I AM DONE!!!!!

Holy shit, what a sprint that was to the finish. I realized yesterday that I had a huge problem, which was that I had wasted way too many words and only had 2000 words to wrap up. But I wanted, nay, I NEEDED to finish today. This morning I sat down and wrote, and wrote, and wrote my little heart out, and my book, such as it is, is finished.
It really is a horrible mess, but I love it. I love the characters, I love its absurdity, and mostly I love it because I did it. Somehow, even though it is the sixth time, I feel just as proud of this accomplishment as I did the first one. I officially kicked ass this month, triumphed over adversity, and accomplished something ridiculous but astonishing. I wrote a novel in 29 days!!
I came in at 52,909 words, so I wrote almost 5,000 words TODAY ALONE.
I really don't care about giving anything away, because my book is stupid and makes no sense, and no one really knows what it's about anyway, so I will include a chunk of the epilogue here for your reading pleasure.

Tom recovered quickly, and the documentary release and charity launch went off without a hitch. In fact, it was a smashing success. Many NHL stars were in attendance, and it was the beginning of the end of the iron grip of fear that Five for Fighting had held for decades. Once some courageous people are willing to step into the light, the darkness begins to lose its power. Several former members of Five for Fighting who had been transformed by Annie’s stirring speech at the Karaoke Cabana joined Annie and Tom on stage as they launched “Annie’s Wish.” Their presence, as much or more than the presence of NHL superstars, marked the end of an era of fear, repression, and violence.
Annie had avoided Ryan since the day at the Karaoke Cabana, but when he approached her, looking ruggedly handsome in his tuxedo, she knew she could avoid him no longer. He asked her to dance, and she accepted. It was not much, but it was a start. She felt something in her heart stir that had been asleep for some time. It was something like hope, and it was something like love. Whatever it was, it was beautiful.
In the days that followed, there was a class action lawsuit filed against the NHL by 10 players who had suffered concussions in their careers. The NHL, they argued, had known about the dangers of head injuries, but had been remiss in their efforts to protect the players. Between the lawsuit, the documentary, and the charity, Annie, Tom and the others felt certain that Five for Fighting was done for good.
But not everyone felt that way. And not everyone who attended the gala that night was as happy about the events as all the others. From the darkest of corners, a young man watched the festivities with a cold sneer on his face. He wore incredibly skinny jeans, very very low; below his hips, in fact, revealing a shocking amount of underwear. There was a chain between his back pocket and his front pocket, as though he feared that someone might try to steal his wallet. This was of course ridiculous, since he didn’t even carry a wallet, or money, or keys, or anything at all. There were others paid to take care of all his needs, and they did their job well. An oversize toque completed his look, perched devil-may-care atop his perfectly coiffed hair.
He called over a waiter with a snap of his fingers, and gave him instructions, as well as a note to pass to the star of the night, Annie Donovan. The server recognized the young man, and wordlessly did his bidding. It wouldn’t do to disobey the young man, it wouldn’t do at all.
Across the room, Annie, looking beautiful and vibrant, sat at a table with her brother Tom, and his best friend Ryan. It had been a long time since the three of them had spent such a happy time together, and their happiness made them radiant. It made them shine.
A waiter approached with a single stem of champagne. He passed the glass to Annie, who took it with a smile. He then passed her a note, and a look of confusion crossed her face. She set down the champagne, and opened the note. She read it, and looked up to ask the waiter who had sent it, but he had already disappeared, he was in the wind.
“What does it say?” Ryan asked, reaching for the note.
“It says… Ducks Fly Together,” she responded absently, as she looked around the room for either the waiter or for the person who had sent the note to make himself known. But there was nothing, and there was no one, just a cryptic note and a feeling of unease in her heart.
“Are you okay?” Ryan asked, and she turned back to him, and smiled. It was a glorious night, and she wouldn’t let someone’s silly idea of a joke ruin it.
“Yes, I am,” she responded, and as she spoke the words, she realized that they were true.


Here is a photo of a hockey term I came across in my rigorous research into the world of hockey slang:



'Just Dangle' became something of an inspirational mantra for Annie. To 'Dangle' in hockey means this: To use exemplary skill and stickhandling ability to manoeuvre oneself around the ice. To Annie, this becomes a metaphor for life. Good luck to those of you who have left to finish.

The End!!!

46,000 Words... and A Rough Day Yesterday

I reached 46,000 words yesterday, but did it on a wing and a prayer. I am so close to the end, but really had no time for writing yesterday, but forced 1000 words because I really want to finish early. I would really like to have the weekend free of writing!! I was very uninspired, and just ended up cutting and pasting a bunch of stuff from the gongshow hockey website- their t-shirts are de rigeur among the Five for Fighting set. Here is an example:


Since everything I wrote yesterday was stupid, here is an excerpt from the day before. Hope you like it:

“I would like to speak to my brother,” she said, and the others squinted and nodded at her. Smart move, their squinty eyes said. Well played, their nods communicated. She squinted and nodded in return.
“He can’t come to the phone right now, he’s…. otherwise occupied.” The man responded, his voice carrying the tone of West Coast, laid back surfer culture. But now that Annie was paying more attention, she thought that there was a ring of untruth in it. And there was that snickering. They kept laughing every time he spoke. She was about to reply in an angry tone, perhaps hang up, when he spoke again.
“But we are very anxious to see you, we hope you’ll join us soon. That would be… radical.” Annie was convinced more than ever that the whole ‘surfer’ thing was put on. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but if she knew one thing, it was that you should never take dating advice from your gay friend who just stole your girlfriend. This she had learned from a close watching of Dawson’s Creek. If she knew two things, the second was that information was power, but only if you played your cards close to the vest, and only if you played them very well. Like most valuable life lessons, she had not learned this from a close watching of Dawson’s Creek.
“I would be very happy to join you,” she said, playing along, “perhaps you could be so kind as to give me your exact location, and I will be along tout de suite.” She cursed herself for her use of French, she just couldn’t help it, she was nervous. Now they were going to think she was uppity. She had been accused of this before, on more than one occasion. The last time had involved a leather jacket smartly paired with an evening gown and a beer throwing competition gone awry. You do the math. The surfers either chose to ignore her faux pas, or they already believed she was uppity and were unconcerned.

43,350 Words, and Here is My Knife in the Snowball

Well, I had to write it in, but as I said, my characters are in the desert, so it was a bit of a struggle but I managed. I actually wrote this on the weekend. Here is Jackie, explaining the origin of his 'lucky knife.'

Despite all of these things that passed through her mind, and despite Jackie’s decidedly unhinged appearance, Annie found that there was a question plaguing her, one that drove all other logical thought out of her brain. After a moment of stunned silence, she asked it.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit dangerous to go rolling through alleyways with a knife in your mouth? I mean, it makes running with scissors look like a goddamn walk in the park.” She wondered if perhaps this was the answer to the eternal question of how the Joker had received the scars on his face. She momentarily wished that she had both a doctor and a comic book geek in the near vicinity, so she could ask for their expert opinions on this theory. But isn’t that always the way? When you don’t want them around, it seems there are doctors and comic book geeks everywhere, maddeningly offering their opinions of every little thing, but when you need them? Nowhere to be found.
Jackie rose to his feet, seemingly completely nonplussed by the question, or his own bizarre behaviour. Rather, he seemed to relish the opportunity to provide an explanation.
“This is my lucky knife. I’ve had this baby with me for years. Once upon a time, an assassin had an ingenious idea to try to take me out by embedding a knife, this knife, inside a snowball, and then throwing the snowball through a window into a room I was in. Now I know what you’re thinking, how could that plan have possibly failed, right?” In fact, no one was thinking that at all, quite the opposite. “Well, that’s why it’s lucky. Somehow, despite all the odds that were stacked against me, the knife snowball broke through the window, missed me completely, and landed in the middle of the room, where it melted, revealing its deadly core. I knew that day that someone was looking out for me, that I had work left to do on this earth. So I picked up the knife, made a promise to always use it for good, and I’ve carried it with me ever since.”
“That doesn’t explain why you carried it in your mouth. That still seems dangerous to me.”
“Well, my skinny jeans are too tight for me to carry it in my pocket. And I needed my hands for combat purposes.” He explained, a note of petulance entering his voice.


