52.094 Words, Done, Like. Dinner.

Just finished my sophomore effort, and must admit, I am pleased with the effort, if not the result. Please note that some of this novel was written in an emergency room this afternoon, with a deranged man suffering from dementia in the bed next to ours. I think it added a little 'je ne said quoi' to my novel, but I'll let you all eventually be the judges of that.
Katie and I realized moments ago, that we have actually written two novels within a 12 month period, and for a group of a-holes like us, who never imagined writing anything more than angry letters to the editor (with the exception of the oft-academic-journal published older Esmonde sisters), I'd say that this is quite an accomplishment. One we can be proud of. And I am, so proud of us. Yay Esmondes!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ah yes, dear readers, you are wondering about the picture. Well, at one point, Jack Connolly realizes that he has been caught 'with his pants down.' This is a great disappointment to him, since he swore this would never happen to him again. This photo is of the first time it happened.

48,094 words... am poised for the big finish!

Ever since my children finished school on Wednesday, my life has been chaos defined. Meaning Liam stood up, we all stood up, it was anarchy... it has been difficult for me to keep up with blogging on top of trying to keep up with my writing. But, keep up with my writing I have, and now, I am poised to finish tomorrow, or possibly Sunday. I suspect that my novel will likely go over 50,000 words. Sam, Katie, and I are here together, and we have created a new drink: Sex on the Beach with Emilio... suffice it to say, that Emilio has moved beyond his coquettish ways of last weekend, and is getting straight to the punch.

An Update From the Shadows

Sam and I had an epic writing day. Today was the last day of school, and after dropping the kids off, I came home, put on a pot of coffee, and wrote. And wrote. And wrote. I am now up to 44,024 words. I have so many loose ends to tie up, I am really not sure how I can manage to finish in another 6,000 words, not to mention the fact that I have no idea what the hell is going to happen. My novel is reaching the point where I am almost unable to handle its ridiculousness, whilst I simultaneously revel in its unsurpassed stupidity. Just 6,000 more words, it seems like a dream...
Now, in keeping with today's 'beachy' theme, here is a picture of Tim O'Sullivan on the beach, which is where he and Reggie first fell in love...
"With your flip flops, half shirt, short shorts, mini skirt, walking on the beach so pretty... you wasn't looking for a man when you saw me in the sand, but you fell for the boy from the city..."

No, I'm Going Dark

I have decided to 'go dark' with information about my novel... I am at a point in my novel where everything is coming together, and I want some things to remain a secret, so that people will want to read my book. So I will continue to read the blogs of others, and comment, and offer my full support, but otherwise, will probably not be writing much on my own blog... at 37,793 words, I am hoping to finish this weekend. Can't. F*cking. Wait. It's so close I can taste it.

Hello Marcus! 34,190 Words

Marcus has finally made an appearance in my novel. There is some serious sh*t going down in my novel right now, and not much of it is funny. But I am definitely hitting my Week 3 stride, and am getting to the point of being obsessed with my characters. This is both good and bad.
"As he rounds the corner, he hears raised voices. This does not alarm him, he expected it. Jack is back in radio contact. Things are advancing more quickly than he had anticipated. Still, only a fool advances around a corner without flattening himself against a wall and peering around first. And Jack is no fool. He wishes he had a gun in his hand instead of a fistful of pillar candles, but wishes never got anyone anywhere, Jack knows this well. And the candles are necessary.
Once he has ascertained that it is safe to advance, he does so, quickly moving through the hallway. The door to Hawthorne’s office is open, he can see. Hawthorne looks harried, distraught, and worn out. He has had quite a day, Jack knows, but Jack feels little sympathy, having been through the ringer more than a few times, himself. Jack has seen more in a 24 hour period than Hawthorne will ever see in his life. Jack knows that 24 hours can seem 24 years. But Hawthorne has held up under the pressure surprisingly well, which is why Jack has decided to adopt a more direct approach. He thinks Hawthorne will prove to be an effective ally.
Will sees Jack approaching, and his heart sinks. What now? he wonders. He takes note of how Jack stays to the edges of the hallway, glancing in every direction as he advances. Will is completely flummoxed by this strange, intense, man. Flummoxed and a little frightened. Jack tends to have that effect on people.
Both Will and the man in front of his desk are on their feet. The man is in the process of tearing a strip off of Will.
“What the hell kind of retirement community are you running here, huh? Do you think this is funny? Do you think that coffins are appropriate decor? Do you think these poor people need to be reminded that they are going to die soon? WHERE ARE MY GRANDPARENTS!? I demand to see them immediately!”
Will has tried to explain to this angry young man that he is not running any sort of retirement community, that he has mistaken Hawthorne and Sons for the retirement community down the road, Shady Acres. But the young man will have none of it. He is adamant. Jack approaches quickly, feeling that this situation ought to be addressed immediately.
“Sir, were you told that this was Shady Acres?” The young man seems startled by the sudden and inexplicable appearance of Jack. Marcus had not even seen his approach. He is even more startled as Jack begins to place pillar candles around the office of Will Hawthorne.
“Well, yes. I was at...” before he can finish, Jack, who is impatient as hell, interrupts.
“You were at Jackie’s Place, next door, partaking in a few pre-grandparent visit cocktails, when four young men of notable appearance approached and without being asked gave you directions to your grandparent’s retirement home?”
“Well, yes, when you put it that way, it sounds a bit weird. They were extraordinarily good-looking.”
“Sir, you have become involved in something much bigger than you can even imagine. Now, I assure you, your grandparents, Moses and Rumer Rockacha are completely safe and completely alive, down the street, at Shady Acres Retirement Community. I suggest you head there immediately if you want them to remain that way.” Jack is completely deadpan as he says this. When Jack speaks this way, people listen. Marcus does. He doesn’t know who the strange man is, but the truth is, he doesn’t want to know. He has enough on his plate without becoming involved with another mystery. He takes his leave, from Hawthorne and Sons Funeral Home, and from our story. Let’s wish him well as he goes."

