51,311 Words. Fatally Flawed, But Fuck It, It's Done

Yes, I have crossed the finish line. I may have limped, hell, let's face it, I crawled. Maybe I was even doing Nathan's infamous dragging my legs behind me as I scramble along on my forearms crawl. But it doesn't matter how undignified it was, I crossed. Hard to include an excerpt without giving anything away. This short one is for you, Indigo.

He is also a bit nervous about Edie’s insistence on incorporating the taser into the dance routine. It does add a certain, ‘je ne sais quoi’, but Gordon is worried that she might accidentally taser Tim. Or on purpose. You just never know with Edie. He finds it particularly disconcerting that she refers to it by the name ‘Lucky’. They will need more than luck if they are to succeed on this fool’s errand.
Gordon fetches his lucky scarf from his bag and ties it around his head. It makes him feel like a warrior. He presses play, and FeFe Dobson begins belting out her latest monster hit.

48,486 Words and Poised for the Big Finish

I know I should finish tomorrow, all signs are pointing in that direction, but today, instead of moving my plot forward, I decided I should incorporate Dennis DeYoung, lead singer of the band Styx into my novel. This is one of several word bolstering techniques I used, at a time when word bolstering is not what I need. So I might need the extra day because I'm an idiot. For evidence of this statement, please see today's excerpt. Also, this is the picture that comes up when you do a google image search of Dennis DeYoung drunk.

In the kitchen, at Maggie’s house, chaos reigns. Everyone speaks, and no one listens. Everyone has a theory, but no plans emerge. Between Tim’s sports metaphors and Edie’s morbid insistence on going back to her room to get her taser, Gordon has a hard time getting a word in edgewise. He knows that time is of the essence, and so he uses an old tried and true technique for getting attention. He begins to whistle the opening whistle solo to the song, Patience. A true classic G ‘n F’n R tune, and one of Gordon’s favourites. It works like a charm, as Tim cannot resist whistling along. Once again, Gordon finds himself impressed by Tim. Who knew that beneath his rugged exterior, lay the heart of a poet? Tim’s whistle is strong, sure, and he adds some vibrato in, lending drama to the haunting tune, what will surely prove to be Axl Rose’s opus. Marla attempts to join in, but finds herself unable to whistle, and giggles girlishly into her drink. It is rather disconcerting. Edie looks like she wants to use her taser on each and every one of them. Gordon basks in his success for a moment, then proceeds.

46,671... Holding On... Barely

Oh My God. I am so happy to be back. Got inspiration that I had missed from your blogs. I can't post much, because as we all know, at this point in our stories, we don't want to reveal too much. Here are a couple of very short excerpts, inspiration drawn from Esmondes. It made me laugh during my writing session today, which was punctuated by both of my children refusing to go to bed, and me pouring myself another drink in response.
Ang and I came up with the rule of the cottage. You can drink as much as you want as long as your kids have life jackets on. Anyway, here they are, hope you enjoy.

"He’ll begin with Edie. Just as Edie is rising to her feet to ask Lincoln where he is going, she feels an ice cold hand clamp over her mouth and nose, rendering speaking, and breathing impossible. At the same time, she is lifted with invisible hands, thrown against the wall, and held there. She goes limp, conserving what oxygen she has left, and hoping to convince her attacker that the fight has left her. Quite the opposite is true. Edie watches, seething as Lincoln walks out of the room. She hasn’t felt this powerless since George Bush wore a pair of crotch accentuating parachute pants and lectured a bunch of troops on an aircraft carrier about freedom."

Excerpt the second...

"Tim is his next target. Tim is moving toward the stairs, where he hears little stocking feet coming down the steps. Lincoln is still young enough that he puts both feet on a step before moving to the next one. Tim finds this adorable, and feels the inexplicable urge to pinch Lincoln’s bum and say “Toot, mon” in some sort of bastardized Jamaican accent every time he sees it. Luckily this is an urge he manages to control. But barely. The daemon finds Lincoln’s descent contemptible, yet another example of human weakness. He wishes the little brat would hurry up, because he is finding controlling Edie St.James considerably more difficult than he had bargained for, and managing the muscle bound one additionally will drain his strength.
Tim is assaulted by a cold rush of air. It robs his lungs of air and his legs of strength. As he struggles against it, he feels a sudden invisible punch to the solar plexus. It drops him to his knees. Tim hasn’t felt this powerless since he watched Joshua Jackson be denied access to PaceyCon 2010."

44,000 words at the Cottage

I am at a marina and have internet access for 5 minutes. I am writing nothing fun here, it is all depressing and I am in the middle of the denouement. Writing goes much more quickly here, without the usual distractions of internet. Have to go now... my ride is leaving... will be in touch tomorrow when I arrive back in Waterloo. Home stretch!!!

36,719 Words... still delaying...

Well, that will teach me to leave the blogs for a day! There was an Esmonde explosion, and it was all brilliant- I will read them all and give them their due attention... here is a short excerpt- I feel like some of you - there's only so much you can post at this point, without giving too much away.

Here's something you'll recognize from NaNoWriMo '09...

Maggie’s love for the house makes its current incarnation all the more disturbing. It seems alien, somehow not her home anymore. Something else had claimed it. All her memories, and all her dreams for her future in the house with the red door suddenly mean something different. The house is now something she has to escape. She can never live here again, not after this moment. The house has betrayed her. The wind chimes move gently in the almost nonexistent breeze, discordant, jangly. In the near silence of the strangely deserted street, the sound falls like breaking glass. The chimes, once so comforting and familiar, sound like nails on a blackboard to her. The houses’s very essence lives and breathes malevolence, anger, ire. And also expectancy, waiting. It waits for her. As she approaches, her every step bringing her closer and closer to the inevitable confrontation that lies ahead of her, the house seems to whisper her name.
As she climbs the stairs to the front porch, she notices that something has been placed on her doorstep, like a dead offering left by an overzealous house cat. The mat is pink, fuzzy, perhaps a bit too fuzzy to withstand the harsh weather conditions of a Southwestern Ontario winter. For this reason, Maggie suspects that whoever has placed it here little understands that the functionality of décor is as important as its fashion. Of course, the person who has placed the mat here has little understanding of either concept. The welcome mat, if we can describe it as such, bears the disturbing image of a disembodied hand, clutching a revolver. The words that accompany the image chill Maggie to the bone. “I Don’t Dial 911”. Somehow, the homage to vigilante justice, in concert with the brooding atmosphere of the calm before the storm, has an overall pleasing effect. At least Edie thinks so.
Edie and Maggie exchange glances, then cross the threshold into Maggie’s foyer, neither one sure that they will leave the house again.