Here is something I wrote more recently. More from Jackie:

“As Ms. Donovan so astutely pointed out, I have strategically placed around my hotel various ‘odes’ to violence. In Brady’s room, there is the crocheted wall hanging, I have also used welcome mats, key rings, shower curtains, and wall art. I brilliantly took advantage of the Edward vs Jacob craze that overtook the nation during Twilight mania. I used one of those creepy full size ‘Edward’ wall stickers that is the size and shape of a grown man’s shadow. I placed it on the wall and stenciled the words ‘I Don’t Dial 911’ on it. It was a smash hit, and I’ve been thinking about doing that in every room.” The others were looking on in various stages of active discomfort. Annie was visibly shuddering at the thought of a creepy, sparkly, eternally teenaged vampire creeping into her room in the middle of the night and whispering that he didn’t dial 911. “In any case, besides really knocking my hotel décor out of the park, I had a purpose. I have been trying to infiltrate ‘Five for Fighting’ or at the very least lead them to believe that Jackie’s Place is a safe harbour for them.

“The ECHL does indeed have rock bottom budgets for player accommodations. With the Las Vegas Wranglers so close by, and with my modest pricing, Jackie’s Place has become de rigeur among the ECHL set. That is to say, I have many, many hockey players pass through here from October to June, and the message has spread. Jackie’s Place is a place where all those with violent inclinations can feel right at home. And while I haven’t necessarily infiltrated Five for Fighting, I have gained their trust. They have let their guard down here.


By the way, my characters are still in the Flying Monkey bar... but hopefully they will leave there today.

36,744 Words... Are We There Yet?

Today I am heading up to Hillsdale, which is a lovely place to write. It will be snowy, there will be a fire going, and I intend to have plenty of Bailey's in my coffee as I write the next installations of my novel. The problem with Hillsdale, however, is that is in a black hole of internet access. Even my ability to perform google searches is severely limited. I will be reduced to trying to use the browser on my Blackberry, which I believe shows just how desperate I am to perform the relevant searches. My imagination is running on empty these days, and google is often my saviour!
Regarding my story... I am in the place I believe Indigo was last week. It has become a gigantic mess of too many characters and too many mixed motivations. And yet... I do feel that something is beginning to take shape. My biggest stumbling block right now is likely going to be how in the hell I am going to make sense of the surfer kidnappers from the film 3 Ninjas.

A couple of short excerpts from my writing over the past 2 days... first, the crew is on their way to The Flying Monkey, but Annie has time to think something long, irrelevant, and something you all will find familiar from last year. I coped and pasted from myself.

“We are going to the Flying Monkey… it’s a bar on the strip just down from where the arena is located.” Ryan explained as they walked down the street at a very quick pace, so quick that Annie feared being left in the dust. “Stella is our coach,” he explained, “and she has a pregame ritual that she follows before every single game. At each town we visit, she has a specific bar that she visits, usually near the arena. She sits, has a glass of sherry, puts on her reading glasses and pores over her accounting books and player rosters. She then comes up with her game plan, which she delivers to us pregame. In Bakersfield it’s “Snake’s Christmas Club Lounge”; in Kalamazoo, it’s ‘The Devil’s Lube’, and in Las Vegas, it’s the ‘Flying Monkey’. I am sure we will find her there, though I doubt she’ll be happy to see us. She doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
Annie was surprised by many aspects to Jake’s explanation, not the least of which was that she had never heard of Stella Marleybone… she must have been more out of touch with her brother than she had realized. When had the Jackals hired a new head coach? Also, the names of the bars struck her as interesting. She wondered if ‘The Devil’s Lube’ was a tribute to the

ridiculous film based on an identically titled episode of 2 and a Half Men, in which Emilio Estevez had played foil to brother Charlie Sheen when he dropped dead on the balcony of his beach house. Hagrid delivered a heartrending performance of identical strangers who ill advisedly switch places, only to have one of them die, thus ensuring that the other was trapped forever in a role he was never intended to play. Of course I am referring to Hagrid, the monomynous actor, not to be confused with Rubeus Hagrid, of the famed seven volume Harry Potter series. The line “what’s comin’ will come, and we’ll meet it when it does,” was considered utterly forgettable by Annie and yet had somehow made it into most top ten lists of ‘most memorable film quotes’.
As though reading her thoughts, Jake murmured “What’s comin’ will come, and we’ll meet it when it does”. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise, for although she had never been fond of the line, it struck her as incredibly a propos, given their current situation. If she felt certain of one thing, it was that they would indeed meet whatever was coming when it came, and that they would stand tall and stand true.. If she was certain of two things, the second would have been that Jake was really horrible at delivering Hagrid’s well known ‘West Country’ accent. Though the words rang true, the accent sounded at best like a butchered cockney.

Second short excerpt... Jackie has returned to the fray:

“Do you think that Jackie is secretly involved with the organization ‘Five for Fighting’? Or do you think he just has a fondness for inappropriate art glorifying taking matters into your own hands in violent, gun toting ways?” Just then, directly in front of them a man rolled out of a narrow alleyway that none of them had previously noticed. His wiry hair was standing on edge and his eyes were full of grim determination. He appeared to have a knife clenched between his teeth, and his hands were held out at angles from his body, like those of a 5 year old pretending to do karate. He remained poised on one knee, his eyes darting around, hypervigilant, as he took in his surroundings, trying to determine whether there was a threat in the immediate vicinity, or rather, what the nature of the threat was, since he was a man who believed that there was threat everywhere. It was Jackie, grumpy proprietor of the infamous Jackie’s Place and proud activist for the local food movement.
He looked over at the stunned foursome, and began to squint and nod in a knowing manner. “Well done, Miss Donovan. Well done, indeed.”

35,222 Words and Stella has Arrived!!

Hi everyone. I have been so busy keeping up with just my writing it has been hard to keep up with the blogs. I just took a quick peek and saw that you are all amazing and writing incredibly funny and creative novels. I will try my very best to get caught up and stay more on top of things... we all need support as we approach the finish line!!

Today I wrote some sad back story of Annie and her pathetic love life, and had more fun writing Stella in. I have known for some time that I was going to use her and am really happy she is on the scene. My characters FINALLY left the Boo(!)-Bie Mansion, but I think it's so funny to have them leave one bar only to head to another that I have sent them to 'The Flying Monkey' where they will meet up with... you guessed it... Stella Marleybone!!

Here she is...