A Semi-Ironic Funeral Pre-Planner? Who Could It Be? 30,284 Words

I am beginning to advance the plot slightly, having now introduced the villains of the story, locked my main characters in a storage closet, and bombarded Will Hawthorne, the funeral director, with complicated problems and requests. Inspiration struck today, as I considered what else Will could face in a single day. I hope you like the result:

"“For reals. Wedding planning is an experience not unlike dying a slow, excruciating death, one in which one is crushed to death below the weight of minute and meaningless detail. It is a dark, scary world out there, Mr. Hawthorne, a dark. Scary. World.” She paused, shuddered, then gathered her strength to continue. “I have fallen back on my sense of humour and refined sense of irony to carry me through, and have decided to plan my wedding semi-ironically, which has lessened the burden significantly, and led me to think that an excellent semi-ironic exercise would be to plan my wedding and funeral simultaneously, both in the same theme.”
Will agreed that co-planning a wedding and funeral was semi-ironic, but was starting to wonder about the sanity of this woman. Well, in any case, if she came back after her wedding, wanting her money refunded, he could always refund her. He decided to proceed with utmost professionalism, treating this bizarre and rather amusing request at face value. He would deliver the service this young woman so desperately needed. He would, at the very least, try to provide a service superior to what she seemed to have been receiving in the wedding industry, a dark scary world to enter, indeed.
“Alright, Ms. Yorke, er, Julie. We will happily assist you with all your pre-planning needs. At least those related to funeral services. Although I would happily recommend a florist, or bakery, we have some excellent contacts.” Julie smiled gleefully, in an unhinged manner.
“Oh, I have the flowers and the cake all worked out. And the entertainment,” she giggled in a frightening, lunatic manner, but Will, ever the professional continued.
“So, the theme is...”
“Well, I am going with a semi-ironic, 1950s style, shitster sort of theme.” Will tried not to look as alarmed as he felt. It was a skill he was quite practiced in, and also, Julie would have to work quite a bit harder to shock Will at this point. As long as Julie wasn’t on fire, leaking, or rolling through a door, she seemed perfectly normal. Also, though it was a long shot, he thought he had a coffin in stock that would suit her needs perfectly. The week before, Will had received a coffin from a company based out of Santa Monica. He had not put in the request, and suspected that those assholes over at Ipswich and Sons had sent it over as a practical joke. To add insult to injury, he had been unable to return the coffin, the company, understandably so, had a no return policy.
The coffin was a bright, highly polished red, lending it a slick, lacquered look, like cherry red nail polish. When you opened the coffin, it revealed an inner lining made from satin and tulle, white, with black polka dots. He thought that would take care of the 1950s theme nicely. But what pushed this particular coffin over the edge from simple 1950s style into the semi-ironic category, was that placed on the inside of the coffin door, in black and white, was a signed portrait of Emilio Estevez, circa The Mighty Ducks (the first one, not the ill advised sequel, or the even more ill-advised third instalment in the series). Not only would it accentuate the viewing of the corpse during the wake and at the funeral, but then, the deceased would be face to face with a personalized Emilio portrait for all time. It was a stroke of genius. And clearly, only a shitster of refined taste would ever purchase it. It was just the thing."

26,846 words... Too Much Plot? No Problem!

Last night was I think, depressing for indigo and I. We both seemed to be uninspired by our own writing. I knew that I needed to dedicate some time to thinking about where my story was headed. As with last year's rookie effort, my novel has turned into a farcical juxtaposition of serious themes combined with ridiculous stupidity. This year, I have really outdone myself I think, in terms of writing myself into an impossible corner, with two plotlines to follow- one serious, one madcap. I am really going to have to flex my literary muscles to write myself out of this one. Last night, I felt for the first time that perhaps I was not up to the task.
This morning I went for a long walk, listening to the soundtrack of my sophomore effort, and although I did not solve the significant dilemma of having too much plot, I have at least thought through a way of bringing them together. As I listened to more music from my soundtrack on my way into work, I found myself hopeful again. Perhaps I can do this, although I must admit, that part of my oath to myself was that if I want to, I can bury this novel in the backyard by the light of the moon, not letting anyone ever read it. Ever. I want to include a long excerpt today, not because I think it is particularly good or interesting, but because I wrote it for the purposes of amusing my fellow NaNoWriMo sufferers (as well as myself). Because for good or for ill, we are all in this together, and lord knows, we have to amuse ourselves if we are going to make it to June 30th. Because no one, no one, is going to do it for us.

"Will had been in the midst of handling the fallout from the barf-o-rama when he heard the distinct and rather unmistakeable dulcet tones of the song “Girlfriend”, by N*Sync. Will realized, with a sinking heart, that it was the version featuring Nelly. He prayed to the funeral gods that the mourners at Mrs. Jaworsky’s service would not notice. God knew what that would lead to. Maybe it was the sudden change in tone, maybe it was the unstoppable catchiness of the song, or maybe it was the heart-breakingly pure soprano of Justin Timberlake’s voice, but the mourners noticed almost immediately. But instead of a fresh round of disgorgement, it seemed to calm the crowd, to distract them from both the pain of their grief, and the nausea in their stomachs. They were swaying softly, and then Will heard one of the mourners ask “is that Nelly?”
It was a blow to tradition, it was a complete alteration of the way things were done. It went against everything that Will had learned in school about the successful management of mood in a funeral setting, and as every funeral director worth his salt knows, mood management is absolutely key. Without it, you have nothing. Will was starting to feel as though he were completely losing control of everything going on in the entire 12,000 sq. Ft. Structure. It was his worst nightmare come to life. Well, at least his second worst nightmare. His worst nightmare was about an impossibly unlikely strip club with a haunted mansion motif. In his dream, it was ‘Ladies Night’, with an all-male review. He was for some inexplicable reason dressed as Frankenstein, forced to dance a haunting combination of the Charleston and the Robotic Shimmy. He always woke up screaming.
Well, Will had learned a thing or two in his tenure as owner and funeral director at Hawthorne and Sons. And while Will might be incapable of successfully combining the Charleston and the Robotic Shimmy, there was one thing he could control, and that was the music. Everything else would fall into place if he could get that back on track. He could not allow the madness to continue. It had to be stopped immediately. He rose and left the room discreetly, heading toward the inner sanctum, where all of the controls were... lights, music, screens, hidden passageways, it was all there.
Girfriend had turned into ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ by Bon Jovi, quite possibly the most inappropriate song imaginable for a funeral home, and Will had still not managed to switch the music back to the ‘Funeral Mix ’98 (a classic, and one of Will’s favourites). It was an unmitigated disaster, he could not trace where the music was coming from. Seth, that devil, had somehow disconnected their sound system from the source on site, and was piping in music from somewhere off site... but where? As the answer to that question occurs to him, he sits down, battling a grin. You had to hand it to the kid, he was resourceful, and Will took a moment to appreciate the brilliance of Seth’s musical coup d’état. As Jon Bon Jovi ponders the number of faces that he’s seen, and ultimately concludes that he has rocked them all, Will picks up the phone, and dials. It has to be Jackie’s Place, the pub next door. They always have the best music."

