An even more brief word about this year's novel:

I win!

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So, a brief word about this year's novel. It sucks, but I'm totally okay with that. I think the one I wrote two years ago, the one I posted while I was writing, was much better. I mean, that one became bathroom reading for Canadian Rebecca Campbell's husband, thereby making a lifelong dream of mine come true. So my goal for next year, since I'm making Thanksgiving resolutions, is to do more editing on the one from two years ago. We'll see if it's good enough to go anywhere from there.

This year's novel has been fun because I've approached it in a different way than the other two. I didn't start writing and just go chronologically. I started writing and hated where I was at, so I decided to put in a different type of scene. I ended up writing a bunch of pieces of a novel which may, at some point, be re-organized into a cohesive actual novel, but there will have to be a lot of editing (and a lot of deleting) if that's going to happen. At any rate, it was a neat away to approach it, and I think I've ended up with a few good parts of novel.

In other words, I'm really tired. I have 5,000 words and three days left, and I'll be glad when it's over. I also really hope that I write more this next year. That's another Thanksgiving resolution.

Okay, I'm going to stop rambling.

Right...

now.

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When I'm tired, I use the word "fuck" with alarming frequence. It's not an attractive personality trait, but there you have it. I would like to think it's all just part of my charm, but don't worry. I know better.

Today, I'm tired, and therefore find myself using the vernacular of a sailor. Last night, at around 11:00, I left work. I went home, watched some SeaLab 2021 while I ate a microwaved burrito, and then wrote a little more than 2,000 words. Today was supposed to be calm at work, but, of course, software doesn't stop breaking just because I'm tired.

Fuck.

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Email from Erin today -- I put the question to you:

How happy are you right now, on a scale of one to fifty? I think I'd put myself at around 18 at the moment, not miserable (that would be five) but restless and a little below neutral. I am satisfied with the length of my fingernails, the yellow desk lamp I use instead of the overhead flourescents, and the the appropriate level of resistance in my keyboard keys. I hate it when they are too soft.

Me, I think I'm roller-coastering between 10 and 30. Work has been stressful, but it's looking up. The novel isn't going well, but I might have free time to work on it during the next couple of weeks. I might actually have time to draw my characters better in my head, round them out, make them more real so they do things on their own.

I'm restless, though. Maybe it's the 30th birthday coming over the horizon, or the fact that I can walk again (though running still hurts) or the fact that I've been too busy for too long, but I have the urge to drop everything and drive across the country. Or go to the airport, find out which international flight leaves next, and get on it. I'm in the mood for big changes.

The cat and the house, though, these things tie one down. But that's not all bad. They're teaching me about patience. Also, there really is something satisfying about having a place all my own with no landlords to stare down my visitors or upstairs neighbors to keep me up with their snoring all night. Life is full of trade-offs. Mostly, I'm happy with the ones I've chosen.

But that doesn't stop me being restless.

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I had a writing date with Yolanda and Athena (a woman who writes erotica in Pooh slippers while eating Cheese Whiz and gummy bears) today at Java Vivace. We sat near the restroom, and at one point, I remarked on the fact that it was always in use. People pee all the time.

We figure Portlanders probably pee more than other people, on average. Here's the reasoning:

Fact: Coffee is a diuretic (makes you pee).
Fact: Alcohol is also a diuretic.
Fact: Portlanders drink a lot of alcohol (especially microbrews) and coffee.
Conclusion: A Portlander pees more than the average human. This means that the people of Portland are probably some of the most dehydrated people on earth, which is kind of funny, considering how much it rains here. (Yes, this works for Seattle, too, and plenty of other places to boot, but our discussion never left Portland.)

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By the way, I caught the first show of Joe's band (I still don't know what they're called -- the Xerophones?), and they rocked. Joe had been working the disclaimer angle pretty heavily, but she needn't have. I would totally go see them again. I left feeling very excited for all of them because I'm sure they'll have many more shows, and hopefully I'll be at some of them.

