to talk to me about.”

Alicesat down and crossed her arms. "Well... I was just thinking about love, and I wanted your advice.”

Jacq sputtered; good thing that coffee was still too hot to drink. “What?”

“It’s just that, well, love is such a fickle little critter."

"Huh?"

"I said, love is fickle."

"Oh." Jacq paused, suddenly uncertain. She lifted her mug to her lips, but the steam was enough to warn her. She held it there, letting the steam massage her face.

Alicecleared her throat.

Jacq set down her mug. "Ok, I'll play. What brought this on?"

"Well, I was just thinking about some of the silly things people do 'for love' and how it seems they always end up hurtin' for their efforts."

"Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know. Like with Sasha. I mean, think about it. She went all the way to San Antonio for some guy, and now she's back in Bisbee, all alone, and won't say a word about anything." Alice pouted.

Jacq sighed. "Well, maybe something happened to the guy, and she's too grieved to gossip."

Alice tucked her lip back in and leaned forward, “Jacq, she went to Texas. This wasn’t just a little trip around the block. She crossed the border!”

“She’s not poor, Alice.”

Aliceleveled a shrewd gaze at Jacq. “She’s not ugly, either, Jacq. I just want to know if she’s ok.”

Jacq hesitated. “Just ask her. She has her own defenses.”

Alice’s pout returned, but only for a moment.

“I never see her – but you do.”

Jacq hesitated.

Suspicion bloomed in Alice’s eyes. “You do see her, don’t you?”

“You know where to find her Alice.”

“I suppose.” Alicewas not convinced. “But still, I think we – who is that?"

Jacq blinked. "Who?"

"Behind you. Don't look!"

"How d’you expect me to answer you if I don't? I swear Alice."

Turning, Jacq saw who Alicewas talking about. Tall guy, or maybe just slender. Looked like a traveler. He was facing away from them, ordering a coffee at the bar. Bad idea, Jacq thought. Unless you’re getting some ice with it.

"Dunno, Alice. He's not a local."

"Well I know that. Obviously, if he were from here, I'd recognize him."

"Then why you askin' me? Not like I get out any more than you do."

Alicehumphed. "You're infuriating, Jacq."

"Love you too, Alice."

They smiled.

After a moment of silence, Alice whispered, "He's awfully handsome."

"What's that you were just saying about fools in love?"

"Your cynicism has been noted and rejected, Miss Jacq."

Jacq shrugged, then grinned. "So be a fool. Don't worry, I'll still be your friend - aren't I now?"

Laughing, Alicesaid, "And I, you, Jacqueline Avery."

"Heh, one for me, one for you. I have to go walk my dogs. You stopping by later?"

"Maybe. I've errands and such, you know. Some of us have real jobs."

"Which is exactly why I’m leaving. Wouldn’t do for me to get recruited into that shop of yours.” She picked up her satchel. “Alright, I'll see you soon. Stop by whenever.”

As Alicestood to leave, Jacq carried her mug to the bar. “Hank! Can I get some ice in this?”

“Sure thing Jacq, jus’ gimme a sec.” Hank’s face was a ruddy mix of angles and jowls. He lumbered around to the icebox, pick in hand, and chipped her off a couple pieces. She held out her mug and he dropped them in.

“Thank you sir!”

Hank smiled, “Any time Jacq, can’t have you takin’ my mugs home again.”

She blushed. The old coot had a memory as long as a python’s tail.

Jacq turned her back to the bar and leaned against it, watching the diminishing ice chips swirl around in her mug. When they were gone, she tipped the mug back and drained it.

Ahhh, that’s more like – her thoughts stopped short as her head came down and she caught a glimpse of Alice’s stranger. He was sitting down now, at a table by the window. She knew that face. Once upon a time, she’d known that man. Or rather, she’d known as much as anyone had back then, which wasn’t much. Lieutenant Colonel Archer, expert rifleman, never turned a dirty weapon over for repair, and probably never took a whore in his entire career. He wasn’t likely to remember her. She’d just been the brigade’s armorer, and his weapon rarely broke. He didn’t have a rifle on him now. What is he doing here?

Jacq left the mug on the counter for Hank, and eased out the door. She’d wondered about him at the time, as they all did, but it had been years since he’d crossed her mind, as many years as since she’d left the Army. Back then, she hadn’t been able to avoid the rumors, not living in a tent with fifty other troops. The women had all wanted a bit of Archer, with his lean muscles and gentlemanly ways. Even some of the men had shared that interest. But he had seemed cold to Jacq, as though his courtesy and careful ways were somehow meant to remind them that he was better than his surroundings. She wondered whether he was here on an assignment. Without his rifle? No. But surely he hadn’t left the Army. He had always struck her as a lifer, and Bisbee wasn’t far from the border.

Pfft, not like I never been wrong before.

His being there probably had not a damn thing to do with her, but she was pestered by the questions it presented all the way back up the hill to her house. She hoped he’d leave quickly so she could stop wondering. 

Day 3 of NaNoWriMo

It's almost the end of day 3 of NaNoWriMo.

My word count is 9988 words and I'm still writing (just a short break to post this before I forget).

