I gave myself a week off from my novel, but now it’s time to go back and start to finish it up. I’m determined to completely complete this one, and throw it up on Amazon with my other.
Of course, then I’ll have to listen again to my friends and family moan and groan that I haven’t produced a sequel to Minotaur yet. They’ll be alright.
But the problem is that I don’t really have a story; I have a fantastical journey, but nothing that screams it’s over. I guess that’s not absolutely essential, since this was supposed to be fun entertainment.
Or is it not entertaining without closure? I know I get frustrated when I immerse myself in a book and then–it stops, and I’m left with so many questions, not least of which is what happens next.
But I realize I haven’t told you hardly anything about this year’s novel. I’ve only posted one excerpt, and that one was completely off the cuff. It’s certainly not in its final form. And I haven’t even told you my protagonist’s name: Sinew.
I don’t even know how to summarize this mess I’ve made. I think it’s going to take a lot of work to put a bow on it and send it out into the world. But I can do it.
I hope everyone else has enjoyed their November, whether NaNoWriMo’ing it up or not. Because we’re all winners, aren’t we? We’re alive, and we have internet access. So cheesy, I know.
She walks with a flowered cane that taps randomly: “I’m for show, I’m for show.” Her rhinestoned ballcap is placed gently atop her mop of unruly curls. Her vacant smile is infectious, and all respond to it positively.
The gaggle of adolescent girls flows by, in flagrant violation of the family night policy dictating that they must be accompanied by a parent or guardian over 21. One struggles with heeled boots too tall for her unpracticed legs, wobbling, then righting herself. She has lipstick on her teeth.
Sweet old lady, petite and snowy haired, hauling bags and bags of gifts for her grands. Tucked in among the toys and tee shirts, a Victoria’s Secret bag smugly keeps its secrets. Her teeth are as white as her hair.
The rebel flags on his shirt and hat give away his accent before he speaks. His mustache is a wooly caterpillar crawling across his lip as he tells his old lady not to spend money she don’t have on stuff she don’t need. Sage advice couched in poor grammar.
Leopard print pants. Soft black boots. Blonde hair to her waist. The resignation on her face is plain as she drags her feet back to her mother’s side with a sigh.
We conned my brother and his girlfriend into staying another night. He forgot his matches.
Today has gone better than expected; my mother got her deconstructed turkey in the oven an hour late, but we only ate half an hour late.
My best friend’s mom made some amazing dressing.
My best friend pulled me to the side to tell me that she saw my mother put half a cup of salt in the gravy.
My best friend’s dad and my brother’s girlfriend held an impromptu concert on the back porch on penny whistles. This attracted the attention of the neighbor kids playing outside. I knew they would get along swimmingly, since he’s a musician and she’s a music major. I rather enjoyed seeing her passion for music and music history come out. It made me see how she and my brother are so perfect for each other, because he’s the same way when he gets taking about his game developing.
Waffles even came out, momentarily.
And work has been going by not too slowly, so that’s good.
She set the knife back down and looked at him earnestly, “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “do you have a problem with this?”
“Oh no, not at all,” he answered. “I know perfectly well that when someone eats meat it’s because an animal died. I just prefer not to be the reason for that death. Go right ahead.”
She raised an eyebrow at his answer, but lifted the knife to continue dissecting the chicken carcass. “You’re the most easygoing vegetarian I’ve ever met, Sam.”
He took another bite of his avocado salad and nodded. “I know. It’s a personal choice, and I don’t believe in criticizing another’s personal choice when they’ve respected my own.”
She laughed and shook her head, keeping her eyes on what she was doing so as to not become one with her family’s dinner quite yet. A knock at the front door caused her to set the knife down yet again, and she quickly turned to the sink to wash her hands, a moue of annoyance on her lips.
“Don’t worry,” said Sam, rising to answer the door, “I’ll get it.”
He returned with a fat envelope which he laid on the counter near her, far enough away to avoid the risk of contamination. “Just a messenger.”
“Would you open it for me? I can’t imagine that it’s anything personal, not that I have the slightest idea what’s in there,” she said.
Sam retrieved the envelope and cracked the seal with a fingertip. He pulled the sheaf of papers from inside and unfolded them to read the first one. “Um, Lydia? I think you need to wash your hands.”
She gave him a quizzical look, but seeing the seriousness in his eyes, she quickly soaped up her hands and brought the towel with her to take the papers from him.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “He’s back.”
She leaned into Sam’s embrace for comfort, and he wrapped his arms around her, trying to soothe the pain he knew she was in.
“I’m so sorry, Lydia.”
She wept until her tears ran dry and her shoulders heaved silently. Finally, she took a deep breath and spoke. “We have to go, Sam.”
They left, hand in hand, the pages forgotten on the table. As they slipped to the floor, one word stood out, handwritten over and over across the printed letter: Lydia.
Wed Stories at TBP: I didn’t follow the rules!
I’m curious how Thanksgiving is going to go this year. My mother plans to deconstruct the turkey, so let’s see how that pans out.
But I remember a great meal I once had. Ian made it for me.
Swordfish and broccoli with hollandaise and long grain and wild rice. Good stuff.
Tues Truthiness at TBP