Stella was a short woman, her salt and pepper hair clipped close in a pixie cut that emphasized her sparkling blue eyes. What she lacked in stature, she certainly made up for in presence. She was often described as formidable, and it was a moniker that fit her like a glove. She spoke in the clipped tones of the British upper class, which was where she hailed from. Many people wondered when they first met her how she had come to be a men’s hockey coach in a small town in the United States, in a league that was a mere step or two above beer and pizza rec hockey leagues. Great Britain was not well known as a place from which the great hockey players or hockey minds sprang. Additionally, there are very few women coaching men’s teams (or women’s teams) period. She also did not have the resume of the traditional hockey coach either.
Her background was in accounting, and it was rumoured (though not confirmed) that she had been the special accountant assigned to Her Majesty, the Queen of England. It was also rumoured that for her exceptional service to the Crown she had been granted the title of Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire. This also was unconfirmed, though widely believed, and explained why many who spoke of her referred to her as Dame Stella Marleybone, though never to her face. It was unclear how it was that she came to become a hockey coach, and she rarely answered the question, if anyone had the gall to ask. It was rumoured that she was under the impression that the continent of North America remained a colony of Great Britain, and that she firmly believed that service to the Crown including time spent developing the moral character of colonial citizens.

While she might have been an unlikely hockey coach, Stella certainly seemed to be possessed of the soul of an accountant, and used her accounting book as a way of taking stock of her own and others achievements in life as well as those of the hockey players in her charge. Her process was simple. A good act earned one credits, the number of credits dependent upon the value of the good act. Winning a face off, for example, might earn one 2 credits, clearing a puck out of the defensive zone might earn one 5 credits, earning a goal might be worth 10 points, a game winner worth 15. In similar fashion, one could accumulate debits with acts that demonstrated bad form, selfishness, or laziness. Sloppy play in the neutral zone could lead to a deduction of 5 credits, failure to attend a practice would lead to a deduction of 10 credits, and missing a game could lead to a deduction of 50 credits. In this way, she kept an ongoing account of the contributions of each player to the success of the team. A player who was ‘in the red’ more often than not would find he no longer had a spot on Stella’s team.
Stella on the whole was intolerant of unpredictability, her method had always proved to help her take the measure of a person, of a player, in a truly objective fashion, and she was never wrong. For this reason, Tom Donovan had proved to be quite a conundrum to the no nonsense coach. Tom defied the concept of predictability, with wild swings on both the credit and debit sides of the column. Just when it seemed he had achieved a debt he could never dig himself out of, he would go on a spree of such good behaviour and positive contributions to the team that he would quickly be well out of debt, and indeed in possession of such a quantity of credit that a future ‘in the red’ seemed unlikely. But he always got back there.
Now, as she stared down at her accounting book, she saw that Tom was firmly ‘in the red’, had been for some time, and she was contemplating the difficult decision of cutting him from the team. Any other person would have long since been cut, but there was something different about Tom. She knew she should remove him from the team, he was simply too unpredictable, but she just couldn’t do it. And this was why she both loved and hated Tom. Watching him play had awoken something in her she hadn’t even been aware was there. She had hope, she had belief, and more than anything, she wanted to be there to watch when Tom turned it around again. She wanted to see the fire in his eyes and the grace in his every movement that came when Tom was on."

30,667, and God Bless You Cut and Paste

Over 30,000 tonight, thanks to Katie's novel from last year, which has provided us with a veritable gold mine. Here are a couple of excerpts. Ryan, Annie, Gordon and Jake are all together at the Boo(!)-Bie Mansion. I hope to get them out of there tomorrow. Here they are bonding...

“It was for you Annie, he wanted to do this for you. He wanted to show you that he had something left to give back. And he wanted you to know how much he loves you and appreciates all you have sacrificed for him over the years. He said without you he would be nothing, and he wanted to make you proud of him again. He decided to call the charity “Annie’s Wish”, in honour of the sister who stood by him through everything.” Annie and Ryan were both unable to contain their tears any longer, and both cried quietly, feeling both shame for their lack of faith and love for Tom, that brave, brave man. Their quiet dignity was quickly overshadowed by a loud honking sound that appeared to be emerging from behind a large polka-dotted handkerchief. Gordon was weeping loudly and dramatically from his perch on his desk.
“It’s… just… so …. BEAUTIFUL!” he wailed, using the corner of his cape to wipe his tears. Annie realized that Gordon’s unearthly pallor was the result of makeup as opposed to being undead, as he now had two skin-coloured half-moons visible beneath his eyes where the tears had washed the makeup away. “Come on,’ Gordon said, motioning to the other three in the room, “bring it in, come on, don’t be shy. GROUP HUG,” he managed to utter through his hiccupping sobs. Annie and Ryan moved reluctantly toward the vampire, and he quickly swept them into his arms, wrapping his cape around them. He looked up at Jake, who shook his head and said “No, I’m good.”
Gordon admonished Jake silently with a look, and said “Jake, I will brook no argument from you, join us in this group hug, my brother, my friend.” Jake reluctantly approached, and was swept into the hug. In that moment of shared emotion (and shared cape), they became one. They knew they would do whatever it took to get Tom back, and to make sure that Annie’s Wish became a reality. And they would do it for the children, not in the weird, creepy way that mommy bloggers stalk their children, but in a genuine, loving way, in a real attempt to make the world a better place. And aren’t the best friendships found on such principles? I like to this so.


And here is an excerpt of how I cut and pasted from Katie's novel and made it my own (sort of). I copied and pasted a lot more. Trust me on that, but it was too long of an excerpt to include, plus you saw it last year on Katie,s blog.

“There’s more. Have any of you ever heard of the organization, ‘Five for Fighting’?” Jake asked, and Gordon gasped dramatically, then placed his cape over his mouth before the others could assault him again with their fierce glares. Clearly, he had heard of the organization. The others looked blank, so Jake nodded at him to explain. Before he began, he made a mental note not to reference his dissertation, lest he infuriate the pretty brunette with the fearsome temper. It turned out to be a rather difficult promise to keep.
“Well, I first learned about the organization when I was doing underground research for my…” he winced, “for my Master’s thesis,” he said slowly and carefully, clearly lying. He quickly moved on. “That was the time I learned the true meaning of fear.” He shuddered, but continued. “I was doing some research on the phenomenon of ‘mommy blogging’ with a colleague of mine. It was a truly discomfiting movement, and my colleague and I were lucky to escape unscathed.” Annie was nodding, though the other two looked perplexed. Annie had once lost a dear friend to the mommy blogger movement. She had begun with simply wanting to share her experience with others, to form a community of support for mothers, but she quickly became brainwashed by the movement. The last time Annie had seen her, she had been babbling incoherently in what sounded like a sort of horribly conceived rap, her fingers and clothes permanently stained by homemade organic dyes, a vacant, haunted look in her eyes. Oh yes, Annie knew about the dark underworld of mommy bloggers. Gordon continued.
“Even worse than the mommy bloggers though, were the hockey fans. Hockey fans scare me. Those goons sure do love their hockey fights, and they will do anything to make sure that no pinko commie lefty gets in the way of them.” The other three nodded. Though they all fit into the category of ‘hockey fan’, they knew that were extremists who had captured and transformed the moniker to their own twisted devices. Much the way Rob Ford, Stephen Harper, and Tim Hudak had transformed the ideals of conservatism (which were terrifying to begin with) into soulless, heartless, and relentless pursuits of wearing terrifying sweater vests, cuddling with defenseless kittens, lowering people’s wages, and sampling crack cocaine whilst in a drunken stupor.