Shit is about to Get Real, 34,123 Words

Man, I am actually using delaying tactics. My novel is proceeding forward like a steam engine, and I just don't feel like writing the serious stuff, so in true Esmonde spirit, I decided to plagiarize.

Open writing invitation!!! I will be in Waterloo from Thursday sometime in the day until Saturday morning, when I leave for a cottage where I will have running water and electricity but no cell service and no Internet. Does anyone want to join me for a writing session and some Curry in a Hurry?? Please note that in my desperation, I have been driven to overuse punctuation. At least I haven't been driven to overuse emoticons, unlike poor Sadie. So, here is another tiff between my characters. This time Maggie and Gordon.

“Is it a demon?” she asked him.
“I think you mean daemon,” he replied, a bit haughtily.
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said demon.”
“Exactly,” Maggie is becoming frustrated.
“But I said daemon, not demon.”
“Is there a difference?”
“A world of difference,” Gordon says, shaking his head gravely. Gordon went on to explain that daemons often were drawn to the spirits of those who had passed on. It gave them an excellent opportunity to wreak havoc in the lives of people, whom they detest and consider lowly and unintelligent. “Also, they feed on the emotions of others. Fear, anger, sadness, love, guilt: they will absorb it all. It increases their power. They love to dominate and bend others to their will. Nasty, nasty creatures.”
“How is that different from demons, or for that matter, half of the department of Social and Political Thought at York?” Maggie asked.
“Well, there is an ‘a’ in daemon.” Gordon replied, as though that were any answer at all. His response then entered into a territory that can only be described as postmodern fucking bullshit. “Think of it as a sort of ‘becoming-animal’ process.’”
Maggie asked him what he meant by that. Boy, was she sorry she did.
“I’m so glad that you asked, Margaret. I actually discussed this in my Master’s thesis. It was foundational work I followed up on in my PhD, but we can discuss that later. The thesis was entitled ‘Becoming-Grizzly: Bodily Molecularity and the Animal that Becomes.’ I argued that this molecularity is what enables the potential interpermeation of bodies across and through their difference, such as occurs in the event of becoming-animal. Becoming-animal, like all becomings, is communicative and contagious, working according to a logic of infection, whereby human molecularity and animal molecularity collide in each others's zones of proximity. Like a cold virus, the particles of human and the particles of animal literally infect one another and mix together to form a new singularity, irreducible to either of the two parts.”
Maggie immediately recognized that this was fucking stupid. “What do you mean? Like becoming a werewolf or a bear or something?” Gordon regarded her as though she were some particularly offensive lower life form. In other words, he looked at her as though she were an undergraduate student.
“No, of course not. There is no such thing as a werewolf! What I mean is that even though humans do not “really” become animals, a block of becoming forms between the human and animal, where their molecularities mix—this is what is “real.” In this sense, becoming animal is never a teleological process, where human has a goal to “be” ultimately animal. As a becoming between human and animal, becoming-animal is always a double movement. While it affects the animal as much as the human, the becoming itself is a third term that exerts this transformative force.”
Maggie hated being called Margaret, for one, and for two, she had little to no tolerance for the deranged ramblings of a man trained in the art of postmodern fuckery. Maggie desperately wanted to punch Gordon in the oft broken nose.


One more quick excerpt- bear with me, I really only wrote this for Esmondes...
Gordon explains this to Maggie as they sit around Marla’s kitchen table, in a bright, sunny, kitchen, that in no way matches the downcast mood of this medley group. This is the final meeting, the final preparation before they head into a situation none of them feels equipped to handle. Edie has come to the table wearing a faded yellow nightgown left over from her childhood. It is really a long sweatshirt, traipsing down to her toes, emblazoned with what is intended to be a cute, cuddly cat, playing a violin. Underneath the cat’s dancing paws are the words “Just Fiddlin’ Around”. The long sweatshirt would look strange on any person, but it is particularly incongruous with Edie’s shaved head, smeared black eye makeup, and smeared red lipstick. She looks like a person ready for an exorcism, but in her heart, she feels afraid. This is an emotion Edie is decidedly uncomfortable with.

Day 19, 32,280 Words

I thought that if I didn't post another blog for a while, I might entice some of you to comment, but I can see that is not going to happen, so I am going to post a short excerpt from yesterday, and a short one from today.

First- a showdown between Gordon and Tim. I had just written some very serious stuff, and felt like lightening my own mood:

Tim chooses this moment to intervene. “Is this really necessary?”
Gordon turns on him, his lips drawn back in a snarl.
“Am I bugging you? I didn’t mean to bug you,” he practically spits these words out, his voice soaked with venom.
“Hey man, I listened to a lot of U2 in the 90s, too, so don’t be thinking you can quote Bono in here without getting called out,” Tim replies, refusing to back down. “Just… give her a minute, okay?”
Gordon writes something on his notepad angrily. It looks spiteful.
“What did you just write down?”
“I just wrote that you listened to ‘a lot of U2 in the 90s’” Gordon says, making quote marks with his fingers.
“Really? Why?” Tim asks. It is a valid question, to be sure.
“Because I think it’s ‘interesting’,” Gordon replies acidly, making quote marks with his fingers again. He seems to be using these haphazardly at this point, it makes little sense to use them here.
“Really. Well perhaps you should add that I have watched the concert video Rattle and Hum more times than I can count, and I can quote any Bono rant back to you, word for word, any time I like, though my particular favourite is the Sunday Bloody Sunday rant, that concludes with the famous “Fuck the Revolution” culmination.” When Tim uses his fingers to make quote marks around ‘fuck the revolution’, Gordon is effectively defeated. Tim has used his own weapon against him, and he is unable to top Tim’s brilliant rebuttal. He surrenders in defeat.
“That is a good rant,” Gordon concedes the point gracefully, making a note in his notebook. The others can’t see it, but if they were to catch a glimpse at his notebook, they would have seen two things written there. First “remember to watch Rattle and Hum at earliest convenience. Repeatedly, if at all possible.” And the second thing “Remember that the jock knows his shit.”

