Saturday, November 11, 2006

Swag


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.

25,000

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 :)

Today's pic


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

Friday, November 10, 2006

"Reach out and Touch Someone"


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.

No update....


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.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

20,000

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.

The World's Worst Rock Band

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.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

"The Magnificent Lakeview Lounge" Continued


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.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

"My Name is Charles Bonnet"


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.

Monday, November 06, 2006

"The Magnificent Lakeview Lounge"


Word count: 14208
This time in 2003: 8568
This time in 2002: 9327
Here's our first special cameo. Phil, this is for you.



Chapter 10: The Magnificent Lakeview Lounge
(In which I get a drink.)

I need a drink, good lord, I need a drink. I deserve a drink, yes I do. And I know just the spot. It's a bit of a hike, but it's got everything I need (stools, a bar, booze and a friendly mixologist) and it's within stumbling distance of home. I head there posthaste.
The Lakeview Lounge has been around since the 1920s and it shows. It is the very definition of a dive bar. There are holes in the walls, holes in the floors -- it's amazing the place hasn't fallen apart around its patrons. The sign out front which declares "Live entertainment" uses two Ns to make up the M. It's that kind of place. But it's friendly and cheap, and like I said before, it's got everything I need.
From the name, you might think that it was in Lakeview, or that it at the very least had a view of the lake. Neither of these things are true. The bar was opened by Jake and Sylvia Lakeview, the great-grandparents of the current owner, my good friend, Bart.
"Charlie!" Bart says as I walk in the door. "It's good to see ya. It's been too long!"
Bart is about my age, tall and rail-thin with a wild shock of white hair that he's had for as long as I've known him. I met him back when we were both in high school. Where I was the average, invisible kid, Bart was the exact opposite. With a build like his, it's impossible to go unnoticed. He has a personality to match: gregarious and friendly, good-natured and funny. He also had a darker side that was mostly quelled when he took over the family business, but still comes out from time to time when he's forced to remove an unruly customer. When we were kids, Bart was the one who got me into trouble. It was never anything serious, but it did cause my parents to worry from time to time. Bart was a natural leader though, and it was tough for me to ever say no to him, no matter what my better judgment told me. And we always had so much fun....
"Howdy, Bart." I say, smiling. It's always nice to see a friendly face, and that song does have it right -- you do want to go somewhere where everybody knows your name. "It's good to be seen."

"Dream a Little Dream of Me"

Word count: 13026
(I have started adding chapter introductions, an idea gleaned from the NaNo forums, and which I quite enjoy. I will share them with you all tomorrow, I think.)



Chapter 8: Dream a Little Dream of Me
(In which I reluctantly relate to you the contents of a dream and we finally discover the origins of the title.)