Past the Halfway Mark and Feeling Fine

I received the unexpected gift of free wi-fi at the hotel, and the additional unexpected gift of some time to write today. I am at 26,792 words, and just might try to get a few hundred more in tonight, since tomorrow will be a travel day and busy, busy busy getting ready for school and work.
There is actually a fairly complex plot at play (who knew?) so I haven't even been able to get back to the surfers. And my characters are STILL in the Boo(!)-Bie Mansion as I went on an extended 2 day writing spree of a conversation that had taken place between Jake and Annie a year ago. It is important to the plot though, and was easy to write because I basically just made Jake go on an 8 page rant. Lots and lots and lots of inaccuracies in what I'm writing, but, really, who cares?
Here is Jake's part in the storyline:

Annie had met Jake about a year before they crossed paths again in Las Vegas. He had contacted her about being interviewed for a documentary he was making for ESPN’s series 30 for 30. The series (which was actually into its second volume) was a set of 30 sports documentaries that had been made for the purposes of chronicling stories from throughout ESPN’s 30 year history, and featured stories that had shaped the sporting landscape, but were little known, or had received a great deal of attention at one time, only to be forgotten. They had decided to make one about Tom. It was called ‘The Best That Never Was.’ All it took for Annie to say no was to hear the title. She said no immediately, and almost slammed the door in Jake’s face, but there was a kindness in his eyes and a softness in his voice when he said “Wait… hear me out.”

And here is an excerpt from his rant:

“Look at what has happened in Ontario, where the OMHA has removed hitting at the PeeWee level, and removed it altogether from House Leagues. People lost their everloving shit.” Annie nodded, as much as she had tried to avoid the backlash, for fear of flying into a rage she could never recover from, you would have had to have been a drunk baby to avoid the veritable flood of crazies who came out of the woodwork to loudly vent against the move on behalf of the OMHA to ‘pussify’ hockey. It had been profoundly, profoundly disturbing.
“That is removing hitting from rep stream hockey for 10 and 11 year old boys. Adult men and women everywhere, up in arms, because we are no longer allowing children to hit other children. Sick, sick people,” Jake continued, shaking his head in disgust. In fact, if Annie had been pressed to describe Jake’s facial expression, she would have said that he looked as though a chipmunk had just farted in his face. She didn’t know it, but she had a similar expression on her face. “Now we are talking about rep stream, at the Pee Wee level. And even in rep, even in the AAA stream, we are talking about an extremely small percentage that will ever play hockey beyond their junior careers, and NHL? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. We are talking about a minute, minute percentage of kids that even have a hope in Hell of playing in the NHL. Fewer than 0.001% of kids will ever make it to the NHL, but yeah, let’s just have 10 year old boys knock the piss out of each other in the meantime, almost certainly experiencing at least minor brain damage… yeah let’s go ahead and do that. Just. In. Case.”
None of this was news to Annie. She was a sport sociology teacher for Christ’s sweet sake (to quote the inimitable Jake Dempsey), she had gone on similar rants many, many times to students, colleagues, managers, people in line at the supermarket, and just generally anyone foolish enough to get within shouting range, but Jake was a compelling speaker, and she respected his passion for the topic, so she remained silent, and let him continue.

23,583 Words on Day 14

Hi everyone,
I woke up early this morning so that I could make some coffee, sit and get caught up on the blogs, and write a few hundred words before starting work. Wow, what a great collection of novels we have going... I love reading all of your excerpts so much. There is a lot going on in my novel... and later today I will post another excerpt before I leave to go to Lindsay for a hockey tournament. I will be away from Internet and so will be absent from the blogs but I will get caught up at some point when I get back.
I think my biggest struggle this year is writing AND keeping up with blogging. It seems like all I have time for is keeping up, and anything on top of that is a bit out of reach. Anyway, I'm doing my best.
This morning I thought I would post a couple of short excerpts showing the ways that I have been inspired by YOU. Indigo, this first excerpt has a bit of your novel in it, but I promise you more is coming. I love Stella as a character as you know, and have already decided who she is in my book but I am just not there, yet. I promise you all will love it when you see her come into this story.

First... Heather (and Indigo):
“Don’t go to the Karaoke Cabana,” Jackie said seriously, stressing each word to convey the seriousness of his message. “You will just end up wasting your time.” Annie raised her eyebrows. Had he overheard them talking? He had been nowhere to be seen at the time, but she supposed he must have. Otherwise, how could he possibly know their plan? She briefly considered that Jackie might be one of those karaoke primadonna types, and he was just keeping them away so that he could do the entire Glee oeuvre by himself. But of course that was preposterous. Everyone knows that you can’t do the duets alone.
“Start at the Boo(!)-Bie Mansion. You’ll find some answers there,” he finished, holding Annie’s gaze with his electric blue eyes.
Annie nodded slowly and followed Ryan to the door. It was hard to believe but only an hour had passed since she and Ryan had left the airport. Time seemed to have warped somehow, she felt as though she and Ryan had been in Jackie’s Place forever. She bade Jackie goodbye as Ryan opened the door, activating a bell that rang with strange nostalgia. Annie left, heading out into the darkening Nevada sky, and she felt certain that she would be hearing from Jackie again.

This turned out to be more immediately prophetic than she realized, as Jackie leaned out the door and screamed “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” as they departed. Annie wasn’t sure if this was an ode to ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody from the Harry Potter series, or if it was advice intended just for them. She decided it didn’t much matter. It was sound advice either way. If there was one person who knew something about survival, it was ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody. She chose not to consider what happened to him in the final installation of the series, but don’t we all. Don’t. We. All.

Second.... Katie- who else would I copy a description of Boo(!)-Bie Mansion from? I added in the Freddy Kreuger stripper you had a photo of:

There was also a man who she supposed was supposed to be dressed as Freddy Kreuger, but he actually looked like neither Freddy Kreuger, nor a stripper. He was identifiable as Freddy Kreuger only by his (plastic) bladed finger glove and his striped shirt. He was recognizable as a stripper only by the fact that he was dancing whilst holding onto a pole. The mask he was wearing was of such poor quality that rather than resembling the iconic monster that haunted his victims’ dreams, he looked more like a failed stripper in the late stages of syphilis. She had to admit that there was a good chance that he would be haunting her dreams for the foreseeable future. Finally, there was a Frankenstein stripper, who was oddly doing a robotic shimmy accompanied by the Charleston. To say that it was uncomfortable would be insufficient. It was an extremely sexy nightmare.

Finally, in addition to Jackie and Gordon, I had a character from my novel last year make an appearance! And, it turns out, this character will have quite a large role in this year's effort.

This excerpt is about one of the three clues that Ryan found when he searched Tom's hotel room:

“Wait a minute,” she said, digging through her purse. It took her only a few moments to find what she was looking for. She laid it on the table. It was a perfect match to the business card already there, albeit in much better shape. Ryan looked down, saw what she had laid there, and then pulled out his wallet, searched through it, and pulled out a third, identical card. He laid it next to the others. Written on each of the three cards was a name:
Jake Dempsey, Esq.
Journalist, Documentarian, and All Around Good Guy

Day 12, and Finally Something is Happening

Hi everyone... I have reached almost 21,000 words, and I finally got my characters out of Jackie's Diner... only to send them on to the Boo(!)-Bie Mansion. They found a matchbox from the Boo(!)-Bie Mansion among Tom's things left behind at the hotel and have decided that it might be a clue. Once there, they meet a familiar character...