It took me almost 27,000 words, but I finally, finally managed to incorporate Jackie's Place.

The Shittiest Eulogy Ever, 25,105 Words

I don't want to get anyone's hopes up, because still nothing is happening in my novel, but I think this is a part that everyone will recognize. A eulogy delivered by a stranger pulled off of the street. Weirdest. Shit. Ever.

"“Beth was... at heart, a natural home decorator, as many of you in the room can testify to, we all know that Beth helped many of you pick colours for your interiors, some might even go so far as to say that she had a gift.” A gift for home interiors? Reggie wonders whether this is an appropriate theme for a eulogy, and as evidenced by the embarrassed exchanging of glances amongst the others, she sees that she is not alone in her assessment. The man continues, unperturbed by the lukewarm reception of his audience.
“I met Beth once, it was, well, I’ll never forget it. It was about 25 years ago, when my boat happened to drift past another boat, and though I actually did not see Beth on the deck, her ex-husband, Ross,” he pauses, waving across the room at a person Reggie can only assume is the ex-husband himself, “as I said, Ross was on the deck, holding on to one of their beloved dogs. Beth just loved those dogs, didn’t she? I think she might have even loved those dogs more than she loved the thrill of finding the perfect accent throw pillow. Am I right, folks?” The room remains largely silent, the odd throat clearing or soft cough the only response.
Reggie wants him to stop, she doesn’t think she can take much more. First the home interiors fiasco, now a related anecdote about the deceased, which in fact turns out to be about the deceased woman’s ex-husband? Unforgivable. Outrageous. Reggie is considering sneaking back out into the hallway, funeral rebellion be damned, when the eulogy, such as it is, takes a decided turn for the worse, and Reggie finds herself transfixed, unable to turn away, as though she were watching a train wreck, or perhaps a YouTube video of Cristiano Ronaldo, checking out one of his fellow player’s crotches.
“I don’t know how you all feel about this, maybe this will help, maybe it won’t,” an inauspicious beginning, if ever there was one. “But I find, when I have lost someone, that it really helps for me to think about that person and how they relate to building materials. Now, as we all know, my boss,” he pauses, his finger pointing toward the ceiling. ”My boss...Jesus, would be considered the cornerstone of any building. He is absolutely necessary in the successful completion of any type of construction. Try to build a house without him, you’ll learn!” The man chuckles nervously before continuing. “When I think about Beth, I think, Beth was the type of person that... you know... you could... build a house on Beth, she was just so solid. Beth, was... a foundation stone. And in the kingdom of our Lord, as we have learned, his house has many mansions. And all of them, every single one, is built upon a foundation. A foundation, made up of people like our beloved Beth.”
The room was thunderously silent. The man at the lectern had at last stopped speaking, but it was unclear whether he was finished, or incorporating some sort of dramatic pause, or perhaps he was waiting for applause? Finally, he spoke again, quickly and unceremoniously delivering the details of the interment, as well as the location of the reception following the service. Then he stepped away from the lectern, and quickly left the room.
The mourners seem shocked, unable to believe what they have witnessed, and they seem uncertain as to what they should do next. Was that it? Was that the funeral service? Reggie glances at Seth, and sees that he is shaking his head, a look of shock on his face. He leans over Tim, who is seated between them and whispers “what a shit show that was.” Reggie couldn’t agree more. Tim and Tab, who have overheard Seth’s proclamation, nod their heads in agreement."

I have included a picture of Seth, because Seth is in the midst of a metamorphosis. I think that this eulogy just might send Seth into a full-blown campaign to overhaul the funeral industry, or at the very least, the funeral home that he is partner of. Seth will not tolerate this sort of foolishness, trust. Will Hawthorne doesn't know what's coming, but he will, oh yes, and he had better batten down the hatches, for a storm is coming.

Jack Bauer Loses Sight of Reggie, 21,776

I have had a couple of dark days, days that were brightened by the appearance of an Esmonde sister who materialized on my doorstep filled to the brim with vim, vigour, and a cheeky attitude. Yesterday I had to double up on my word count, and then was too sick of my novel to post anything. Here is something I wrote yesterday that was inspired by Katie's dream sequence. In my novel, some madcap adventures are about to begin. Reggie, Tim, and Tab have decided to take off through the funeral parlour, not unlike a scene from the Breakfast Club, with the gang running away from the principal. Soon they will be joined by someone else who is on the run, for reasons of his own... stay tuned.