Today was a very productive day, I actually overshot the daily quota, which is a first for me. Helped that Matt was at work and the kids were at daycare. Another brief excerpt that I wrote for the purposes of amusing myself.

So it was that the night before the planned exorcism, Gordon was separated from the rest. He slept peacefully, though his dreams were affected by something like static from a television, as though picking up on a transmission that interfered with his dream, like a crossed signal. Maggie settled in her old room, still decorated with posters of the New Kids on the Block she couldn’t bring herself to tear down. Joey was still her favourite. He hovered over her bed like a pimply, fluffy haired, big-toothed ghost, though Maggie suspected that no self-respecting ghost would grin like such an asshole. Edie nestled under her Cure comforter, pretending it was a dark cavern where she would forever live loveless and alone while creating surprisingly complex yet simple-sounding music that would make teen girls cry and despair. Tim slept uncomfortably on the couch in the living room, which was too short for his long limbs, but he fell asleep quickly, as he usually did, thinking about girls in the summer, his final thought before drifting off was that Maggie, in her weakened state, looked like a girl from Abercrombie and Fitch.

Day 17, 28,383 Words...

A quick post today. Writing is kind of like running. Some days, you have a great day, beating your personal best, and you feel like you have finally conquered it. Then, the next day, you run like shit and if you're Katie or Jackie you feel an annoying pain in your groin. Yesterday felt great, today was a struggle. Here is a brief excerpt that briefly described the relationship between Tim and Maggie:

"“And your relationship with her? When did it begin?” An easy question to ask. A difficult one to answer. Their relationship had shifted from friendship to something more at some point, but it seemed to blend seamlessly in his memory, so he couldn’t remember when things were different. When Sean died, he was consumed with taking care of her, she was so devastated, such a mess. And then, when Lincoln was born, he wanted to take care of them both. When did he realize that he saw or talked to Maggie every day? That he waited for the moment when she would call? He didn’t know. When did it become commonplace for him to stroke her hair, or rub her back when she was upset? When did he start spending the night, and leaving early in the morning, before Lincoln woke up?
“About a year ago, I guess,” is what Tim says, leaving everything else unspoken. Like how good for her he is, how much she healed with him, and how he knows more than anyone else how to make her happy. Tim is not the sort of man who would say such things. Gordon seems satisfied with the response. Gordon is pensive for a moment, then asks Tim one more question.
“And when did the haunting begin?” The question falls into the room like lead, its implication lost on none of the people in the room. This question, though, is one without answer. Might as well ask when the wind began to blow, or when Bon Jovi began to rock. There was no beginning, it was always there, in varying shades and degrees. Of course, in the case of Bon Jovi, there was a definitive end. Though their star had been fading ever since that brilliant and soulful album, New Jersey, their ability to rock clearly ended with the release of the single “It’s My Life.” May they rest in peace."

Finding Maggie, at 26,747 Words

I realized over the last couple of days that I need to stop whining about my novel and take the time to fix what I know is wrong. I realized some time ago that I actually didn't really understand my main character at all, and was feeling sort of trapped by that. Jackie suggested I find a way to make her interesting, and I don't know if I've done that, but I feel like I am finding her, and I am pleased with my writing session today. Part of it was my wholehearted surrender to snackskys- I picked up some wine gums after hitting up the liquor store for some wine, it was a brilliant combination. Part is the fact that I am home, and back at my favourite writing place- my oversized desk, with my dog laying at my feet, not chewing on my legs. The rest was my ability to finally get into writing, and stop thinking too much about it. I knew what I had to do, and just sat down and did it. I feel like I finally explained Sean and Maggie effectively. This is a long excerpt, but I don't know how to break it up, so please, bear with me, I won't always be this verbose (or will I? Cue evil laughter)