“No, I’m afraid you misunderstand me. I am a vampyre, not a vampire. Vampires are for Hallowe’en and third rate horror films. Vampyre is a noble tradition celebrating the state of being undead, which is to say becoming animal. I covered this extensively in chapters 15 through 23 of my doctoral dissertation,” he said, pronouncing doc-TOR-al in a hopelessly pretentious manner that rubbed Annie the wrong way. “Surely you have read it?” he asked, his eyebrows raised, a look of desperate hope on his face. “If not, I would be pleased to provide you with a copy, not that I have many left, you understand they are quite in demand,” he said this last with a chuckle, and for the first time in the conversation Annie felt that the vampire had done something appropriate. If she were less panicked and desperate, she, too would have laughed at the suggestion that his seemingly meaningless waste of paper called a dissertation was in high demand.
“I can see from the unhinged expression on your face that you are not familiar with my work. Pity,” he said, looking haughty once again.
“Right, well excuse me sir, but can you please answer the question… were you the manager on duty last night?” Ryan asked, intervening before Annie could lose her temper. It was indeed a very near thing.
“As I said, in a manner of speaking, but you see I am not really a manager at all,” Gordon said, with another high-pitched giggle. Annie looked at him threateningly. He continued. “I am actually the owner of the chain of Boo(!)-Bie Mansions.” Mansions, he pronounced man-see-ons. Jesus, Annie thought, who the hell was this guy?
Gordon continued, unphased. “Normally I run the original Boo(!)-Bie Mansion, located in the heart of Blackwood, a much maligned farming community located in Southwestern Ontario.” Annie and Ryan experienced a flash of joy of the sort that one experiences when one runs into a fellow Canadian whilst traveling abroad. Ryan couldn’t contain himself.
“No way!” he exclaimed. “When I was in Junior we played there all the time! The Blackwood Vultures, right? Am I right?” he asked. Gordon brightened.
“Yes, of course. The Blackwood Vultures. When the team wins the fans throw road kill onto the ice. It is a most barbaric custom, and yet quite in keeping with what I described in my dissertation.”
“I’m sure,” Annie said, clearing her throat and elbowing Ryan in the ribs. He had seemed to be lost in a reverie, perhaps remembering the bliss of having a dead skunk thrown at you after suffering the indignity of a loss. “In any case, were you in charge last night. In charge of this facility, as opposed to one elsewhere?” she asked, trying to be as precise as she could to avoid further intentional misunderstanding. It was like doing her goddamn Master’s thesis all over again.
“No, I leave the management of this establishment to my regional manager. As you can see, his management style is quite effective.” Gordon said, indicating a man to his left. Annie had noticed him earlier, while they had been waiting for Gordon to appear. His ‘management style’ appeared to be nothing more than placing his hands on his hips and circulating throughout the bar, randomly lifting items up off the table or bar top and asking ‘who’s is this?’ while scowling. He rarely waited for an answer to his query but moved on to the next item. Patrons (the few that were there) appeared to be mystified by the behaviour. The staff and ‘talent’ merely rolled their eyes, breaking from their creepy roles to demonstrate the contempt they felt towards such useless and clearly counterproductive inquiries. The manager was unphased by this show of contempt, but merely continued on his way. Every so often he would retreat to his office, presumably to burn copies of Hung Season One on dvd, or he would shuffle off to the local grocery mart to pick up supplies, one item per trip. It was a grossly inefficient use of his time, but was in keeping with what Annie knew about management techniques.
“Yes… I can see that,” Annie said. “So, should we be talking to your regional manager then?” Trying to get information out of the Gordon the Vampyre was extremely frustrating. Jesus, Annie thought, if I wanted to have my every request met with such obstinate resistance I could have just gone home to my job as a college teacher. Or I could have just stayed in any one of my last 10 relationships, for that matter.
Much to Annie’s chagrin, Gordon had begun chuckling in that superior manner she had come to know so well in the 2 minutes or so that she had known him. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that. His management style is incredibly effective, but his powers of observation leave much to be desired. However, if you are looking for information, you have come to the right place. I am a trained paranormal investigator, you know.” He finished, a propos of nothing. It should be noted that when he said investigator, he pronounced it investiga-TOR, with the emphasis on the final syllable."

Finally, if Indigo gets to keep posting cute pictures of pigs, here's a cute picture of a German Shepherd, who may or may not hang around the Boo(!)-Bie Mansion:


Which leads to other cute dog pictures:

November 11th... the day I triumphed over adversity

Today I came as close as I have ever come to quitting. I literally came within a hair's breadth of completely throwing in the towel. But I didn't. Week 2 sucks big time... I hope to hear some more from the rest of you novelers on how you're doing. Today it really became clear to me how completely insane it is to try and write a novel in 30 days- true lunacy. I think because I had the terrible idea of creating a to-do list of all the things I have to do at work this week. Bad idea. But here we are.
My inspiration came today when I decided that I would write myself a pep talk, by writing Annie a pep talk. And it worked. This is a long excerpt because this excerpt is what got me through my darkest noveling day, yet. I'm pretty proud of it, not because I think it's any good, but because I wrote it. I stuck with it, and today I got in just over 2,000 words. A triumph.

Interlude: On Annie’s Determination
When Annie was younger, she was a runner. As an adult she rarely had the time or the energy for it, but she returned to it whenever she was going through tough times. She had often thought that there was much to learn about life from running. Much to learn about determination, about grit, and about how to make it through anything. These lessons she had learned young, and she came back to them time and time again.
There was a hill, a rather large hill near the house where Annie and Tom had lived as teenagers. Annie had loved running that hill. It was long, and it was hard, and by the time she reached the top her lungs burned and her legs burned and her heart raced and she felt like collapsing, but every time she reached it (which was often), she felt like she had accomplished something. And the hard won accomplishments are the ones that matter the most, aren’t they? I think so. And Tom thought so. He wasn’t the only competitive one in the family.
There were a series of wooden telephone poles running along the side of the road, and Annie had developed the habit at some point of touching each post as she passed it. She wasn’t sure when or how it started, but once it did, it became a ritual. If she couldn’t remember when or how it started, she certainly understood why. She understood that when your legs trembled and you were gasping for air, when you felt weak and felt like giving up, sometimes you just needed to count on something, something tangible to keep you going. She touched each post, and each post was real, made of wood and covered with the dust of years and the handprints of one young woman struggling through sweat and tears, and it was one more marker on her journey. She took strength from that, from recognizing the marker, because there were a finite number of them, each one passed meant fewer to go. Annie learned from running that as hard as it is, and as endless as it might seem, each hill, each mountain has its apex. You can only go up for so long before you start to come down the other side.
She had returned to this metaphor many times in her life… when she faced writing her thesis, which had been a seemingly endless exercise in histrionic futility, when she faced a mountain of student papers, each more depressing and soul-sucking than the last, but none more clearly than when Tom was injured. She ran often in those days, despite the February chill. She craved the cold weather, would run during the fiercest storm, because the frigid air and pounding wind was the only thing that could even momentarily drive away the image of Tom, unconscious and bleeding and crumpled on the ice. She didn’t mind the numbness or the stinging of her exposed skin, because that was how she felt on the inside.
That first night, every hour that Tom lived was another small victory, another post she could reach out and touch with her hand, leaving a mark telling the world that once Annie Donovan was here. Annie Donovan was here and she didn’t give up, she kept fighting, she kept going. And she believed in Tom with that same iron determination, believed that if she willed it, if she believed it fiercely enough that he would get better. And for a while, he did.
It was a strange comfort perhaps, but it worked for Annie. It helped her to know that there were a finite number of emergencies that Tom would face. That the apex of the hill had to come eventually. And once it did, everything would change. The way down the hill was completely different. Annie didn’t even touch the posts on the way down, because she didn’t need to. She didn’t need to be reminded that there were marking posts, because she no longer needed to mark time. The way down the hill felt like winning. Sometimes it felt like flying.
This she had found to be true in every case, except for Tom’s. It was true when she had a pile of papers so terrible she sometimes almost quit teaching. It was true when she had another screaming fight with another man who never measured up to what she wanted, and who wanted more from her than she was willing to give. It was true when she lay awake for yet another sleepless night, afraid to face the nightmares that plagued her. Every hour, every test, every fight. Finite. Each one counted was one less that she would have to endure. But Tom’s hill went up, and up, and up, seemingly forever.
Annie’s determination was the stuff of legend. She was tenacious, and dogged, and she never, ever gave up. When she was tired, and felt weak, and didn’t know if she could go on, she thought of the posts, thought of each one marking another stop on the way to the top. The top would always come, and so she could always keep going. Annie was a fighter, and she never, ever gave up. So how was it that she gave up on Tom?
Annie had spent a great deal of time NOT thinking about that, but the time for that had come and gone. She wondered, and then she thought about the posts. She thought about the blood, and the sweat and the tears that she had left on each one of those posts over the years. Maybe she hadn’t given up after all. Maybe she had just stopped to catch her breath, the way runners build walking breaks into a long run, to pause, to catch your breath, to reset. One minute to catch your breath, to find your strength, to find a way to keep going. The minutes like the miles, like the posts, marking time. Maybe Annie had taken a walking break, and walking had felt so very fine that she had kept doing it. She had walked for so long and so far that she forgot that she was supposed to be running. She had allowed herself to forget, and she had gotten lost.
But she was here now, wasn’t she? That was something. She was here now, and though she was tired, hungover, heartbroken and bone weary, her legs were strong, and they were ready to run. She would run and by God she would reach the top, the top so close she could feel it only a breath away. Each of these obstacles were nothing more than posts marking the way, she would touch each one with her hand, give it its due, and move on. She would move on, and she would reach the top. She, Tom, and Ryan would reach it together. Together again, the way they had been when they had started out. Whatever lay between them, whatever pain, and anger, and disappointment they had shared, she knew that there was no one she would rather have at her side as she reached that apex, no one she would rather share that glorious achievement of knowing you were halfway, better than halfway there, because the hardest part was behind you, and the time for rest ahead.
She was at that point of the game where you dug in, dropped your shoulder, and powered your way through. She could do it, WOULD do it, had to do it. So that’s what she did.