"Jack is furious. But he has also gone dark, at his own request, so he is reluctant to re-establish radio contact. He had been distracted by the appearance of Uncle Rock, whose longstanding association with the Freemasons has been documented by Jack’s people. Small players on the international scene, but still, Jack has learned that every threat should be taken seriously. So he had watched waiting for Rock’s associates to make themselves known, which they did rather quickly and obviously, Jack had thought with some contempt. He had taken mental note of the man dressed in a rather unlikely red crushed velvet suit with a matching vest, which Jack surmised was supposed to pass as appropriate funeral garb. Instead it gave the rather disconcerting impression that the wearer had been raiding Barry Manilow’s wardrobe. There was also the man who was rather obviously a cop attempting to look as though he were not. He had an early nineties style mullet, albeit a subtle one, with light brown hair feathered around a cherubic face, which the small moustache did little to render less childlike. He looked like Emilio Estevez circa Stakeout. It is well known in the world of espionage that Freemasons always travel in threes, so Jack had been IDing the third Freemason in attendance (the fake electrician in the corner pretending to fix an electrical outlet that was not broken) when he noticed that Reggie was no longer in the corridor.
He had seen her leave of course, had seen the entire exchange, taking note that he would have to talk to Reggie again about losing her temper so easily. She had such thin skin, it troubled him. He had seen the kid, O’Sullivan, work his way across the room and intercept Reggie at what Jack deemed to be an appropriate moment, though Jack could have handled the situation with more finesse he thought. The O’Sullivan kid was like a blunt instrument, but blunt instruments have their uses, and Jack is grateful that he didn’t have to step in, himself. The less that he is taken note of, the better. He wants to stay invisible for as long as possible. Hopefully, he won’t have to leave the shadows at all.
When Jack had seen them head out into the hallway, followed rapidly by Sawyer, he had relaxed a bit. They would calm her down and bring her back, back under his own watchful eye. Still, he had slowly worked his way around the perimeter of the room, until he had a clear view of where they stood. She was noticeably calmer than she had appeared to be moments before, as he would have predicted. Reggie is like a storm that blows itself out just as quickly as it has blown itself in. Then his attention had shifted to Rock and his blundering associates, momentarily, and when he looked back, she was no longer there. He would have to find her himself, he would re-establish radio contact, if necessary, but he would avoid it if he could."

Enid Sawyer Gets Her Ass Handed To Her, 18,368 Words Deep

My story is taking shape, lord help us. Expect much more from Seth, Will Hawthorne, Tim O'Sullivan, and Tab Sawyer. Among others. Here is an excerpt of an exchange between Reggie and Enid. As I stated in my last excerpt, Enid has picked the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong day to pick a fight with Regina Grubauer.

"Enid approaches Patricia first. She kisses both cheeks in a pretentious mimicry of European custom. Enid was all about such pretentions. Patricia accepts this passively, neither encouraging nor discouraging the exchange. Enid pats Patricia’s back sympathetically, then turns her attention toward Reggie. Reggie experiences the usual shiver down her spine as Enid focuses her icy gaze, her eyes narrowing like a cat zeroing in on its prey.
“Reggie, you poor dear! You must be devastated, you poor thing,” she says, clucking her tongue. Reggie recognizes the tone, and knows that Enid must be about to deliver a real zinger. No matter, Reggie no longer needs to worry about Enid. She is grateful for this, if little else on this godforsaken day. Tab looks tensely between the two. He never was any good at refereeing these matches between his mother and Reggie. “Your father must have been so proud of you, having followed in his footsteps like that? But of course, you were so much braver! Working with children must be so hard; I don’t know how you do it!” She finishes, twisting the knife in Reggie’s heart. Enid knows damn well that Reggie is no longer working with children. Bad move, Enid, bad move. Tab catches the look on Reggie’s face and looks as though he wants to crawl into a hole and die, it’s a look Reggie recognizes.
“Actually, Enid, I’m sure that you’ll recall that I dropped out of the clinical programme and switched to education. I’m quite certain you’re aware of that,” Reggie says through clenched teeth. Is that a twitch of a smile on Patricia’s face? Reggie think so. Enid feigns dismay.
“Oh yes, how embarrassing! You’re right, dear, of course I knew that, I simply forgot,” she says, smiling like a cat that has just eaten the canary. “What was it you did after that? Oh, yes, now you’re at the community college...” she says, a look of disgust on her face. Perhaps a chipmunk has just farted in her face, perhaps not. Her implication, in either case, is clear. Community college is nowhere near as relevant, as prestigious, as clinical work, or better yet, research at the university. Reggie doesn’t give a good goddamn what Enid thinks about her work, but she would like to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off her goddamn face. This is her father’s funeral. She is here with her mother, for God’s sake. She may have behaved badly years ago, but she does not deserve to be made a fool of in front of God, her father’s colleagues, and the relatives that she is not certain she can claim as her own, but by God they are someone’s, and Reggie will be damned if she will let this harpy get the better of her in front of these random acquaintances. Outrage flushes her cheeks and brightens her eye. Enid quite wrongly perceives that Reggie is blushing with shame, and smiles triumphantly, proudly. Pride, as they say, cometh before the fall."

Enid Sawyer Attends Don Grubauer's Viewing, 16,541 words

Am slowly reaching a point where something is happening. Slowly, as in, it will still be a week before anything actually happens, but I am getting there. The Week 2 blahs are setting in. I want sleep, I want freedom from my other responsibilities, I want a toilet that doesn't overflow, I want clean clothes, free time, and a book deal. Is that too much to ask for, writing gods? Damn you writing gods, damn you and your incessant torture of my sensitive artist's soul. I am posting from yesterday's writing session, I was too tired last night to update. So here it is. It is revealed that Tab's last name is Sawyer, and his mother is Enid. Enjoy.

