Reactionary

Well, it’s November. You know what that means. I have to work Thanksgiving, the bad shift. I’ll be in my condo a year. And it’s NaNoWriMo, that nerve-wracking, life-altering odyssey to write a book in a month. Writing a good one is optional. Writing a bad one is nearly unavoidable. Last year, I wrote 70,000 words of a novel mostly built around work and the people who thrive there. It was ridiculously funny for those who know the secret handshakes and probably indecipherable for everyone else. There is one good scene. The rest is a mess and it was never finished.

This year, I’m changing it up and writing my first page-turner. It’s virtual pages may never be turned by anyone, unless it’s by the breeze they leave in their wake as they run away screaming. But I have every intention of finishing it, come what may. This year, there are no house sales to cope with and hopefully everyone I know will work with me here and agree to not die.

Speaking of death, here’s the nutshell. I figure if I go public with this early, the two people who read this blog will shame me into finishing the tale, no matter how awful it is. The protagonist is a thwarted graduate student who is currently working as a TA of her undergraduate alma mater. Her estranged father dies and leaves her an inheritance to everyone’s surprise including her own. It turns out to be two items of nominal importance until a freak accident reveals one of them may hold a clue to a long forgotten secret. Armed with a half sister who hates going to school and a sometime tennis star half brother, she joins forces with two professors and a very cute Italian lawyer to get to the bottom of it. The clues are strewn throughout Europe and deep into the South American continent. As usual for all the drivel I write, there is an adorable Italian male, tons of needless dialouge, inside jokes, and great cities. There may also be a plot of some kind and maybe some characters just avoid falling wholely into a cliche though stereotypes are rampant.

In other news, SEPTA is once again on strike and I’m stuck in Old City at possibly the most annoying Starbucks in Center City to log my writing hours. They went on strike at 3AM Tuesday morning. When I woke up two hours later, I had no clue, no idea, and no other way to get to work rather than a brisk walk. Eleven dollars poorer because I had no opportunity to adapt, I wish they fire the lot and get scabs. They’re complaining about not getting paid well for a “stressful” job. You don’t know stress, wankers.  The stab in the back to the public by a surprise walkout just after the baseball game is what’s getting me the most. Dear Willie Loman, or whatever the hell your name is, Fat Union Boss, I hope your kid gets H1N1 and dies during a nursing strike.

The cool kids are on their bikes and it’s kind of nice not facing a staredown with a teetering bus careening down 200 year old streets.

November 4th, 2009 | Category: General |  Print |  Send it | Subscribe to comments | Leave a comment | Trackback URL