"The Story of Sean and Maggie
Set it to a rhythm, set it to music, as everything was, as everything is. Make it something rare, something that stirs the senses, something to set you on edge, bass you can feel thumping in your chest, something to make your teeth clench and your heart race. The story of Sean and Maggie is blood boiling, it is tempers flaring, it is desire, it is want, need, truth, pain, and it is everything in between. It is pure emotion, animalistic and without reason. It is like music at its best, music when it feels like recognition, like something archetypal, like part of human experience. When you hear it, you know. You know but can’t explain. And choice has flown away, lost in the wind, gone forever. Because it chose you, and if you walk away, it will follow. And you will want it to.
Imagine for a moment walking down a road- it is well travelled, populated by many, very straight, and very, very easy to follow. This was Maggie’s life. Raised in a middle class home, second daughter to brilliant, if cynical parents, younger sister to brilliant, cynical Edie. Maggie made friends easily, did well in school, had boyfriends, broke hearts, had her heart broken, picked herself up with the help of those easily made friends, and went on, and on, and on. Perhaps the only unexpected thing in Maggie’s life was her dissatisfaction with a life that seemed perfect to others, but stifling to her. She walked the road, but instead of looking forward as most seemed to, she looked around, wondering what else there was, and if perhaps, she should be travelling a different road. She was one of those who scream in a room full of people, and is never heard. Until Sean.
Sean was walking a trail, one that fell off and picked up again in places, so that he would have to find his way several times, and he was very, very alone. He had no parents, cynical or otherwise, had no sister to speak of, and friends were rare, treasured gifts. He had many girlfriends, loved some of them, had his heart broken, and broke hearts. He did these things alone, but was accompanied by music, which he always heard in his head. This is part of what set him apart from others, and part of what made him alone. He heard the music, and learned to sing along with it, and he found that people wanted to listen. They would walk with him for awhile when he sang.
Maggie and Sean didn’t meet, they collided. A tornado picked both of them up, and set them down in the middle of the wilderness. There was no one else there. When they looked at each other, they both heard the music, and for the first time, Sean didn’t feel alone. And Maggie finally understood what had been missing. It was the music. She had missed it when it wasn’t there. And now that she has heard it, she can never go back.
They had no compass, and only had each other to rely on to find their way. Being lost felt much the same as being found. Maggie used the stars to navigate. Sean used the moon. Maggie was used to having friends, Sean was used to being alone. They couldn’t agree on what constituted danger, and what was safe. They were euphoric, high on each other. They detested each other, raged, fought, screamed in frustration and cried at the thought of ever being apart. They were miserable together, more miserable apart. Maggie wanted to lie in the grass with Sean forever, lying in his arms and hearing the music play. Sean wanted to consume her whole. Possess her, keep her, never lose her.
They were forceful, determined, passionate, and willful. They were used to getting their way. They both hating giving in. It was a disaster, but it was everything to both of them. Maggie tried to leave, Sean played the music, and she followed him back. And every time she did, she lost part of herself, and he gained more. It had to go on forever, and it had to end. It was impossible, and inevitable, and Maggie loved and hated every moment of it."


I will leave you with one final question... why are black wine gums?

25,059 Words- Half Way There... Living On A Prayer

Well, today I hit the halfway point, and somehow managed to write absolutely nothing worthwhile into my novel. I did have some fun doing it however, as I decided to take inspiration from some other Esmondes and incorporate a Cosmo quiz into my plot. Gordon is taking Maggie through some exercises intended to help him understand the situation better. This involves having her respond to a Cosmo quiz entitled "What's Your Passion Personality?" Below is an excerpt of the results:

“I guess ‘c’” The questions continue, and Maggie’s frustration mounts, particularly since she cannot for a moment believe that asking her about her ideal “V-Day date” will help her get rid of the ghost of her boyfriend who is haunting her and her son, slowly robbing them of their vitality, and threatening to plunge them into insanity. There are moments of comic relief, which are of course completely lost on Gordon, who is almost satirically deadpan for the entire exercise. Hearing him ask if she prefers a man’s chest and shoulders, lips, or ‘package’, or referring to a man’s ‘drool-worthy bod’ in such a serious tone of voice only highlights the absurdity of the questions, and as Maggie has done several times before, she finds herself wondering who writes these damn quizzes.
When the questions finally cease, Gordon tensely calculates the result, while everyone waits with baited breath. He seems pleased with the result.
“A-ha. Just as I expected. You are a simmering seductress,” Gordon replies, smirking.
“What does that mean?” asks, Maggie, annoyed.
“It means that for you to feel passionate about anything, from slowly biting into a decadent piece of chocolate to sharing a heady convo with a guy at a party, your senses must be engaged.” Maggie feels confused. What the hell does that mean? Is she passionate or not? Somehow, the explanation has managed to say absolutely nothing about her. Gordon seems to have what he needs, though. For her part, she is just grateful that it’s over.
“Great. Good to know. Now what?”
“Now, you tell me a story about the man who is haunting you.”
“What kind of story?” she asks, feeling a bit knocked off kilter by the change in direction.
“The story written on your heart,” Gordon says, melodramatically. It sounds theatrical, but Maggie understands what he means completely. Gordon has switched from the completely irrelevant and overly intimate quiz to something completely relevant, but equally intimate. She glances over at him with a newfound respect. The quiz must have been a warmup exercise. Just as a genius photographer like the great and oft misunderstood Jim Jimerson has his subjects warm up with some off key and humiliating poses, to loosen them up for the truly humiliating and off key poses that will follow, Gordon has forged intimacy in the flames of a truly horrifying and degrading Cosmo quiz. Well played, Gordon, well played.

Please note, while I was on the Cosmo website, I decided to vote for the hottest Dillon panther. As predicted, Tim Riggins took the lead, but I found myself wondering- who are the 175 people who voted for the pasty-faced guy from the Christian rock band who's name escapes me?

Day 14, 23,459 Words, and Damn, I'm a Shitty Writer

You guys are blowing my minds with your blogs this year, so much so, that I am feeling really inadequate because my novel really sucks. The terrible thing is, I really like this story, I think it's really interesting and cool, but the way I am telling it blows. Ugh. Anyway, won't bore you guys with my depression. I have decided I need to correct for the fact that the main character has no personality, and no one with sensory organs could understand why she would be with Sean, who has come across as douchey and controlling. I need to add layers of complexity, so intend to go back into the past and add some of those layers.
Here is where I finished up.

Once again, they find themselves back in the kitchen, communing over steaming mugs of coffee, or, in Lincoln’s case, a cup of hot chocolate. Maggie wants him awake, and in her sights at all times. The kitchen, the meeting place of the house, the hearth, the heart of any home. This is where good news is delivered, and bad news. This is where families gather to share meals, to argue, to throw cut up pieces of hot dog at each other, and sometimes, as in this case, to strategize.

Gordon has become the de facto leader in this three ring circus, something Maggie is not entirely comfortable with. She knows little of his background, and what she has seen of him has shown him to be arrogant, rude, and condescending- a typical grad of the Social and Political Thought Program at York University. But if Edie trusts in his talent, then Maggie knows he must be competent. She looks at him now, awaiting his instructions. She will do what he asks.