"Patricia sees Tab and his mother before Reggie does. But in classic Patricia fashion, she does not react at all. When Reggie sees them, she stiffens, and braces herself for what will surely be an emotional battering. Enid Sawyer always made her feel that way. Even before she betrayed Tab and broke his heart. Tab is dressed in a dark suit, it looks expensive, Reggie thinks, and it looks good. He looks good, but then, he always did. His looks were never the problem. His hair is a little bit longer now. He used to wear it short and spiky, now it frames his face in cascading waves. Dr. McDreamy himself would have been jealous.
Enid is dressed in what she considers appropriate funeral attire. Reggie herself doesn’t care much for convention, but surely, Enid’s ensemble is stretching the limits of good taste. It begins with an aged Chanel suit, black, which in and of itself is not offensive. Even the pillbox hat with the small veil isn’t too offensive. If it ended there, the look would have been a quaint throwback to simpler times. The black feathers attached to the hat, though, are a stretch. And by the looks of it, somewhere between her house and the funeral home, Enid must have been attacked by a crazed lunatic bearing a bedazzler. Because there are glittery beads everywhere, seemingly in no identifiable pattern, or... wait, do her eyes deceive her? It looks... well, it looks like Emilio Estevez in profile, Emilio Estevez circa The Breakfast Club, when he still had his baby fat but hadn’t acquired his bloat. Well, it is either Emilio Estevez or the Virgin Mary. Either way, no good.
When Tab and Reggie became engaged, Enid had immediately, without consulting Tab or Reggie, booked their wedding ceremony and reception at her country club. The deposit was non-refundable. Reggie thought that it was a classic reaction formation manoeuvre, a Freudian defense mechanism whereby the individual finds her own impulses dangerous and/or unacceptable, and therefore acts in the complete opposite manner to her impulses, thus negating the impulse entirely. Ergo, Enid detested Reggie and everything she stood for, and detested the thought of Tab destroying his life by marrying her, so she acted in a way that implied the opposite. That she was completely supportive. Well played, Enid, well played.
Unbeknownst to Tab and Enid, they are approaching Reggie in the wrong place, at the wrong time, on the wrong day. Reggie has reached the limits of her patience, the very limits. She has neither the desire, the energy, nor the Xanax to deal with Tab, Enid, and Enid’s obvious bedazzlement issues. To his credit, Tab is not his mother. And when he sees Reggie’s face, once the requisite painful twinge in his chest passes, he notices how tense she is, and he tries to head off his mother. He knows that this will not go well. But Tab can no more stop his mother from approaching Reggie than he can stop her from excessively bedazzling her outfits. He follows miserably at her heels."

I'm Back, Baby. Word Count 14,774

Actually, I never left. Sunday I was writing some much needed back story- the story of Tim and Reggie. A beautiful story, in my opinion. I just love Tim and Reggie. They just might be the next Fernie and Olga. Sigh. I liked what I wrote, but didn't feel like any of it was interesting enough to share. I will share a detail with you that is not in the book... the inspiration for their love story is the song "Summertime" by the New Kids On the Block. I liked to imagine that Tim's guilty pleasure was listening to that song as he drove, it always made him think about Reggie, and their summer together.
Yesterday, I made a trip into Toronto for a writing session with my friend Sarah, who is writing a book of short stories this month. Horror stories. I brought along some Silver Bullets, a $10 bag of peanut M&Ms, and some much needed NaNoWriMo inspiration. It was my first group writing session that I have had this month, and it reminded me of how much more fun it is to write with someone else. Here is what emerged from last night's session:

"After Tab effectively drove off Tim, his job of wooing Reggie was easy enough. Most things came easily to Tab. He was used to getting what he wanted. And for whatever reason, he wanted Reggie. They were the perfect couple. Both in the clinical psychology programme, both studying under the renowned Dr. Von Sheintzmeinpantz. Tab was doing really revolutionary research in ego formation as it relates to parental loss, and Reggie was doing related work, though more on the applied as opposed to theoretical side. Reggie wanted to work with grieving children. She dreamed of someday opening her own clinic. She almost doesn’t recognize the Reggie she used to be, the one with the big dreams, the one with the hopelessly idealistic fantasy that she could take her own pain and turn it into a way to heal others. A way to heal herself.
Dr. Von Sheintzmeinpantz was not the best clinical supervisor, it was true. He had an odd habit of wearing leather pants. And if that weren’t bad enough, he would pair these with a tweed jacket, the kind with the suede patches on the elbow. A man who dresses in this fashion is surely more interested in his own self-aggrandizement than he is in the accomplishments of his protégées. But Reggie never blamed Dr. Von Sheintzmeinpantz for her own failings. No, she only had herself to blame for that.
Speaking of Dr. Von Sheintzmanpantz, he would probably be putting in an appearance at her father’s funeral. Reggie hoped that he had the good sense to not wear those goddamned leather pants. Some disconcerting rumours had circulated about those pants, sometime around the time Dr. Von Sheintzmeinpantz’s fiancée had abruptly broken it off with him. Rumours that something untoward had happened in those pants during a night time stroll through the woods one evening. Something unmentionable.
But despite what may or may not have occurred to Dr. Von Sheintzmeinpantz and his leather pants, Reggie and Tab had been happy. They were good together. His fastidiousness offset her chaos. They were well matched in terms of ambition. They drove each other to greater accomplishments than they might have reached had they been alone. When Tab asked her to marry him during their second year of graduate studies, it seemed as thought everything was falling into place, as though the square peg had found its accompanying square hole, with a satisfying click. Reggie had said yes, and it seemed as though her future was set. How very wrong she was. By the time Reggie imploded during their third year, the satisfying click had begun to sound like the clang of a jailhouse door locking into place."

Also, I have decided to write a bit from Reggie's mother's perspective, since she was a character I didn't understand at all. In fact, I understood her so little, that I couldn't imagine writing any dialogue for her, because I had no idea what she would say. Problematic, as I'm sure you all will understand. Patricia's voice surprised me. A lot. Right out of the gate she referred to Tab's mother as "his twat of a mother". I stopped what I was doing immediately, wondering where that had come from, surely not Patricia? But then I thought, well, I guess I'll let her have her say and keep going. It turns out that her outward appearance and her inner life are worlds apart. The photo above is what Tab looks like.

Jack Connolly Goes Dark, The Inappropriate Mortician, and 11,004 Words

I have two excerpts I think you all will like. I am 11,004 words deep on this novel, and Reggie is now into her father's viewing. Her description of the viewing is this : "And it was becoming clear that the experience of attending her father’s wake was not unlike the experience of being shit on by a flock of seagulls."