13,383...Noveling is Not for the Faint of Heart

Hi everyone and I apologize for my absence from the blogs. This week it has taken every single moment that I have just to stay caught up with my own writing. I hope to get caught up with your blogs tomorrow! I had an unexpected couple of days spent at the hospital (long story, but everyone seems to be okay), and work is busier than I am comfortable with. More than once this week I have thought about quitting but am happy to say I am still on pace to finish. Inspiration has been difficult to find, I can't move the storyline along (my characters are still sitting in Jackie's Diner), but I am very proud that I am still in the game.
Today I resorted to copying and pasting from Jackie's blog from last year, I think you'll agree it led to some exquisite results.

First... some insight into what is happening in the story:

“Alright, enough bullshit, Tom. Talk. What the hell is going on?” Tom opened his mouth, perhaps to explain, perhaps to evade the question yet again. Ryan would never know. Because at that moment, three men that Ryan had previously not noticed descended upon them. It was hard to see how he hadn’t noticed them before, they were rather distinctive looking. But then again, just about anything goes in the city of Las Vegas, and there were all types to be found on the strip. All three had wavy long hair past their shoulders, a style that had been popular for a period of time in the 70s, and experienced a brief resurgence in the early 90s. Two of the men had their hair half pulled back, a style that had never come in, let alone go out. They were wearing loud shirts and Bermuda shorts, and one or more of them were wearing equally loud vests over their graphic (possibly tie-dyed) tees.

“That’s a rather vague description, don’t you think?” Annie asked. Ryan thought the criticism was rather unfair.
“Well, I only saw them for a second before I was knocked unconscious.” He explained, somewhat huffily.
“You were knocked unconscious?” she asked, alarm creeping into her voice.
“Well, not really. But they definitely shoved me out of the way.” He said. Annie looked at Ryan, who easily stood 6’2” and had to weigh in over 200 lbs. Her look of skepticism needed no words.
“Look, there were 3 of them and I was surprised, okay?” he said, a note of petulance creeping into his voice. “Anyway… moving on. They didn’t say much, but when they did, they referred to each other as ‘dude!’ and kept saying ‘no way!’ I think they were surfers.” Ryan finished.
“What the hell are three surfers doing in the middle of a desert?” Annie asked.
“Well, as it turns out, they were kidnapping your brother.”

And then....


“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. Annie doubted that very much, but wasn’t in the mood to argue. “I thought the same thing at first.” Ryan went on to explain that although Tom’s behaviour had certainly been alarming leading up to the surfers’ approach, he had assumed, as Annie had, that Tom knew the surfers. At that point, Ryan felt more annoyed than worried. He had begun the trek back to Jackie’s Place, cursing himself for getting caught up in Tom’s bullshit. Again. This time had seemed different though, somehow.
“And I was right. Annie, Tom’s in real trouble this time.”
Right at that moment, Jackie returned with their food offerings. He smiled with grim cheer as he set down two steaming bowls of God only knew what.
“What is it?” Annie asked, afraid and yet excited to hear the answer.
“I present you with the ‘Razmatazz Local Food Organic Special’,” Jackie proclaimed, proudly.
“What the fuck, Jackie? This looks like shit.” Ryan said charmingly.
Jackie smiled shyly and explained.
“I have recently become enthralled with the local food movement as a solution to environmental degradation and am gradually changing over the entire menu to include dishes made from ingredients that were all harvested from within a 10-block radius.” Annie nodded approvingly. She was familiar with the local food movement, and approved heartily. Ryan was somewhat less enthusiastic, however. While he recognized that this definitely cut down on the environmental harm of transporting food, it did somewhat limit the cuisine. Also, he had seen firsthand the 10 block square radius of Jackie’s Place, and felt it was likely that they were about to be exposed to several communicable diseases. And he was right. As both Ryan and Annie were about to discover, the Razmatazz Local Food Organic Special consisted of a stew of water, dirt and leaves with a smack of ham. Basil, rosemary and thyme, grown in the Jackie’s Place window box, provided the spices. The source of communicable diseases was anybody’s guess.
They both thanked Jackie, watching as he retreated from the table into the kitchen, an extra skip in his step. Nothing made Jackie happier than spreading the local food movement message, except perhaps bedazzling. But that was another story for another time.
“Don’t eat that,” Ryan said. Annie didn’t need to be told twice, but she took a large swig from her cold, grimy coffee. It gave her the courage she needed for what was to come.

9,471 Words... And Still Nothing is Happening

Well, Annie and Ryan are still at Jackie's Place and I continue to write the back story. So whatever I post today will have negligible effect on moving the story forward. My first excerpt... once again, Jackie's specialty, the coffee, has made its way into my story.

Moments before, the thought of a cup of coffee had seemed like the most wonderful, terrible idea she had ever heard. But now, as she sat in the decrepit diner attached to Jackie’s Place and also called Jackie’s Place, she had decided it was only terrible. As she looked down at the cup of black coffee that rolled thickly around in the crud-encrusted mug, she thought she might never stop throwing up if she put that in her stomach. The oily sheen on the top was highly suspect, but she noticed that oddly enough, Ryan was smiling at her from across the table. It was a grin she had always found infectious, full of a lopsided sort of mischief but also full of goodwill.
“I don’t think I can drink this,” Annie said.
“The first sip really sets you back,” he said, “but then it’s okay. It gets better.”
A more resounding endorsement for a cup of coffee she had never heard, and so, reluctantly, she took a sip. It did indeed set her back. She was convinced that the oily black sludge contained a rather heavy-handed jigger of rum, but she caught Ryan’s meaning. She quickly took another sip and realized he had been bang on in his assessment. She felt better. A lot better. She squinted her eyes and nodded at Ryan.
“It’s Jackie’s specialty,” he said by way of an explanation.