Money raised for the Night of Writing Dangerously Trip:
$260 for the ticket (check! - I only needed $250);
$50 for the travel expenses (I need $600 - ack!).


Excerpt:

It was late afternoon when he made it into Bisbee proper. The street had the look of a battlefield in mid-desertion. The crowds were bustling about, trying to finish errands and get out of the gritty wind. He kept his eyes to himself and tried to look casual, but only managed to feel conspicuously foreign. A harker called out beside him, something about a fire. The boy’s shrill voice startled him into looking, but the sign behind the boy caught his attention: The Grande Hotel.

Yes, he thought, a bed. A bed and a bath. His eyes quickly searched out the door and his feet veered toward it drunkenly.

On the other side of the door, a raucous crowd caroused between him and his bed. A moment of confusion faltered his steps. Then he made his way to the bar and flagged down the barkeep, a milk-skinned man with thick white hair braided down his back.

“Beer?”

“Bed.”

“We got those. Bath?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“A week.” He thought he’d probably sleep that long.

“One hundred, up front. We don’t do credit.”

It seemed steep, but then, he had no idea what hotel rooms ran these days. He cast his eyes about but didn’t see anyone else looking his way, so he slipped his wallet out of the pocket in his vest. Choosing carefully, he laid a hundred-dollar bill on the barkeep’s palm, meeting the man’s raised eyebrow with a cold stare.

“All righty then,” the barkeep cleared his throat. “Well, let’s get you situated. Name?”

“What?”

“What’s your name? For my records.”

“Abraham. Abraham Archer.” How strange, to give his first name like that. It felt clumsy, not giving his military rank. Just another change to get used to, he supposed.

The man pulled a woman out of the crowd, handed her a key, and sent Abraham and the woman through the crowd to the stairs in the back of the bar.

Abraham followed her up the stairs, momentarily recalling how long it had been since he’d had a woman, but it was a passing thought, without conviction. He would not have made it up the stairs if he hadn’t known there was a bed up there waiting for him.

“This is it, sir.” The woman spoke softly around the edge of his awareness, but when she gestured, Abraham’s eyes went straight for the doorknob.

“I’ll have a bath, too,” he said, stepping into the room. The deep red walls gave the room an oddly pleasing atmosphere; no doubt his eyes were longing for the deep red of closed eyelids.

“There’s a bathroom, sir. Hot water and all.” A note of pride raised her voice.

He turned to stare. A bath-room? He blinked, but didn’t speak. He couldn’t quite process what she’d said. Her green eyes blinked.

“For your bath, sir.” She blushed, and he noticed the dark freckles across the bridge of her nose. They blended prettily with the deep brown of her skin. “Shall I show you?”

He just nodded, trying to project something that wasn’t ignorance, and followed her through the room. On the other side of the bed was another door, leading to a smaller room. This one had a tub, which he recognized, but there were pipes and levers on one end of the tub that confused him. She was talking about hot water and cold water and the tub; he just watched her, mute. Then he looked back over his shoulder, to the bed in the other room. Her voice, soft with kindness, caught him as he started to turn – “Sir, how about I just draw the water for you. You’ll want to get that dirt off before you get in that nice clean bed, won’t you? I know I would. Here, I’ll show you how this works tomorrow. You’re here all week, right? So I’ll just show you later. It’s no problem.”

He didn’t know how it happened, but she did something with her hands and steaming water was pouring into that tub from one of the pipes.

“If you’ll just wait one moment, I’ll get this tub filled then leave you to your bath. Would you like me to check on you a little later?”

He could hear the concern lacing through her voice. That was something he understood. “Yes, yes ma’am. That’d be good.”

“Alrighty hon, you just don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take good care of you.”

He turned his back on the noisily pouring contraption and the woman. In the bedroom, as he supposed he ought to call it, he found a coat rack for his duster. He sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his boots. Snippets of dreams seemed to interrupt the task, and he lost track of time.

The woman’s voice snapped his head back into the present. “Now, I’ll come back and check on you in a little bit, hon. I put your room key right there on that night stand, ok? We have another if you lose it, but that’ll cost ya, so try not to, ok?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Look at you. Poor thing. You just get in there and enjoy the hot water, ok?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She slipped out the door, leaving him staring, one boot off and the other half laced. Had she laughed as she left? He couldn’t remember. The other boot came off. He found the lock on the door and secured it. Then he unsecured it. She was coming to check on him. But she had another key. He locked the door.

He finished undressing, then sank into the tub. The water browned instantly, but his eyes were already closed. 

synopsis written: check

I just rewrote the synopsis for my novel.

In other news, you can expect to see more fiction than non-fiction in my blog for the next 32 days. I writing a novel in November. Yep, I'm doing that crazy NaNoWriMo thing. You can help me get to the Night of Writing Dangerously (a six-hour write-a-thon charity event in San Francisco on Nov 17) by donating here.

Wanna see my new synopsis? Sure ya do!
Feel free to leave critiques in the comments!

History repeats itself:

An old soldier wants to know what it means to be a man.

A wounded woman wants to know what it means to be human.