I think I quite possibly have completely screwed up any chance at legitimacy this novel has with the introduction of Jack Connolly and the Inappropriate Mortician. My first excerpt is Jack Connolly. This occurs as he drives Reggie and her mother to the funeral home for the viewing:
From the depths of his suit jacket, Jack draws a cell phone. He keeps his eyes on the road as he flips it open with one hand, hits a button and places it to his ear. After a moment’s pause, he speaks tersely into the phone.
“Heintzman. We are approaching the location. The eagle will be landing in approximately 5 minutes. Is everyone in position?” His eyes scan the road as he speaks. Apparently Heintzman’s response is not to Jack’s liking. He sighs deeply in frustration.
“Alright, alright, alright. Turner can do recon from the inside. But I want two at each entrance, and I want 5 on the floor at all times. All eyes on the rabbit, I repeat, all eyes on the rabbit. And Heintzman, I want you on the front door, that will be the chokepoint... no, no, I want Torres in the cam-car.” He pauses, nods.
“Okay, zero radio contact from this point forward. I’m going dark.” He snaps the phone shut without saying goodbye."

And this second excerpt unveils the identity of the Inappropriate Mortician:
He hears a soft knock at the door, and then the door cracks open, and a short, but very energetic man enters the room. He, like Will, is dressed in an inoffensive suit and tie, but on this man, it looks out of place, like he is not entirely comfortable. He looks like he is bored by his own clothes. The man is slender, with longish wavy hair that he goes to great lengths to control. It curls becomingly at his ears and at the nape of his neck. This is a man who puts some care into his appearance.
“Seth, hey,” says Will. Though he is friendly enough, Will doesn’t seem particularly thrilled to have this visitor. Perhaps we shouldn’t read too much into this. Will wants to stay focussed on the Grubauer service, maybe that’s all it is. But then again, perhaps not.
“Okay, just wanted to check in, the Floater’s getting juiced downstairs, I’m heading over to Mr. Crispy’s service, everything’s good to go,” Seth says, pointing with both hands. As he does this, his suit jacket lifts slightly, revealing a white belt. It’s almost as though he couldn’t stop himself from adding one slight touch of personal flair to his otherwise quite boring, sombre, ensemble. Will is disturbed.
“Seth, we have talked about this... if you want to take a more active role up front here, you have got to stop using disrespectful language to refer to corpses! Mr. Crispy’s name is Mr. Taylor. Okay? And the ‘Floater’ is Mrs. Swanson.” Seth nods emphatically.
“Yeah, yeah, definitely. I get it. I will definitely stop doing that.” Will waves him out of the office. Seth leaves and the room, taking his boundless, contagious energy with him. The room seems emptier.
“Not a good start,” Will says to himself, to fill the silence. Another quiet knock at the door. The Grubauers have arrived.

Some Familiar Faces, 9291 words

Man, inspiration has left the building. Tough day of writing, so I decided to mess around. Here's what happened when I had nothing to write:

“Goddammit Reggie, I am sorry to hear about your father,” a familiar voice intones.
“Toni Myers, you son of a bitch” Reggie answers, “how the hell are you?” Whilst this exchange of greetings might seem inappropriate to some, it couldn’t be more appropriate. Old friends have their quirks, you know? Best to leave it at that.
Reggie and Toni had formed their friendship in the 8th grade. Reggie was a bit of an oddity in school, what with her family history, and her extremely overprotective next door neighbour. When Reggie was in the 8th grade, Jack was in his late twenties, and he certainly got a lot of attention from the 13 year old girls when he dropped her off and picked her up from school. Especially when he wore his uniform. Not that Jack cared. But he noticed. He noticed everything. He had already developed what would become a lifelong habit of scanning the perimeter wherever he went. The girls would squeal when Jack’s icy blue stare found them. Reggie thought they were vacuous assholes. They thought she was weird and morbid. Toni and Reggie bonded over a shared love of Stephen King, cheesy horror films, and long winded philosophical ramblings about the nature of mortality. A strong foundation for a friendship if ever I’ve seen one.
“Man, I am alright. Liverpool is killing me. Killing me.” Toni replies. Toni is a freelance writer, currently on location in Liverpool, writing an exposé about football players (the real football, not the American version), their odd fashion choices, and the WAGs who love them. “You would not believe the shit that I am seeing over here, oh, I wish you were here with me.” Reggie wishes the same thing, and says so. Toni continues, her enthusiasm spilling over, “last night, I ended up in this pub, where there was a victory celebration going on, and man, these soccer players are insane! But the WAG culture is something else. I think we need to import this to Canada and start a WAG subculture for hockey players because this is beyond entertaining. I thought I was catty, but these women! They have taken trash talking and elevated it to the level of... well, of art. I was reading a blog yesterday dedicated to trashing WAGs, like, literally dedicated to it. It’s called Kickette. This poor goddamned woman, Olgalina, I think her name was, was getting her ass handed to her for dating the latest soccer hottie. It was harsh, though, I must admit, she did look a bit gormless in the pictures.” Reggie laughs. “And in the papers this morning, there was a report on the party that I was at! Like, it made the front page!! Apparently, once they left the pub, the victory celebration devolved into some kind of hooker/stripper extravaganza! Oooh, I hope that young soccer player Fernando wasn’t involved. He seems really sweet. It was probably that smarmy douche carrying some sort of clutch. Or maybe it was the guy in the silver hot pants. No, I’m serious, silver hot pants. And I think he was wearing iridescent pantyhose. He probably stole them from a Hooter’s waitress. Oh, anyway, look at me, what an asshole I am, talking about Liverpool. How are you holding up?”

A Sad Day, 7,578 Words

An intense writing day today. I've now started the second of the ten myths. I knew where I wanted to start with this myth, with Reggie's relationship with her brother, but no idea where it is going to end up. Probably something about her relationship with her father, I guess. Here is an excerpt describing an event from when Reggie was 3. Jack Connelly would have been about 17 here. My friend Sarah will recognize the description of Reggie's dream from an e-mail I sent her a long time ago, describing a dream I had.