“This type of haunting, as I said previous, is based on a strong connection that exists between this man who has passed on, and you and your son, Maggie. This haunting is relationship based. What I need to understand, in the next little while, is exactly who this man is, what his connection is to you and your son, and why he is so adamant about sticking around. I need to understand the players, before we can initiate play in the game.” Maggie looks back at him, wondering if she will be able to explain her relationship with Sean, when she doesn’t understand it herself and never did. If he were to ask her when the haunting began, she might be tempted to say that night in December, in 2004, when she went to see a band play in a bar and ended up with far more than she bargained for. Because from the moment she met Sean, she has been haunted by him. He haunted her while he was alive, and he haunts her in death. She believes that if Sean were alive, he would say the same thing of her. They loved each other, from the beginning; loved each other ferociously, but it was too much, it made them as miserable as it made them happy. And it undoubtedly would have been better for both if they had never met.

Week 2 Blahs!! And This Blog Was Interrupted 6,056 Times

Writing whilst being interrupted repeatedly is not very conducive to writing anything at all interesting- I cannot get in the zone this year, because I have to write around my children, dog, and husband, all of whom are consumed by a maniacal desire to speak to me continually without break (not the dog), chew on my leg (not the kids), and otherwise interrupt my flow continually with questions, concerns, and demands. This combined with the fact that my main character has no personality is causing me severe writing chagrin. If such a thing exists. I am trying to post on your blogs as much as possible, but please understand, kind readers, that even my comments have been interrupted several dozen times. ARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I am going to try to somehow get some uninterrupted writing time (yeah, right, Jill, dream on), and try to post some of the unoriginal, derivative claptrap you have all come to know and love.

Day 11, 18,364 Words

I am here at the KOA with the kids and Matt. Managed to get my word count in yesterday, but it is hard to get anything done! We are having a great time despite the black flies, and Nathan's spill off of his bike (which he is now riding sans training wheels, but NOT sans pants).
I will post my description of Gordon Toodie, who for some reason, for me looks like Owen Wilson. I have plagiarized heavily, as you will see.

Lincoln is in bed, sleeping when Gordon finally arrives, 45 minutes later than appointed. Again, this is true to form. Gordon is not one to obey social niceties. Maggie is a bit taken aback when she sees Gordon, as are most people. His surfer length blond hair is tangled and wild, and seems to have contemptuously refused to be tamed by a comb, though it looks as though no one has made much of an effort lately to tame it. His skin, which is pale and moist, seems to have rarely seen the light of day. His eyes are blue, and his most attractive feature. They are clear, and intelligent, if a little crazed looking and close together. His nose has clearly been broken more than once and does almost a zig zag through the center of his face. Each feature on his face, taken on its own is ugly, but the overall effect is pleasing, and Gordon, though disheveled, is handsome in a quirky way.
His clothing appears rather normal, jeans, long flowing cape over a black t-shirt, and a fedora. Given the lavishness of her own costumed attire, she had been expecting something more theatrical, something more suited to a man who goes by the name of Gordon the Vampyre. As Gordon enters the kitchen, he clutches his cape a little tighter around his shoulders against the chill. The effect of entering the house seems to have energized Gordon, rather than struck terror in his heart. Maggie takes this as a good sign.
Gordon explains quickly that he is late because he has been very busy organizing a Buffy the Vampire (not Vampyre) academic conference. The conference is intended to present an opportunity to share his brilliant paper “Reflecting Dichotomies of Subjectivity: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the Humanization of the Object”. Gordon, it seems, is a PhD student in the Social and Political Thought Department at York University, which as Maggie recalls is a bastion of insufferable and pretentious grad students. Surprisingly, Gordon has had difficulty garnering interest in his conference, probably because no one other than post-modernists understand the title of his article, insomuch as post-modernists really understand anything.
It seemed to Maggie that the problem likely lies in the fact that post-modernists have moved on to writing convoluted and incomprehensible essays about the Wire, when they’re not writing nonsensical drivel about the sedimented, ontological and semiotic conceptions of embodiment. Maggie adores Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but even she has to admit to herself that it is yesterday’s news. Gordon expresses shock and dismay at the recent news he has received that David Boreanaz has taken out a restraining order against him, citing harassment and threatening behaviour.

15,050 Words- Tough, Tough Day

It is 2 am and I just got my word count in. Ugh. Anyway, introduced a new character today who will play quite a big role in the denouement... you may recognize her. Jackie, sorry if I f*ck up your character, but she's just what Maggie needs at the moment.

These are the thoughts swirling around Edie’s head as she tosses her faded red duffel bag over her shoulder and walks to the TTC stop a couple of blocks from her apartment. The TTC has resumed its normal schedule, since the events surrounding the G20, Edie is happy about this, but still feels exposed walking around the streets where all the action took place only days before. She keeps expecting to be taken back into custody. Back into the detention centre, where hope goes to die. Every corner she turns around, she half expects to run into a black wall of riot police, pounding on their shields, screaming profanities. Or equally frightening, when she walks through the streets, she keeps expecting to find herself inadvertently trapped amongst a crowd of Black Bloc members, as out of place amongst peaceful protesters as a plastic reusable ice cube in a glass of expensive scotch. Edie shudders involuntarily at the thought. That would really ruin a glass of scotch. Maybe getting out of the city for a few days won’t be such a bad thing. Edie is haunted by her own ghosts.
On the 2 hour bus ride, Edie distracts herself by focusing on some light reading she brought for the trip: a research article on Aboriginal women in prison. She found herself distracted by the beauty of the writing, she felt like at least one of the co-writers had a real flair for writing that had not been seen since that great and epic novel ‘Soldiers of Misfortune’. The summer before, that novel had inspired her to launch one of her loafers at a shitster’s head during a screening of that great Jonathan Taylor Thomas classic, Man of the House. It might have resulted in a charge, had not several shitsters in attendance taken the opportunity to remove their ironic crocs and start a shoe fight. Perhaps launching the shoe had been immature, and a stupid risk to take given the attention Edie tended to receive from authorities, but dammit, Edie was tired of shitsters feeling like they had an ironic right to everything. Man of the House, a heart-warming and endearing film, co-starring the inimitable Chevy Chase, deserved better.