A kid learns that anger is a healing toxin.

An old mining town finds its soul.

A thousand years from now, we won’t remember ourselves. This is the story of a different North America. Nobody alive remembers the United States, and only the historians and archeologists remember what the ruins mean. Of those, a few hope that this second dark age might be coming to an end, and that a new age of enlightenment might be beginning.

The town is Bisbee, Republic of Arizona, last stop on the rail line before Old Mexico and the first non-militarized town north of the border. Indulgences are few but plenty; grit is the texture of the day. 

gearing up for NaNoWriMo

I'm all up in my story planning. Pretty much everything you say to me right now becomes fodder for my writing-imagination.

Government shutdown? Inspiration.
Torn map? Inspiration.
Riverbed drying up post-monsoon? Inspiration.
Rubenesque beauty in a mini-skirt walking across the road? Inspiration.
Music playing somewhere? Inspiration.

On Saturday, Jane's Addiction inspired a character - complete with story arc - and filled out the missing piece of another character's story. The real key was part of a conversation sparked by this song, in which Someone Who Wishes to Remain Anonymous described the song thusly: "it's a form of protest, but with nothing redeemable about it. It's totally selfish - just a big Fuck Your Order." 'Anonymous was smiling and energized; there was nothing derogatory in that statement - it was a compliment.

That's the kind of energy I've got going on these days.
And if I'm not writing here so much, it's only because my creative focus is my novel, and NaNoWriMo.

Send me to NaNoWriMo!

I'm doing something. Something big.

Read on, my friends, read on:

I don't know how many of you know this, but I've been working on writing a novel. It's a dystopian science fiction inspired by my heroes: Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, and George R. R. Martin. I'm spending October doing world-building in preparation for the flurry of writing in November that is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). My goal is to complete 50,000 words of text in the month of November! 

This fundraiser to help me get to San Francisco for the 2013 Night of Writing Dangerously, a NaNoWriMo event that brings writers together for a six-hour write-a-thon! Why? Says NaNoWriMo: "Because proceeds from the evening make our programs possible, including the classroom-based Young Writers Program, which supports project-based learning and writing literacy." ...And because I really, really want to do this.

Here's the link to donate: http://www.gofundme.com/sendKaty

Earlier this month, I posted a fundraiser that raised money for the charities aided by the event; those donations got me in the door. This fundraiser will help defray the cost of travel. 

This is so necessary; I have to do something with myself. Don't we all?

define "romantic relationship"

I don't know about you, but my generation of young girls was taught that you should grow up and marry your best-friend-in-male-form, who should happen to be sexually attractive by Disney standards. And, you should always be on the lookout for someone to spend your life with, because you don't want to be Alone.

I decided quite a while ago that I didn't want to get married. And I decided that again after each of my two divorces. This time, I was going to stick with it. I didn't want to be married, but I didn't want to be alone, either.

I wasn't wrong about not getting married again - I just hadn't realized how pervasive the idea of marriage was in my relationships.

A while back I wrote about my grievances with marriage as a contract. Archer left a comment on that post which concluded with this little gem: "You gotta get a man honey. But why? You ain't nothin without a huuuzzbind! But..why? Hmm, can't remember...but it's an essential truth dammit girl! Yeah. Well. What does a relationship really need to be its best self?"

He was, obviously, commenting on the social pressure on women to 'get a man' to spend her life with. Life isn't all it can be until you've found someone to be with. This idea goes deeper than a contract, though. Ultimately, we look for relationships that might culminate in harmonious cohabitation. It's relatively easy to throw off the idea of contracting your relationship; if you want a ceremony for that, there are plenty of non-contractual methods, and extramarital cohabitation isn't so inflammatory as it once was.

It's far more difficult to throw of the idea that a relationship must culminate.

Why must it 'go' anywhere?
"What does a relationship really need to be its best self?"

This train of thought rolled right over me when I was trying to explain to my son that Archer and I weren't going to be in a "romantic" relationship anymore, but that he was still my best friend. What the hell does "romantic" even mean?


I checked with the Oxford people for you:

If romance is the idealized version of love...

What is more romantic than a friendship of lovers?

What it comes down to, in my mind is this: take away the expectations of cohabitation/marriage/full-life-sharing, but keep the love, keep the friendship, keep the sex; what's left is a love that has no external forces shaping it. Marriage and all that aren't excluded, but they're no longer demanded because the expectation is gone. Without expectations, love is free to develop naturally into whatever works for the participants. At least in an ideal situation. Which is what we're talking about when we apply the 'romance' label.

This train of thought has changed my outlook on romance.

a piano not forgotten

I wonder what song he is playing. Something taught to him in his childhood?

A few years ago I had a chance to play around on a piano. Without sheet music, all I could recall was the first song I ever memorized, for the first recital I ever did: Mary Had a Little Lamb. I remembered, even, the harmonic accompaniment to the melody, though I couldn't tell you know what that type of chord was called. My body recalls what my mind does not. It has been so long since I've really played - almost twenty years - could I even read sheet music any more? It'd be a struggle, I think.

There's an analogy for life in that.