One Last Photo

And thus November comes to a close. With something of a whimper. It's always a letdown, an anticlimactic ending. No fanfare. Just the end of another month. And now I have another chunk of words under my belt. Will I do anything with these words? Only time will tell.... If history is any indication, the answer is a resounding no. But, you never know, right? Right.

So, thanks to all of you who followed along this month. It was great knowing you were out there, checking in, rooting me on. Big ups (as the kids say) to Scott and Erin who have always been the most vocal supporters of this effort. Thanks to my friends who pretended to be interested when I spoke entirely in word counts and Dewey trivia. Also, to Chris and Megan and every other staff member who did all the work while I sat and wrote. And to Kim, the most amusing muse who ever mused.

~aa

And we're done (twice)

Finished. Finally finished. Wrote the last word ("Decimal" -- yes, that was by design) and went to the validating thing on the Nano site and it shorted me 8 damned words. No worries -- went back and wrote something that had nothing to do with anything 45 pages ago.... And there it is.

So, hey. That's November!

Another Backlog....

Wednesday

Thursday (in Pewaukee!)

Friday (on the go!)

Saturday (totally drained!)

Wow. What a weekend. What a nutty, wacky, crazy Thanksgiving weekend. We learned alot, but we wrote absolutely nothing. Seriously. Nothing since Wednesday. We're at 48,010 words. Two days to write 1990 words. Should be no problem. Even have an idea to just spit out and make it all happen. The question is whether I do it tomorrow or Monday..... Only time will tell, my friends.....

Yeah.

Probably a good thing I'm not trying to finish it now.

The Beginning of the End

Actually, truth be told, the middle of the end. Crossed 47k today, which means (for those of you who are math-challenged) that there are less than 3,000 words to write. I think this story could be told in about 30,000 words, all said and done. The wonderful thing about the free-flow Beckett-esque style I took on is that everything gets said fifty different ways each time. I can't imagine what it must be like to read this. I'd like to think that I'll go back and rip out the 20,000 words that need to be ripped out and then rewrite the rest, but if history is any guide, it's unlikely.

However, there is a story here. Or something. It's fun to, after the fact, write the outline of what actually should have happened. Anybody who actually reads this draft (may God have mercy on your souls) will delight in random extra scenes (1500 words on on visiting the Chicago World's Fair that go nowhere?) and disconnected and unfinished bits. There are still serious issues with connection. And with many other things.

But, there was very little outright word padding this year. Nobody had a dream. Nobody listed the contents of their wallet. Nobody randomly repeated things they said before. Also, I used many more contractions than I did last year. The speech is decidedly less formal. I just hope that the Google Docs word counter is accurate....

Anyhow -- here is what will be (potentially) a couple of the last paragraphs of the story. Need to find 3,000 words worth of backfill now....

He once thought he had nothing left to lose, that there was nothing left to find, and there is nothing left to sort, and there is nothing left to organize and there is nothing left to fall apart. And yet, there still were. Even when he thought he had hid the bottom, he managed to sink a little more, to fall a little farther. That was the most tragic part of all. To think he had seen the worse, and then he would see something more. Then he would learn another thing, forget another thing, find another thing, lose another thing. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. It does. It always does.

When there's nothing left to lose, there's nothing left to do, but until then, he just keeps on struggling, just keeps on trying, keeps on clawing at the floor, keeps on clawing at the earth, feeling dirt replace the splinters in his fingernails, feeling rain replace the tears on his face. Feeling the dry air of his library replaced by the damp air of a devastated field, a field that has not been tended to in years, a field that has been ravaged by wind and by time and by the travesty that is Dui's mind, by the travesty that is.

He curls up, he curls up into himself, curls up into a ball, on the floor, no, on the ground. Dirt replaces floorboard, dirt replaces everything, dirt replaces all. He feels it, dry, crumbling, moving with him as he moves, slowly sinking into the ground, he wonders if even the worms are gone, if they have survived, if there is anything at all left to find, and when he opens his eyes, it is all still there. Or rather, it is all still not there. His eyes open, lying on his side, he blinks at his surroundings, at his black and white world, he blinks in wonder and a wide-eyed amazement, thinking Perhaps I have escaped and perhaps I have finally broken free. He stretches out his index finger, and digs a little in the soil, finds it dry, finds it yielding, finds it barren, and finds nothing else at all.

The Final Week

From out of the shadows comes me. Living in the light is Chris. Go Mondays!

I suppose this final week started yesterday, but there are seven days left. And today, we passed 45k. The final corner, the finish line just up ahead. The tie in is somewhere out there, the great big wrap up is possible. Possibly.