I hate dream sequences. Really, I do. Nothing in a book or movie says to me, "Hey, you can stop paying attention for five minutes," more than a dream sequence does. It's an author saying, "Here, let me tell you about something that didn't happen but is going to be either A) foreshadowing, B) symbolically significant or C) revealing of the inner workings of a character's mind." Yawn. For real, that shit just doesn't do it for me.
That said, I really gotta tell you about the dream I had when I fell asleep talking to my cat. Shit, that right there sounds pretty weird. But you know what I mean -- I was just talking to myself with my cat there. It's like when Swearengen talks to the severed head in Deadwood. He's not really talking to the head it's just there for him to use as a sounding board. Or better yet - when Ellsworth would talk to his dog. You remember that? Man, I was pissed when they shot him. Anyway -- that's like me. Talking to my cat. But not really.
So I'm going to tell you about this dream, and if you don't want to read about it, you're welcome to skip ahead to the next chapter. It's going to have bits about heading to the office to find information about the case I'm working on and some pretty good music in it as well. You're not going to miss much and if it turns out, through some strange twist of fate, that the information presented in my dream is important, I'll come get you. I promise.
Okay.
I'm lying on the floor -- I seem to be doing a whole lot of that these days -- and I'm asleep, only I'm not really asleep. It's hard to explain, but I'll give it a shot. My eyes are closed and I can't open them and I'm thinking I should head to the bathroom to splash my face with water but I can't really get up either. I'm struggling to open my eyes but I just can't. I try to sit up but I can't. My frustration level is rising and I'm about to yell out a whole flurry of curses for the world when I hear two gunshots very close to me. I stop trying to open my eyes because now I know I don't want to see what's going on but now it's a struggle to keep them closed.
Finally, I stop struggling altogether and my eyes open. It's the darkness again. That old, everpresent darkness and I'm starting to realize that I just can't win for losing.
There's nothing quite like the silence that follows immediately after a gun is fired. It's a heavy silence, thick with tension and consequences. It doesn't last very long though. Quite soon, the moaning and the yelling and the screaming kick in. But, even in dreams, the silence has a weight to it. Add to it the perceived hypersensitivity that darkness brings and you have one magnificent silence indeed.
It is in this silence that I finally hear the voice. It is whispering, again and again the same phrase:
"Seek out Illinoir."
"Hey, don't you mean Illinois?" I ask. "I know the 's' is silent and it's a weird word, but it's Native American. It's from the Illinwek tribe that once lived here. Though the word seems like it hasa some French influence, doesn't it? What with the silent 's' and all, I mean."
The voice louder, a little more insistent. "Seek out Illinoir."
"Okay, I'm really confused. If you mean Illinois, I've got to say, that's where we are. Or at least, I think that's where we are. That's where I live. Illinois. Chicago, really. Nobody in Chicago really thinks much about being in the State of Illinois. On a daily basis, we just kind of think of Chicago as the state we're in and Illinois is a place that's kinda, you know, somewhere else. 'Downstate.' It's not the way that I imagine people who live in Ohio or Kansas feel. They're definitely Ohioans or Kansas...ians. What are they called, anyway? Kansasites? Kansasters? Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah--"
"Seek out Illinoir!" And I swear to God I can hear frustration verging on anger coming from the voice.
"Look, I love a good quest as much as the next guy. And I love a vague lead-in to a quest more than most. But this doesn't make any sense. How do you spell that?"
"I-L-L-I-N-O-I-R."
"Great. Now we're getting somewhere. Is that supposed to be Illinois but like... I don't know. Noir-y?"
"Yes!" says the voice. "I mean. Seek out Illinoir!"
"Well okay. Will do, Mister Myserious Voice. Is that all?"
The voice returns to its previously dramatic tone and timbre, whispering, "Seek out Illinoir." It gets quieter and quieter, as if fading away, but it's quite apparent that the source of the voice is attempting to stealthily shuffle out of the room and is having trouble doing so.
"Oh, I know," I say sympathetically. "These rooms are dark, aren't they? I was having the exact same problem earlier. Here, let me help."
My lighter is in my hand and I am turning the wheel against the flint and the spark is igniting the gas. The little flame seems to illuminate the entire room but all I can see, directly in front of me is the body of a woman, blood streaming from two bullet wounds. Her enitre body is blurred and all that is clear is her face.

I have another dream as well. It involves chickens. Its relevance is even less readily apparent.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

"The Long Arm of Johnny Law"


Word count: 11131
Health: Eh.
The beard: how bout it, huh?

A bit longer of an excerpt here. Almost a full chapter. Recounting Charlie Bonnet's run-in with Johnny Law.



