Title

So I have decided on my title. It is the title of a Hundertwasser painting. I like Hundertwasser's paintings. (My spell check kept trying to suggest “thunderstorms” just then. I like them, too.) My story is going to be a bit about doing gardening, although definitely not in an Alan Titchmarsh kind of way. It will be about a man who starts doing gardening because his life is empty. I am not sure why he doesn't just join facebook. Then his life will be full of “friends” and he can play Scrabulous to his heart's content. But I am glad he doesn't take that path, because then it would be quite a boring book to read. Unless you were an avid Scrabble watcher, and I doubt there can be too many of those. Scrabble is a game you have to participate in to get any enjoyment from. I'm quite sure that's a fact. I know I hate it when it's not my turn. I can't be the only one. If I'm getting near the end of the month and the word count is lacking, I could make him join facebook, though. As a last resort. That can be my safety net. Phew. I begin at midnight tonight!!!!

NaNoWriMo

Today I signed up to the NaNoWriMo write a novel in a month challenge. It feels quite exciting. The idea is to start on November 1st and have a finished 50,000 word first draft by midnight on November 30th. What fun! I think it will be a good thing for me to do. You are not supposed to edit any of it. The idea is just to write, even if it is utter crap. Just to have the sense of fulfilment of having completed a 50,000 word novel. You can edit and try and make good of the crap at a later date, if you want to. But it's meant to be a great way of kicking off the cobwebs and allowing yourself to write for the simple joy of it. I'm a great procrastinator. I think this will force me to finish something, rather than re-edit it a thousand times and never get it done.

I haven't a clue what my “novel” is going to be about. I was tempted to use something I've already been working on, but I think I would be too precious about it. This needs to be something new. I will try brainstorming in a while. (I can only brainstorm with paper and pens. I need to be able to circle stuff and draw lines and add bits to other bits. It doesn't feel organic at all if I try to do that on a computer. And it takes me way too long.)

When I get going, I will be posting snippets(what a great word) on here, along with a running word count. (It says this will help spur me on to keep at it.) I'm fairly confident I can write that many words. They may not be great words, but who cares? It'll be a good exercise in self-discipline, if nothing else.

When Good Housemates Turn Bad

This is not so much a story, it's more a confessional. It's online at The Beat.

The Photograph

This story appears online at Straight From The Fridge.

Tales from the Library: blind

There is a man who comes into the Library once a week. He takes out audio books for his wife, who is going blind. One day, he showed me a photograph of himself in a book he was checking out. It was a war book. History. 940 or 942 if we're talking Dewey Decimal. I forget which. Maybe I'll check tomorrow and edit this. If I get the chance. He told me how he'd met his wife at a dance, and how she had waited for him to return from war. This was over sixty years ago. And they are still in love. And he told me how he'd been part of a small unit that went behind enemy lines, how he was the only one still alive, one of two who'd made it back, and how he'd been awarded medals. And he told me how his wife is slowly losing her sight, and how he brings her these books on tape to help fill her days. She had always loved reading. And now she is too frail to venture out. So he does that for her. He tries to pick books she hasn't already had. A lot of them look the same to him. The stories merge into one.

That was the only time we really spoke in depth. He takes books, says hello, makes smalltalk, but since that day, he's not opened up again. Maybe the Library was exceptionally empty that day, or perhaps he just needed to share his story, show someone his photo, his place in History. It's too easy to see him as just an old man. I wonder how many others are in the books on the shelves. I wonder how often I see the person underneath the creaking bones and the slow movements, wonder how often I'm blind.

private plane

I wish I had a private plane. Actually, I think I'd rather have a helicopter gunship. They seem like they're easier to take off and land, what with not needing a runway and all. Obviously I'd need a pilot, a pilot who was on call all hours of the day and night. But he'd be a total A-Team fan, and would LOVE being a chopper pilot. It really would be his life. It would get tricky sometimes, convincing him that he really didn't have to “take out” the neighbours from down the street who would invariably complain about the noise. But that's the only time the guns would be of concern. And he'd be easily calmed down with a few soft words from Lionel Ritchie. Recorded, of course. I might one day be able to afford a helicopter gunship, but I don't think I'll ever have the money to afford Lionel Ritchie.

visionary

He pretends he has all the answers. He holds these to his chest, but when she peeks up close, she sees that he has only gathered air in the folds of his garments. She understands that he has to feel important, that his way of engaging with the world is by setting himself apart from it, looking down on all its marvels. But at the same time, she can't bring herself to swallow what he says, knowing it's based on a fallacy. He thinks she is walking away because she is somehow jealous of him, of his world, and she lets him believe that. But she is walking away because biting her tongue is beginning to really affect her vocabulary, and that is something she can't allow.