An Old Summer Hit Gets New Life

I am posting a quick excerpt- actually half written yesterday, and half written today. I mainly wanted to post it because I am really proud of how I incorporated the song Summer Girls, by LFO. I really wanted the song in the background to be Summertime, but it hadn't been released yet at the time this scene takes place (2004), soI had to pick something else and this song is a gem. If you haven't seen the video, you should check it out. It's worth it. I could create a hyperlink but am in a rush right now, so please YouTube it asap. Please note from my photo and this is evident in the video, one of the members of LFO looks like a vampire.
Anyway, here it is...

“Don’t you take this away from me, Sean, don’t you dare.”
“Do you think any of these people give a damn about you?”
“I just met them! You won’t even give me a chance to build a life here, you have taken everyone away from me, leaving me with nothing. You ruin everything, you take everything. The worst part is that you don’t have to, I love you, and I have given you everything! Is it ever going to be enough?”
As she spoke these words, her voice was thick with emotion, she felt sick with love and hate both. The party around them had stilled, the music still playing, Summer Girls by LFO, that one-hit wonder of 1999, had just come on, and its jaunty tone was jarring against the drama unfolding for everyone to see.
“Maggie, I am the person who loves you. Me. No one is ever going to love you more than I do. Come with me.” His tone had softened, and was almost pleading, his eyes searching her face, struggling for understanding, wanting to see something different there. Maggie felt a tug at her heart, she wanted to hug him, kiss him, do anything to take the sadness from his eyes and the pleading note from his voice. But she couldn’t. Not this time. If she didn’t find a way to stand, she was going to lose everything. She would dissolve, cease to exist except in his incarnation of her.
“No.” There was no wavering in her voice as she spoke this word. It was strong, firm, and fell with a thud. Sean nodded, and turned to leave, then suddenly turned back, focussing his glare on Brett.
“If you fucking touch her, I’ll kill you,” he said. Brett didn’t know what to say, just lifted his hands, palms out, in a gesture of peace. Thank goodness he didn’t flash the peace sign. It might have sent Sean over the edge, and it also would have been really lame. Sean looked at Maggie.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he said. It sounded like a threat. And with that parting shot, he left the party. Maggie, for her part, was grateful he hadn’t punched anyone or anything. Everyone heard his motorcycle revving up front, the machine growling with the anguish of Sean’s soul. It sounded angry. And it sounded out of place at a poolside barbecue, where LFO sang so sweetly of lost summer love, and of girls wearing Abercrombie and Fitch.

Day 7, 11,985 Words, End of Week 1!!

I can't believe we're already at the end of Week One. Things get tough in Week Two as I recall. I'm kind of hoping that since we all had such a hard time off the hop that Week Two will be a breeze. Today went fairly well, I wrote in bits and pieces all day, and again, found inspiration in writing about familiar EsNoWriMo people and places. Here is an excerpt describing MY Jackie's Place in 2010.

"Since her apartment and Tim’s were out, they decided to go to the local watering hole, Jackie’s Place. It was located approximately equidistant between Tim’s and her apartment, so the three of them had, in the short period of time they have lived in Toronto, formed a habit of meeting there. Jackie’s Place was a small pub type establishment, run by the proprietor, Jack “Jackie” Connolly, a short, intense man with a shock of thinning blond hair and intense blue eyes. He bartended and waited on the few tables that were scattered around on a narrow hardwood floor. He could be a bit frightening at times, for example if a car backfired outside, he might inexplicably remove his sock and start urinating on it, or, at times, he rolled through the kitchen doors, with plates of food balanced in his hands, which, though impressive, was somewhat disconcerting. Despite or perhaps because of these quirks, he was a decent guy and nobody caused any trouble in Jackie’s Place.
What made Jackie’s Place the best was not its location (though strategic), its proprietor (though possessed of a salty charm), or its patrons (mainly strangely overdressed young men with crew cuts and bulges at the shoulders of their suit jackets, with names like Heintzman and Torres). It was the music. Jackie’s Place always had the best music. Perhaps Maggie was slightly biased in this assessment; Sean’s band had performed there a number of times.
When Tim and Maggie entered the bar, it was relatively quiet there, but the promise of the best music in town, and oddly, a promise posted in the window ‘This Ain’t the Hilton’ were not to be broken, not this night. Maggie was impressed to see that an Aerosmith cover band was setting up on the small stage at the back of the bar. She also noted that Jackie’s Place was indeed, not the Hilton."

Day 6, 10,014 Words, and Things are Really Rolling Along Now...

A good day today, got lots of writing done, and had some fun along the way. Now that I've started writing your characters into my story, it's a lot more fun. Still in the past right now, setting up what will happen leading up to Sean's death. The picture above is what I am going to be writing about tomorrow... a confrontation between Tim and Sean. Katie and I have wondered how we would find the inspiration to write, were it not for the Covenant? I left off at a point where I still have much to write- so I can have a smooth takeoff in the morning.

Below is an excerpt from a pool party that Maggie attends with Sean, I think you'll recognize some familiar faces.