So the police are here. This is just fantastic. You might wonder how I know it's the police without leaving my comfortable seat in the study. "Is it another one of Charlie's crazy 'feelings' that he's been working so hard to convince me of?" It is nothing of the sort, I assure you. "Well, Charlie, are you about to tell me about some ridiculously expensive and high-tech surveilance system that is conveniently linked to your desktop computer so that at this very moment you are chuckling as you watch a frustrated police officer knock at your door?" No, my dear friend, that is not either. Here is how I know:
The police officer is actually bellowing, "Open up in the name of the law!" as he pounds upon my door. I know, it seems a little far-fetched. It almost seems like it's too good to be true for those of us who enjoy this sort of thing. But it's true. This is exactly what is happening right this very second.
Sighing, I get to my feet and go to the front door as the pounding continues.
"Open up, Bonnet!" shouts the policeman. "We know you're in there!"
I throw open the door just as the cop, a plainclothes detective, winds up for a mighty swing, no doubt intending to knock my door down.
"Good morning, Detective Law," I say with a smile. "What can I do for you?"
Again, I'm not kidding here either. His name actually is Jonathan Law. It's just too much.
"Bonnet," Detective Law says, composing himself, "what took you so long?"
"I'm in the habit of being asleep at this hour, Detective. You might try it one day."
"I'm not in the mood for your wisecracks today, Bonnet. I'm working a murder."
"A murder? Goodness me. Would you like to come in?" I step back from the door and usher him inside. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Naw, this won't take long. I just wanted to ask you a couple questions."
"By all means. Won't you sit down?" I gesture towards one of the chairs in the living room. As the detective sits, I cross to the bar where I fill a martini glass with ice and water. "Is it about the murder?"
"No, no," he says. "Why? You know something about one?"
I laugh and fill a shaker with ice. "Of course not, Detective Law."
"Oh, alright," Detective Law says, taking a quick glance around the apartment. "Nice place you got here, Bonnet."
"Thanks, Detective," I say, pouring a shot of black cherry vodka into the shaker. "I didn't realize you'd never been up here before."
"I guess I never made it to one of your end of case victory parties," Law says with a sneer. He and I have butted heads on a few occasions and I may have shown him up once or twice, but I didn't realize that he held any animosity towards me. He's a good cop and I know he's more interested in seeing justice done than in getting credit for a collar.
"Well, let me just tell you right now that there's a standing invitation to you. My wife thinks the world of you, you know." I pour a two count of Godiva dark chocolate liqueur into the shaker.
"Well ain't that something. I'll keep that in mind. Say, where is the little lady anyhow? Did she manage to sleep through all that noise I was making?"
"Oh no," I laugh as I add a splash of Grand Marnier to the mixer. "She's out working on a case somewhere."
"That's not what your super said."
"You talked to Sal?"
"He called over to the station, said you'd come home looking like you'd been in a title fight and came out on the losing end," Law says, giving me a glance. "Only you don't look so roughed up now."
Damn that Sal. "I took a shower."
"You clean up nice. He says he had to let you in on account of you didn't want to wake up your wife. Says you first told him she was out of town."
I cap the mixer and give it precisely three and a half shakes. "That's right."
"Well which one is it, Bonnet? Is she asleep, out of town, or working on a case?"
"She's out working on a case. I talked to her not five minutes before I called Sal."
"So why the fibs? What's the story?"
"Honestly, I just didn't want to get into it with Sal. The last time I told him that my wife was out working at 3 AM, I didn't hear the end of it about how I was a pussy for letting my wife out at all hours. He and I don't exactly see eye to eye about the idea of 'allowing' a woman to work outside the home. I thought I might avoid some trouble by telling an innocent lie. Obviously, I was wrong." I dump the ice and water from the martini glass and pour my drink into it. I carry it across to the couch opposite the detective. "So, Detective Law, is this what you came here for? To ask me about the whereabouts of my wife? We can call her if you like."
"So what was with all the blood?"
"I got into a bit of a scrap this evening," I say and then take a sip of my drink. It tastes awful. Back to the drawing board. I chalk it up as a learning experience. "Someone did a number on me."
"But you should see the other guy, eh?"
"Actually, I'd love to. I never got a look at him. If there even was a him. I'm not entirely sure what happened."
"Why don't you lay it on me?"
I tell the detective a condensed version of the story, leaving out the details of the ominous message and the disturbing photo. Perhaps he could help if I trusted him more and told him the whole story but right now I'm thinking that it might lead me to an overnight stay in the lockup. Even though the night is growing shorter and shorter, that's not something I look forward to.
"That's one hell of a story, Bonnet," Law says when I finish. "I don't know what to make of that at all."
"Nor do I, Detective. I'm hoping a visit to my office will shed some more light on the matter."
"Why don't you head over there now?"
"Detective, I'm exahausted. I've had a very difficult night. If it's all the same to you, I'll check it out first thing in the morning and give you a call once I know something more."
"That's fine, that's fine," he says, standing and retrieving his hat from the coffee table. "I'll hit the road for now, then. Just make sure you give me that call tomorrow."
"That's a promise," I say, leading the detective to the door.
"Alright, Bonnet. Get some sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
He is halfway down the hallway before I remember that he had mentioned a murder. "Detective? What was that about a murder victim?"
He turns. "Oh yeah. A civilian found a body downtown. Blonde lady, nice dress, shot twice at close range."
"Was it another robbery?" There had been a recent string of robberies in the downtown area. Rich folks from the suburbs had been getting their expensive things taken from them by the jealous and less fortunate criminal element in the city.
"Don't think so. She had some diamonds in her ears and around her neck that weren't even touched."
"That's strange indeed."
"That ain't the half of it. Her face; her fingerprints.... It's going to be real tough to ID her," he says, shaking his head.
"Were they burned off? Mutilated?"
"No, it's more like.... It's more like they were blurred."
My heart skips a beat. Maybe three. "Blurred?"
"I know. It sounds crazy, but there you have it. Just when you think you've seen it all, huh?"
I take a deep breath. "It's a mad mad mad mad world, Detective."
"Don't I know it, Bonnet?" Detective Law tips his hat to me and heads down the stairs. "Anyhow, I'll look forward to your call tomorrow."
I call after him, "Good night, Detective."