“What did you say?” She asked through clenched teeth. Jack stood quickly, coming to Reggie’s side and looking at Patricia warily.
“She’s just playing, Patricia,” he said quietly, his hands held out in a calming gesture.
“I was talking to Regina, not you,” she said icily. Reggie was afraid. She had never heard her mother talk to Jack that way before. She didn’t know what she had done wrong. Her eyes filled with tears and her lip began to tremble. Jack tried to steer her away, but Patricia put her hand on his arm. He dropped it to his side.
“Go on Reggie, tell your mommy what you said, and then we’ll go to my house to play some more, okay?” he smiled at her, but Reggie thought he looked scared, too. The tears in her eyes spilled over, and she began to cry. But she would try to be brave. For Jack.
“I always find him?” she spoke, so quiet it was almost a whisper. She was looking down, her tears spilling onto the front of her red and white checked sundress.
“Find who?” her mother asked, her quiet tone seemed gentle, but it was full of venom.
Reggie looked up then, into her mother’s beautiful face, which had turned ugly with rage. “Brandon,” she whispered softly, her breath catching as she spoke. Neither of them saw it coming. Jack was as astonished as she was when her mother lashed out and slapped her with such force that she was knocked to the ground. Jack stepped in between them, scooped her up, and ran with her in his arms to the safety of his house next door. That day he wiped the blood from her nose and dried the tears on her face, kissing them away, soothing her with his gentle voice, with his warm, safe embrace. She never mentioned her brother or her dreams again.
But she kept a journal, because she cherished her memories of her nocturnal life with her brother. She was on her 7th journal now, each one worn with multiple readings. Many of the entries were tear stained. The morning of her father’s wake, she awoke and wrote an entry:
I had a dream last night that you and I walked across the border into India. I made the security guard smile and it made his face look completely different- beautiful. It was very, very late at night, but we weren't tired and decided that we would walk all night and talk about the universe, because, as I said in my dream "what else are you going to do in India?" You agreed and we walked on a worn walking path through a field of high grass. It was very dark, with only the moonlight to give us any light, and we really had no idea where we were or where we were going but just kept walking. There was a breeze that blew the tall grass around and lifted our hair. Then we heard a vehicle coming, I was going to ask for a ride, but then you warned me it was probably soldiers and we decided to hide in the tall grass. We lay down side by side as the jeep full of soldiers passed by and we held hands because we were afraid. Then we fell asleep, and I woke up. It made me miss you a lot, because who else would walk with me all night through the moonlight?”
She had tears on her face when she awoke, but they dried as she wrote, leaving behind shadows, ghosts of tears; nearly invisible traces of evidence that an emotion had been felt here, once.

Tim O'Sullivan, and 5,674 words

Today was a relatively uninspired day... I had a really hard time finding an excerpt that I wanted to share! I decided to introduce you all to Tim O'Sullivan. Word count: 5,674 words.

"She stepped out into the rain, lifting her denim jacket over her head, hoisting her laptop over her right shoulder. This was not going to be easy. About halfway there, her feet began to slip inside her shoes. She was completely drenched, the denim jacket soaking and dripping water down her arms. But with so much rain coming down, who knew where the water was coming from? About ¾ of the way back to the residence, she began to have serious doubts about making it there without tumbling off her feet. Goddamnit! Her tan skirt was completely drenched, and was sticking to her legs. As she looked down, her heart sank as she realized that her skirt had become transparent with the rain water.
Great. She hoped against hope that her skirt was not as wet as the back as it was in the front. So preoccupied was she with her coat, laptop, nude skirt, and walking without falling, she didn’t notice right away that a police car had pulled up and was driving slowly next to her. While Reggie self-consciously adjusted her skirt, trying to ensure that her junk was covered, she was imagining how embarrassing it would be to run into someone she knew right now. Embarrassing, or maybe it would be romantic. Maybe that cute professor who had been flirting with her would pull up right now, and offer her a ride. Without any real expectation that she would see anything, Reggie glanced toward the road.
Fuck, she thought, a cop. She immediately faced forward and quickened her pace, hoping that the cop took no notice of her. Hoping that he didn’t arrest her for indecent exposure or something. Damn her tan skirt!! She pretended not to notice as the car crawled down the street, keeping pace with her. In her peripheral vision, she noticed that the driver’s side window had rolled down. Dammit!! Then he spoke.
“Grubauer!” Despite the pounding of the rain, despite the years that had passed since she had heard the voice, she recognized it instantly, and her heart froze. She had imagined running into him many times, had wished for it more times than she could count, but in all honesty, when she imagined this moment, her hair was dry, her clothes were not sheer and sticking to her skin, and her face was not covered with streaks of mascara. She stopped walking, and slowly turned toward the street.
There he was. Tim motherfucking O’Sullivan. As she looked, the car stopped, and he quickly opened the door and climbed out. He was tall, seemed even taller than the last time she had seen him, though she supposed that was impossible. His longish dark hair quickly became saturated with the rain, and clung to his handsome face. Why did he look so... worried? Oh God, he probably thought she was a prostitute or something. They stood there on the sidewalk for what seemed like a long time, who knows how much time actually passed, and does it really matter? Perhaps not.
Who broke the spell first? Reggie doesn’t remember, because after that drawn out moment, everything jumped into overdrive. And though it was a miserable moment, she was freezing cold, soaking wet, and embarrassed beyond belief, it was a beautiful moment, in what would otherwise be a terrible 24 hour period. Tim O’Sullivan, drawn from the very depths of her past to deliver a message. Summoned by her cold, unfeeling mother to deliver a message. Because it was the most convenient thing to do. Because she would rather have Tim O’Sullivan tell Reggie that her father was dead than pick up the phone and do it herself.

Meet Jack Connolly, and 3,587 Words

Okay, done for today, and again, very little has happened. My story moves at what can only be described as a snail's pace. So today, Reggie lost it on the funeral director, and then we get to meet Jack Connolly (picture Jack Bauer from 24) and that's about it... so far, 4 characters, but still no Tim! Soon, dear readers, soon. Have patience. So here is an excerpt... a bit lengthy, but bear with me. I couldn't find an appropriate beginning or an appropriate end other than what is here.