They had arrived a bit late, and the party was in full swing when they arrived, the cocktails and conversation flowing freely. Dr. VonSheintmeinpantz, ever the gracious host, disappeared to fetch them both martinis. Maggie fidgeted as they waited, worrying. Sean had no postsecondary education to speak of, and though he was intelligent and well read, Maggie was nervous that someone might talk down to him or try to make him feel stupid, a classic asshole manoeuvre in the academic sphere. But at first, Sean seemed to having a good time, was personable and charming, Maggie was happy to see, and she allowed herself to believe that perhaps they would pull through this without a hitch.
The trouble began when Brett Hall showed up. Maggie had met Brett once before, and had neglected to mention this to Sean, as Sean inevitably hated any male she had any sort of encounter with. This, as it turned out, had been a mistake. When Brett greeted her warmly, kissing her on the cheek as though they were old friends, Maggie saw Sean’s lips tighten and knew she was in for it. He smiled widely when Brett shook his hand in a slightly overfriendly manner, but his smile did not reach his eyes, which were blazing.
“How odd that Maggie never mentioned you before,” he said, still shaking Brett’s hand. Everyone with sensory organs could tell that Sean was making an underhanded dig at Maggie, resulting in an awkward pause that Maggie was becoming familiar with. Maggie had learned that the best way to handle Sean in such situations was to leave as soon as it was socially acceptable to do so, she didn’t want anyone to think there was something amiss, she cared what people thought of Sean. Would she have done things differently if she knew that she was fooling no one? That already people talked about how he treated her, about how bad he was for her, about how she should dump him before it got worse? Maybe she would have, but probably not. Maggie loved Sean ferociously, and had completely lost sight of normal that first night, at Club Abstract, when she fell completely, and irrevocably in love.
Maggie had been conditioned to react in certain ways to Sean, but his behaviour that night angered her. She was embarrassed, dammit, and after a couple of martinis and some interesting conversation, she didn’t want to leave. Also, she felt quite rightly that Sean was being a tad unfair. She was damn tired of him leaping to the worst conclusion, without ever talking to her about it. Sure, Brett had shown up wearing a child’s swimsuit, flexing his abs (which could have been used to grate cheese and make a nice lasagne), but was that any reason to get so angry? Yes, his tiny swimsuit left little to the imagination, as any person with eyes could see, but if the overall effect was pleasing, who was Sean to criticize?

Day 5, 8,420 Words

I just spent about 20 minutes looking for a picture to put up here. I am having major problems finding what I am looking for, so might have to forgo a pic for today. Not a bad writing day, sort of wrote bits here and there all day. I am hitting the daily quota- just- not really going above and beyond, unlike some of you overachievers.
I was inspired by Jackie's blog yesterday, and had the perfect place to fit in one of her characters, so here is my excerpt for today- it is a scene from the past, from before Sean died.

"Maggie had no idea she was going to fall in love when she went to Club Abstract to see Tim’s friend’s band. All she was really interested in doing was celebrating the end of her exams. She had written the last of her exams earlier that day, a particularly brutal one, in a third year English course entitled Introduction to Semiotics. She blamed the difficulty of the exam on the asshole from her class who had spent the entire semester being confrontational toward the professor, apparently convinced of her own superior intellect, which she appeared to have honed in a thorough and close reading of the novel The DaVinci Code. Anyone who has been to university has had to endure one of these assholes in every class. There is something about undergraduate Liberal Arts studies that really brings out the assholes, but even amongst a sea of assholes, Lily Stronach was something else."

I am unavailable to write on the Sunday after the stag and doe, but could possibly write with some other Esmondes if anyone is available to write before? I realize we will all be busy, but we have to write, right? Next week Matt and I will be camping- in a motorhome, with WiFi, so I will still be in full contact.

Every year, I seem to stumble across a method for bolstering word count, completely accidentally and unintentionally. This year has proven to be no different. I keep copying and pasting lyrics of songs into the novel- I know this has been done before, by all of us, but I am actually kind of incorporating the music into the plot- this means that I will have lots of opportunity to pilfer the superior writing talents of lyricists throughout the month of July.

Well. That's it for today. Talk to you all soon :)

Day 3, 5,017 words

This picture has nothing to do with my novel, but is a picture from happier times, when Sam and I were at the Smut Soiree, drinking cocktails and pink grapefruit perrier, and eating free candy.

I'm afraid this year's effort is as unfunny as a stale fart in a jar... a real one, not a fictional one. I am enjoying writing it, I am, but it really is hard to write horror. Hard to lighten the mood with a few well placed jokes.

Yesterday I decided that I would have to go back in time and write some excerpts from when Sean was alive, and tell the story leading up to his death. I'm also kind of feeling like this one might have a tragic ending I'm not particularly pleased about. Well, that's it for now, really looking forward to reading some more from the rest of you, Esmondes and Reaume- I need you.

Sam and Scott I need to hear from you how your writing is going- are you finding the same thing? The horror genre is not as much fun as it is cracked up to be...

"Ka-thump...ka-thump...ka-thump. Maggie falls asleep to the sound of Tim’s strong, steady heart. And wakes in the City of the Dead."

This is the only line I feel like posting from my Day 3 effort. I like it. I think it's creepy.

Second Day- 3,205

I know I am behind, but am doing my best to keep up. Hopefully will catch up in a couple of days.
Am hanging out on Ang's parent's back deck, having some drizzinks with my best gals, Sarah and Ang... funny story from this night equals that we are partying at Ang's parents' place when they are away. It's so high school, it's amazing. I tried my hand at writing whilst 4 children did their best to distract me, so I eventually had to give up, but here is a sample of what I have come up with.
I am feeling like I am getting a handle on who these characters are, and starting to care about this story. It is really hard to write horror, honestly, it's hard to make it funny. Maybe around the middle of the story things will go off the rails.
One final thought- Ludacris is f*cking awesome. And, Snoop Dogg brings credibility to every project he is involved in. That is a bold statement, but I will stand behind it any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