With the oily rum jiggered coffee rolling around unpleasantly in her stomach, she was finally ready to ask the question that she had been too afraid to ask since he had shown up unexpectedly at the Las Vegas airport.
“How bad is it?” she asked, taking another sip for good measure. The smile on Ryan’s face disappeared quickly, like a light going off. It was hard to even imagine it had been there only a moment before. He sighed deeply.
“Bad.”


I also finally wrote about Tom's injury. Here is more foreshadowing leading up to it:

Annie was living with Tom by then, and attended every single game, even the travel ones. She was something of a team little sister, a position she both loved and despised. She was comfortable among Tom and his teammates, in a way she would never be comfortable with men again in her life, but she didn’t know that then. When you’re young it seems like the good times will go on forever, and 16 year old Annie had much to learn about life, about love, about dreams, and about what it means to live in the dark emptiness that follows when a dream is shattered.
Is it a sad story? Yes, it is. It is tragic, but it isn’t terribly original. Many people lose their dreams as they grow. For many it’s the sad state of achieving adulthood. Rather than realizing all that is possible, you realize that life is a series of narrowing possibilities, a hallway filled with closed doors, the years taking rather than giving. Many never get to dream as big as Tom Donovan did, and perhaps that is a blessing, because when the mighty fall, the ground shakes with their thunder.

7,248 Words and Jackie's Place!!

I vaguely promised myself that I would make an effort to avoid writing the same novel again this year as I have written every other year. At the same time, I really didn't care if I did... so when I had to take my characters to a motel, I instantly knew what motel it would be, and who the grumpy proprietor would be.
Here are a couple of excerpts from Annie and Ryan, current day, at Jackie's Place:

The hotel, or to be more accurate, she supposed it would be more aptly described as a motel, was called ‘Jackie’s Place’, or so she concluded from the flashing neon sign above the motel office. Underneath the blinking red and blue lights of the sign was a vacancy sign, the ‘NO’ in front of the word ‘vacancy’ dubiously lit. The place looked completely deserted, with only a couple of cars (that had seen better days) littering the otherwise empty parking lot. Jackie’s Place was in a state of disrepair, but unlike some of the really seedy joints the Elmira Jackals had frequented over the years, it did not appear to be on the verge of collapse. At least not in the structural sense. It did appear to be on the verge of perhaps complete economic collapse. Or, if one wanted to wax philosophical, which Annie clearly didn’t, the verge of moral collapse.
As they walked past the office, Annie noticed what she took to be the proprietor glaring at them fiercely through the window. His blonde hair was spiked just so, and his blue eyes blazed maniacally. To Annie he looked unhinged, but Ryan merely cast a bored wave in his direction. Annie saw the blonde man withdraw his hand from behind him where he had been reaching for the waistband of his DILF brand faded jeans. It looked like he had been reaching for a gun. She noticed a sign, handwritten on a piece of lined paper and taped to the inside of the window, reading ‘This Ain’t The Hilton’. She wondered if she had ever read a more obvious statement, then considered her career as a college teacher, and decided she had seen worse. She nodded at the proprietor (Jackie, perhaps?), and he squinted his eyes and nodded at her in an overly familiar fashion. She decided immediately that she liked him.

and:

Annie had guessed (correctly) that Ryan and Tom were in town to play the local ECHL team, the Las Vegas Wranglers. She didn’t see any sign of any of the other players, but she guessed (correctly) that if anyone saw Ryan Brady bringing a woman into his room, no one (the crazed proprietor aside) would find anything suspicious about that. There was a time when she knew all of the Elmira Jackals, but the roster changed frequently, and she hadn’t been to a game in some time. She doubted anyone here would recognize her as Tom’s sister. This bothered her more than she was willing to admit, at least to Ryan. She didn’t want to be mistaken for one of the many women he spent his free time with.
Not that she had anything against those women… her education in sports sociology had taught her not to blame the victims of patriarchy, but rather to blame a system of inequality that perpetuates competition among women for male attention, particularly males at the top of the hegemonic masculinity food chain. Or, as Ryan might have said in fewer and more easily digestible words, ‘don’t hate the player, hate the game.” Truth be told, if given the choice between those two alternatives, she hated them both, just a little.

Ryan opened the door to his room, and she saw that the maid service, such as it was, had been through. That is to say, it looked as though a Class 4 Hurricane had just missed the room but perhaps devastated a trailer park nearby. She stepped into the room, sticking to the edges and staying close to the door, already planning to flee if he came too close. She had come so far from the lost little girl who had once believed in love, and she had no intention of returning to that place. Not this day, and not with this man. She tried not to look around too much; there is something strangely intimate about stepping into someone’s hotel room, but she couldn’t help but notice the horrid and troubling décor of the room. She assumed that the horrid wreath made out of chili peppers hanging above the papier mache headboard was Jackie’s idea of hotel room art. She also had to believe that the hook crocheted rug adorning the wall was Jackie’s as well. It portrayed a disembodied hand clutching a hand gun, with the words “I don’t dial 911” eerily and yet cheerfully crocheted in elegant script along the side. It was a morbid and troubling message for any locale, but for a broken down hotel room on the edge of the Las Vegas slums, it seemed particularly threatening. The overall effect was pleasing.

5,572 Words... Introducing Some Back Story, and a Villain

I keep having such a tough time figuring out what excerpt to post... they all seem too long, or too short, or too poorly written, or too unimportant. So this is a longish excerpt... sorry about that, I just couldn't figure out what part to exclude. This section develops the character of Ryan Brady a bit further, and shows his relationship to Tom Donovan, Annie's brother. As well it introduced a villain! I am using the term 'a' villain rather than 'the' villain because, obviously I have no idea what is actually going to happen in this story. I have no plot, but it's no problem!! I have a bid of a padded word count at the moment and I AM LOVING IT. The writing this weekend came pretty easily, surprisingly, but I am really enjoying writing about these characters. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and thanks for taking the time to read and comment... I LOVE THE COMMENTS. I tried to find a funny picture to post, but when I tried a google search of 'hockey players drunk' shit got way too real. And oh yeah, Bone Breaking Punker, I wanted to remind you I AM in my late thirties now.