"She had successfully avoided her own home, and its requisite respectful silence for some time. But her father dying, and coming back here cast her back, made her feel like a child again, like the child that she once was, smothering and suffocating beneath the weight of her parents grief. And her own. Reggie grew up feeling like she was the ghost, not her poor absent brother. Reggie’s throat constricted, she felt suddenly as though she were running out of breath. She knew what would come if she didn’t gain control. Tears. And she did not want to cry. Not in front of this stranger, this man stammering for an answer in the face of her outrage. And certainly not in front of her mother.
So she took a trembling breath, and gave in. Let the rage flow, let the battle rage fall over her gaze. She interrupted the funeral director, mid-stammer.
“An exceptional circumstance? Would it be an exceptional circumstance if say... I don’t know, a busload of nuns toppled over on the highway? And then, due to your existing contract with the local Catholic Church, you were in a position of having to cremate 50-60 nuns within a 24 hour period?!”
“Well...” William considered a moment, trying to find the appropriate response, one that would not anger her any further. “Um, I think that those who pursue the Catholic faith tend to prefer...” Reggie cut him off, her voice rising.
“Would that be an exceptional circumstance? Yes or no?” William nodded assent. “Okay, so you’ve got a situation here, where you have to cremate all of these nuns, and here you have my father, and isn’t this inconvenient? You just might not be able to get it all done... but! Aha! We have paid the convenience fee, so... the Catholic Church can suck it? It’s our turn first?! Is that what I am given to understand is the meaning of convenience fee?!” Reggie is yelling now, but is barely aware of it, is barely aware of anything at all. The fury flows through her veins, making her cheeks flush and her heart race, and reminding her that she is blissfully, beautifully alive.
William, who has seen many incarnations of grief in his short tenure as funeral director of Needham and Sons Funeral Home, is taken aback by the force of her rage. He looks to the mother, hoping for salvation, but sees only an expression of serenity on her calm, beautiful face. No help there. Reggie rises to her feet, gaining momentum now.
“What I find convenient, Mr. Needham,” her voice dripping with contempt as she speaks his name, as though perhaps she suspects that this is not his real name, “is that Needham and Sons has found a way to increase profitability in what is essentially a static market, but let me tell you something, Mr. Needham, we may be bereaved, but WE ARE NOT SAPS!” She realizes dimly that she has borrowed this line, that it is not her own, but that matters little to her now. He opens his mouth to speak, when suddenly the door bursts open and a wild-eyed blond man rushes into the room... did he actually... roll through the door? Surely not, William must be beside himself with distress in order for him to imagine such an unlikely scenario. But the man is there, sure enough. There he stands, lean, wiry, alert, taking in the scene with a defensive stance. He looks out of place here, in this tastefully decorated room, he looks unhinged, despite his sober suit. He scans the room quickly, taking in every detail, no corner of the room or ceiling left unexamined by his intense gaze. He finds what he appears to be looking for, the girl.
“Reggie, what’s going on?” he asks tersely, but he does not appear to be angry with her, rather, he is rushing to her side while still surveying the scene, scanning for... what? Enemies? His intense gaze locks on William. William, completely out of his element, falls back on protocol. He reaches out his hand, “Hello, I am William Needham, the funeral director here at Needham and Sons. We are here to provide comfort to you and your...er... family, in this time of sorrow.” Jack ignores his hand for a moment, his hand on Reggie’s back, protectively.
Reggie, at the familiar sight of Jack, finds that her anger has completely dissipated, and an exhausted sadness takes its place. She sits back down, and looks to Jack, nodding slightly. Jack, seeing that she is alright, turns back to William, taking his hand, and shakes it with authority, looking directly into his eyes.
“Jack Connolly.”

Myth One: The Biggest Myth About Grief Is That We "Get Over" It

Okay, Day One and I am off to a respectable start: 1700 words. I could have gone on, but found that I wasn't up to writing the blistering scene in which the main character Reggie tears the funeral director a new one for charging what is called a 'convenience fee'. This will not be the last time that she directs her rage (which is both significant and perhaps justifiable) at him. He really doesn't deserve it. he inherited the family business. What he really wanted to be is a race car driver. He looks like Nate from Six Feet Under (see photo).
What I find really shocking about Day One is that nothing really happened in this first part, but my novel is really different this year. So much of it is revealing things that have already happened, getting the subtext and the complicated relationships laid out. Tim O'Sullivan has not even been mentioned, yet, but he will soon... as will the reason why Reggie is particularly pissed at her mother just now.
Here is a brief excerpt.
Reggie looks back at the funeral director, and wonders briefly, what does he make of her? Here she sits, sullen, slumped in her chair, not paying attention to what she should surely be paying attention to. They are here to make the arrangements for her father’s funeral. She should care more about this, she knows, but she is having a hard time summoning the will to care. Not about him, not about him dying, but about the manner in which he will be laid to rest. Reggie, who doesn’t remember her brother’s funeral, knows very well that her father will not be laid to rest in two days time. In fact, she scoffs at the funeral director when he uses the term. Nothing is laid to rest. Reggie knows this, and tells him so. He continues to look mildly alarmed. Her mother sighs softly.
“Mother, can I have a Xanax?” Reggie asks, more to annoy and embarrass her mother than because she wants a sedative, though Reggie is never one to turn her nose up at a good sedative. What is it about our parents that makes us behave so badly? In her other life, the one without a mother in it, Reggie is a respected professional, sought out for advice and direction. A real grown-up, in other words. But in the presence of her mother, she regresses to adolescence, she sulks, she pouts, she says things intended to shock. Not that she ever does. Shock her mother, that is. Armageddon itself would likely just draw another of her mother’s long-suffering sighs.
Her mother looks over at her, back to the funeral director, and if she were a different woman, she probably would have smiled in embarrassment. But she does not smile. She simply says “Regina dear, you know very well that I do not have any Xanax.” Reggie snorts at this, what she knows very well is that her mother’s purse is a fucking pharmacy. But she’ll let her mother have this one. For now.
She looks back at the funeral director, who looks very much as though he wishes that Reggie would take a Xanax, in fact, he looks as though he wouldn’t mind having one himself.