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Intrigue on a Sunday Afternoon
or Why Having an Overactive Imagination Totally Sucks Sometimes

My family was in town for the weekend, celebrating Thanksgiving. I know, it's a little early for that, but we all figured we'd get it out of the way now so we don't have to travel for the holidays. Yesterday, the boisterous noises of 15 relatives gave way to silence, a deep, satisfying quiet. I was reading The Eyre Affair (terrific, by the way) and I was cold, so I decided to take a bath. I read and relaxed until the water started to get cold. I was just about to get out when I heard a strange noise.

It sounded like the chiming of a clock, a clock I'd never heard before, and it was inside my house. It was close to 6:00 and the clock chimed 5 1/2 times, stopping abruptly in the middle of the sixth ring. I racked my brain in hopes of finding a logical explanation: Maybe someone left the clock here as a joke? But then why didn't I hear it at 4:00 or 5:00? Why did it stop in the middle of a chime? Who would have left it?

That's when it hit me: Someone was in my house. It was the Clock Chime Killer, a character I invented in less than thirty seconds. He was brutal and enjoyed torturing people who had just gotten out of the bath. He always chimed 5 1/2 times before he killed. Bloody images splattered across my imagination. The phone rang.

Due to a weird set of circumstances, neither of the two phones upstairs were plugged in and I couldn't remember where they were, so I would have to go DOWNSTAIRS to answer the phone. Downstairs where the murderer was. He was luring me out, toying with his prey.

Okay, I'll confess: I wasn't entirely certain that there was someone in my house, or I never would have gone downstairs to answer the phone. Of course, it stopped ringing once I got halfway down. I peeked around corners, saw nobody, and raced to pick up the phone. I dialed Ransom's number to see if it was he who had called. While I spoke to him, I kept my back to the fireplace so I would see immediately if anybody was coming to kill me. Ransom said he hadn't called.

My cell phone rang. Cell phone. Ringing.

That's when the last puzzle piece fell into place. My stepdad, you see, had left his cell phone at my house. Later, around 6:00, he called it to see if it was just stuck in between the seats in his monster SUV or in a pocket or something. His ring tone sounds like the chimes of a clock. When he couldn't find his phone, he called me at home and, when he didn't get an answer, called my cell phone. All perfectly logical and not involving murderers in the least.

I do think he needs to change that creepy ring tone, though.

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Stupid Blogger just deleted my post. It was insanely witty and charming. You would not be wearing any socks right now if you were reading it -- it was that good. It was legendary, this post, which is now lost to the ether. Such beautiful prose had never before flown through fingertips to keyboard. This post was also of immense importance, one that would have brought all of humanity together, fed the hungry, cured cancer, and made your teeth whiter. It was life-affirming. Alas, this wondrous opportunity is lost, gone forever. I mourn the words that were and are no more, for with them goes all hope.

If only I could remember what it was about...

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Dear America,

Really? George Bush? I know some of you voted for Bush because you side with him on the guns and gays issues, but that upsets me, too. The results of this election paint a picture of us, America: we're greedy, gun-toting, paranoid, homophobic freaks, America. We have no compassion.

Are we depressed? Is that what's going on? Is that why we're pulling away from our friends and bullying other countries? Do we really feel safer now that so many more people hate us and North Korea has nuclear weapons? Do we not see the hypocrisy of denouncing the holy wars of other countries and waging our own, right here at home?

Let me speak for a moment to the gay marriage bans that passed in, what, eleven states(?), including right here in Oregon. What's the big idea? Is it that there's nobody left to discriminate against, so we picked gays? We do have a long and glorious tradition of discrimination -- I guess it's hard to let these things go. But gay marriage isn't a threat. It doesn't undermine the sanctity of marriage and it's not a gateway to polygamy. It's about two people, in love, making a commitment to one another. Do we really want to continue judging people with this puritanical mindset? Do we really have that much hate? That much of a need to meddle in other people's affairs? Really, America?

We can do better, America. But apparently we choose not to.

Regretfully yours,
Rebecca

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