When you got closer, you began to see that the sparkle was a mirage, it dissipated like heat shimmers on the highway on a hot July day. But there was always something more on the horizon. Always another dream to chase. Until there wasn’t. At 40, in what surely had to be the final year of his hockey career, having played his whole life, he had long since entered the phase of his career where he was giving, and giving, and giving, and all hockey did was take. His face was a roadmap of all the hits he’d taken over the long years of enforcing an antiquated and brutal but somehow dignified code of honour. His back hurt most days and his knees hurt every day. Sometimes he had a ringing in his ears for no reason at all, and he knew that wasn’t good, but when you play in the league of never weres and never will bes, there’s no team doctor, and quite frankly, my dear, nobody gives a damn.
Despite all of this, and after all of this time, he still loved the game. And even though he had long since given up hope for himself of a life beyond the East Coast Hockey League, he was blessed to always play with a set of fresh recruits, with lots of hope to go around. He hoped for them, even though in his long experience, the ECHL was the last stop for NHL hopefuls before the game finally took everything it could from them, including their hope.
Tom Donovan, surely one of the reasons why Ryan had stayed in the game as long as he had, had paid his price early on, and had never stopped paying.
Ryan met Tom when he was 17, Tom only 16, but talented enough to earn a starting position for the Orillia Terriers, a Junior A organization with players ranging in age from 16-21. Ryan was one of very few local boys, living at home with his family, while many of the players on the team were billeted to live with local families who took in hockey players and acted as their surrogate families for as long as they were on the team. Ryan and Tom played on the same line, Tom supplying the talent and Ryan supplying the grit. The word is overused now, but there is no other to describe Tom in those days… he was a phenom. He had joined organized hockey later than most, having learned the game playing pickup hockey at a local outdoor rink. For this reason, he was not constricted by the ‘rules’ of how to play position, and his creativity was matched only by his ability to execute whatever crazy plan popped into his head. If the puck ended up on his stick, which it generally did, it almost always ended up in the opponent’s net.
Ryan’s role on the ice, and as it often happens, off the ice, was to protect Tom. Tom was a big kid, but he hadn’t fully grown into his arms and legs. He was fast, and he was strong, but he was puck focused and play focused and tended to not pay much attention to the grittier side of the game. He wasn’t watching for people looking to take his head off, because he didn’t really understand why anyone would want to. Take the puck, sure he could understand that, and quite frankly good luck to anyone who tried that, but he hadn’t understood that there were those whose talent had taken them as far as it was going to, and their role became to stop the talent in others, however they could.
Tom also hadn’t understood players like Alexandre Tremblay, players who might have ended up in prison if they hadn’t ended up with a hockey stick in their hands. There were people who played hockey because in hockey you were allowed to hurt people. In fact, people loved you for it. But even among this set, Alex Tremblay stood out. He loved to hurt people, but he was smart. And he was good. Talented enough to go all the way, which he eventually did, leaving in his wake a trail of broken and bloodied players who might have amounted to more if they hadn’t crossed his path. Ryan, who didn’t believe that a life without regret was possible (or even desirable), also didn’t believe that things happened for a reason. Sometimes, shit just happened, and if you were unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, with a person like Alex Tremblay, then shit was especially likely to happen. The same was true of Alex’s entire career, which had ended a couple of years ago. No one can play forever, and for players like Alex, this was especially true. No matter how high you rise, there is always a price to pay; the game will always take its due.

3,642 Words and Introducing Ryan Brady

Writing went pretty well today... I attacked it in about 3 separate sessions. I am following my usual pattern of slow and steady, with no days off. I continue to enjoy writing about that slimeball, Drew MacMillan, who really isn't intended to be a character in this book. In fact, Annie is about to take her leave of Drew, and Vegas, but I have a feeling Drew might come back into this story somewhere... that usually happens with characters that I like.

Here is an excerpt of Annie clearing customs and arriving in the airport lounge to await her flight:

Annie entered the waiting lounge, the sweet feeling of triumph buoying her heart, when she was confronted by a most troubling sight. Not only were most of the seats in the lounge spoken for, but leaning up against the wall was her nemesis and colleague, the ubiquitous Drew MacMillan. He looked somewhat rumpled, as though he had slept little, but seemed to be keeping things together with significantly more aplomb than Annie, who had sweated away all of the makeup she had carelessly splashed on her face in an effort to resemble an adult human. She could tell he had already seen her because he was ignoring her completely, and she felt she had no option but to awkwardly lurk about near him until he acted as though he had just noticed her. It was a dance she was all too familiar with, having worked with Drew for a number of years.
A memory from the night before came back to her just then, and she wondered if perhaps Drew were ignoring her for some reason beside the usual arrogant and maniacal need for control over all social encounters that characterized business teachers in general. She recalled that late in the dinner, after several refills of her glass of wine, Annie had loudly proclaimed to her table mates that if they really wanted a good laugh they should check out Drew’s profile on ratemyprofessor.com. Annie was so overcome with mirth at the thought of the lambasting Drew had taken at the hands of 29 students over the course of 6 years that she didn’t notice the murmur of discomfort that passed through the group. While every person who had spent any amount of time with Drew over the last couple of days had to admit that he was a complete ass, nothing makes teachers more uncomfortable than the thought of students freely and without constraint posting ratings of their performance in a public forum.

And here is a new character, Ryan Brady, who IS intended to be a major character in this novel:

She had little time to consider that possibility however, because just as Drew knit his dark brows together in a predictable look of feigned disinterested surprise, a tall, rather burly man stepped in between them, grasping Annie’s arm urgently. At first she had the alarming thought that she was being removed by customs officials for a lengthy and humiliating body cavity search, but then realized with dismay that she recognized the man. And her stomach, so recently abused and still demonstrating its outrage, sank clear to her feet. If there was anyone more unwelcome than Drew MacMillan, it was a suspicious looking customs agent. After that, there was only one person she really didn’t want to see. Ryan.
The years had not been kind to Ryan, as they rarely are for any long time hockey player. The brutality of the sport had left its mark: the scar visible in his left eyebrow, the grey threading its way through his sandy hair, and the crooked nose, broken so many times he had likely lost count. But more than that, it was visible in the grim set of his features, a man always on his guard and always ready to give, or take, the next hit.
His sudden appearance was so unexpected that she was momentarily disoriented, unable to respond other than to glance from the large hand gripping her bicep up into his face. Ryan Brady. Her brother’s best friend and long-time team mate, line mate, roommate. She didn’t care to characterize all of the things he had been to her. Some things just need to be left alone. She had learned as a child not to pick scabs, and she had learned as a young woman that some wounds cut deep enough to never heal. Some change you forever.

Sorry folks, no funny pictures... I have to post this and get the kiddies tucked into bed. Happy writing everyone!

Viva Las Vegas

I introduce you to Annie Donovan, my main character this year. I decided to start Annie off in Las Vegas, where she is traveling home from a conference put on by a textbook publisher (sound familiar)? Yes, this is the trip I went on last year, and Annie is thinking many of the same thoughts I had last year. She has just emerged from customs, but here are some of her thoughts on her trip:

Las Vegas, how she hated the tackiness of it, the mass worship at the altar of overindulgence, all tastelessly lit with neon and desperation. It started out innocently enough… an offer to attend a weekend educational workshop in Las Vegas, expenses covered by the company hosting the workshop. Try as she might, she couldn’t find the attached strings. She should have learned by now there are always strings… there’s no such thing as a free lunch when dealing with pharmaceutical companies or textbook publishers. They always want something sinister.

She knew as soon as she arrived that it was a mistake. Though the hotel was luxurious, and the warm desert Nevada heat a welcome change from the grey, depressing monotony of November in Ontario, she felt dirty. She felt slimy for accepting a trip paid for on the backs on starving, destitute students, barely eking out an existence on tuna surprise and indignation. The revulsion of the situation was made even more obvious to her when she bumped into a colleague at the Las Vegas airport; none other than her nemesis, Drew MacMillan.

Many people (in Las Vegas and otherwise) assumed that Annie’s distaste for her colleague must have been the result of a love affair gone awry. She wasn’t sure why they assumed this, but nothing could be further from the truth. Their distaste for each other sprang purely from the fact that one was a Liberal Arts faculty member, active in the union, and the other was a business faculty, disdainful toward the union (and all other good people of the world) and working as Lucifer’s right hand (as far as Annie was concerned). The fact that a lowlife, suck-up, freeloader like Drew MacMillan was sucking at the teat of this particular publisher event made her feel sick, not to mention the fact that she was going to have to listen to him blow off for a full two days about his extensive (nonexistent as far as she was concerned) knowledge of course design.

It went as bad, or worse than she could have possibly imagined, and after 2 full 9 hour days of listening to said blowhard, Annie was ready for the publisher sponsored dinner event and the free flowing drinks that would surely accompany such an event. She would just have to be sure that in her drunken state she didn’t do anything stupid, like agree to use the company’s textbook.

Annie THINKS the worst is behind her, but she is about to be met at the airport by someone from her past, who is going to try to get her to NOT board the plane home.