Sean Sleeps
Just outside of Beechwood, there is a cemetery called High Gate. High Gate is the name emblazoned in iron over the entrance, but residents of Beechwood and its many surrounding bergs have always called it the City of the Dead. The beautiful, green grass is carefully and lovingly groomed in this graveyard, this resting place for those who have passed beyond the reach of their loved ones. There is a plot there, with a polished black headstone. It has been lovingly tended to. Resting in front of the headstone is a potted plant of red geraniums. They look beautiful against the smooth, shiny, black granite and the vibrant green of the manicured lawn. You could visit this particular grave at any time of the year, and you would find fresh, seasonal flowers. You will never find any wilted, dying flowers. Not ever. Not here.
Someone loves the person buried here very much, or perhaps someone wants to make sure that this person does not feel neglected. Perhaps it is intended to ease a guilty conscience. Perhaps someone wants to make sure that this person is truly dead, and visits regularly to ease a nagging anxiety that this person is not entirely gone from this world. Maybe it is a combination of these things. If we can have conflicted feelings about the living, surely we can be equally conflicted in our feelings for the dead.
In the top left corner of the black headstone is engraved a moon peering from behind clouds, with trees in the foreground. In the top left is a simple, elegant music note. The name and dates are proclaimed in simple block letters: “Sean David O’Connor, 1980-2005”. The epithet is unusual, but in keeping with the imagery. “Still racing with the moon”.
Though the day is a beautiful, sunny, summer day, the sun’s rays never warm this plot. It is surrounded by a chill that keeps most people away. And though the sun shines on it, it appears to be perpetually in shadow. People walk around the plot, giving it a wide berth, without even being aware they are doing so. When people walk too close to Sean O’Connor’s grave, they might feel a chill race up their spine, making them shiver, or they might experience a wave of dizziness or nausea, or they might feel a wave of sadness, or anger. No one passes closeby without having some sort of reaction. It makes one wonder who cares for this gravesite so attentively, and at what cost to themselves?
Beneath the black granite stone, beneath the flowers, and the green lawn, under the rich soil, lies the body of Sean David O’Connor, whose soul does not sleep, is not resting, and is certainly not at peace.

First Day, 1,697 words, and Goddamn Horror Novels are Hard to Write...

...because they're serious and not much fun. This might be why I struggled so much on the first day. I gave up at about 1:15 with about 700 words, but felt inspired when I woke up this morning before the boys and wrote some more.
The essence of my story is a love triangle juxtaposed onto the horror genre, in a rather un-Twilight sort of way. Don't get me wrong, the Twilight series was nothing, if not chilling, but I am writing a different type of horror. A haunting, if you will- I think I have always been writing about haunting in one way or another, and am now literally writing about being haunted.
The members of the love triangle? Maggie St.James (the protagonist), Sean O'Connor (pictured here), and Tim Shanahan- not to be confused with Brendan Shanahan, whom I hate with a fervour normally reserved for a pile of jock straps. When directly confronted by Scott to explain this hatred, I found I couldn't remember why I hated him. It's just one of those things, I guess. In any case, Tim Shanahan is another version of Tim Riggins, NOT ANY sort of version of Brendan Shanahan. Are we clear? ARE WE CLEAR?? Crystal.
Anyway, here's an excerpt, it sucks, but what are you going to do? Jackie is outwriting me by a country mile. She just compared the Black Bloc to a plastic, reusable ice cube in a glass of expensive scotch. How do I compete with that? Hint: the answer is, I don't.
Here is the first hint we have of Sean:
So when did it begin? Hard to say... stories are rarely understood from Point A to Point B. It is only in the looking back that we make sense of the things that happen to us, create narratives out of the disparate bits and pieces of reality out of which our mundane lives are constructed. But there is safety in the mundane... safety, and beauty. Maggie would miss those things when they went out of her life- seemingly all at once, but we know better... it happened slowly, and insidiously, and if we were to select a beginning point, I think this one is best.
It was the lips she felt first, just lips, nothing else. Slowly applying pressure to her own, as she lay sleeping. Full, warm lips, and familiar. A kiss is as distinctive as a fingerprint, Maggie would stand by that. She thought a kiss could stand up in a court of law and testify... the lips know when the eyes are deceived. But Maggie’s eyes were closed, and she knew immediately. In the space between being asleep and being awake, nonsensical things seem plausible, and so it seemed perfectly natural to her to be lying in her bed, half asleep, being kissed in a soft, insistent way by Sean, as she had been kissed so very many times before.
She responded to the kiss before she even had time to think, sucking gently on his full lower lip, reaching her hand up to run her fingers gently through his short, wavy hair. But her fingers grasped nothing but air. She was so shocked by this incongruity, she leapt into full wakefulness and sat up. And found herself alone. And also not alone. Because she could still feel the slight moisture on her lips, and she could still smell the mixture of whiskey and cigarettes that Sean had on his breath. If she had not disturbed the covers in her upward jolt from sleep, would she have found a slight indent in the bed next to her? Perhaps she would have, but we’ll never know.

Am going to try to get some more writing done this night because I might not be able to write much tomorrow. Happy novelling everyone.

New Year, New Blog Title, New Genre

Hello everyone, it's good to be back. It's good to be back, sitting at my computer, thinking creative thoughts, and writing blogs. In all honesty, I have been so occupied with other things I have had little time to think about, plan, or otherwise revel in the lead-up to the best month of the year, NaNoWriMo, or, let's go with the new title, shall we? EsNoWriMo. Yes, I like that. It fits.
Some of you have heard that I will also be writing a horror novel this year. I first conceived of writing a horror novel back in November (I think). I had the opportunity to see Stephen King speak last year, and in his Q&A period, he mentioned that he had always thought about writing a story in which a person receives e-mails from the dead. He thought this was such an obvious idea that surely someone somewhere must have written about it, but to the best of his knowledge no one ever had. I'm sure he's correct, that someone somewhere must have, but I have always enjoyed writing derivative, unoriginal claptrap, so why change my M.O. this year? Why, indeed.
So I am changing the title of my blog, and I am changing genres, but many other things shall remain the same. So the things you love to hate about my writing- the annoying use of repetition for dramatic intent (and a thinly veiled strategy for bolstering word count), my ridiculously muscular and idealized male supporting cast, the ubiquitous love triangle, the grossly inappropriate use of obscene and offensive language... dear readers, I will not disappoint, those elements will be there.
EsNoWriMo...fucking bring it.