Not sure what I've written today, though it's over 1300 words. The good stuff was yesterday and conveniently, I forgot to post an excerpt. So, uh, as always, here are some words:

Dui smiled, stronger now. Estelle beamed down at him, ecstatic in his approval. She stood above him, Dui still slumped in the chair, but sitting slightly straighter, his will slightly stronger, his mind slightly clearer. He looked up at her, his eyes bright though ringed with red, puffy, sore, rubbed raw, but still bright, alert, crisp like the air, crisp like the breath that caught in his throat as she leaned down, as she leaned closer, as she closed her eyes and he knew that in a moment a line was about to be crossed, things were about to change, and that's when Annie came back.

The office door opened, and there she was, standing, in the doorway, outlined by the late winter late afternoon sunlight, in all her glory, with all her beauty, with all her presence. Dui jerked his head towards the door at the noise, Estelle leaned back from the imminent kiss, the charge of the looming contact still in the air but dissipating quickly, fading into ozone and crushed expectations. Dui saw Annie and could no longer see anything else, his heart immediately beating faster again, his memories of Annie flooding back, his memories of love flooding in. After all this time, after all these months, there she was, unannounced, unperturbed, smiling, there. And in his head it was like no time had passed, like nothing had come between them, like there weren't years of separation, the agony of betrayal, or ignorance, or misunderstanding, or anything between them except for the love, the partnership, the connection. And in his eyes she was all that was there. And Estelle had disappeared until she cleared her throat and Dui looked up at her, sprang to his feet, Estelle forced to jump back. She cleared out of the room, attempted to look busy, attempted to look unaffected, Dui watched her for a moment, for a brief moment, before his attention returned to Annie, only Annie.

"Hello. Miss Godfrey," he said, the formality of the words feeling strange in his throat, on his tongue. He tried again: "Annie." That was better, though strange in its own way.

Back in the Saddle (again)

The return of Ron! It's been ages since we've had our Sunday musician/Teriyaki sauce salesman.

So, as we learned in the previous blog entry (written a scant 5 minutes ago) neglect has been the buzzword of the weekend. Lack of sleep combined with lack of interest led to a serious slacking off. Good thing Assassin's Creed 2 came out last Tuesday. Haven't even cracked Left 4 Dead 2 yet....

Right now I am covered partly in champagne, partly in water, and completely in shame. No, just kidding about the shame. Kinda.

But seriously -- 2AM this morning, I just started typing, and before I knew it, I'd actually figured out an ending. A tie-in. An explanation. I know what caused Dui's apocalypse, what caused his break down. And yeah, it is all in his head. Problem is I don't know how to tie it back to the meat of the thing, and so I have this huge chunk of words that need to be at the end, need to be the end, and I'm just kinda dragging it all out to make sure I have something to write about because if I end it, it's all gonna be over.

Sitting at 43,091 words. I don't know what word 40,000 was. Or when it was. But, hey, what'cha gonna do? Hope to finish before Thursday.

A Backlog

Thursday

Friday (what I've been doing instead of writing)

Saturday

Been neglecting the blog, but then, what haven't I been? Word counts plummeting, and thank god for the incredible surplus built up early on in the month. Still can do 1000 a day and finish. The words I did write were absolutely horrible. So here are three excerpts from these three days:

Thursday:

...stream...

Friday:

...merrily...

Saturday:

...attracted...

And thus inspired...

I'm an author. My mommy told me so. Also, my travel mug says I am.

Another mellow Wednesday. A mere 1247 words written today. But no worries, we're well on track. The projected finish date keeps slipping, but as long as we write more than 912 words tomorrow, all is well. Probably be done by Tuesday. Wild.

Here's a pithy bit:

Alone, again, Decimal nowhere to be found, Dot wants to stop walking but can't. Wants to cry but can't. Wants to remember more but can't. Wants to sleep but can't. Wants to want something that he can have. But can't.

Alone, again, still walking, still, only memories of leaves rustling, a wind chime jingling in a breeze, a chill in the air, images from paintings, feelings from images, everything false, everything real, never anything realer than this memory that he is having. Everything fragmented, broken into pieces. Dot is broken into pieces. He wants to know how it all happened but can't.

He is angry now, so angry he is raging inside. The frustration boils over, he looks about wildly, searching for something to destroy, something to bear the brunt of his hatred, his disgust. But it is too late; everything has already been destroyed. What anguish! What pain! His heart is nearly bursting, pumping his ire-filled blood through his veins, beating faster than it ever has, his rage fueled with every beat, and there is nothing to let it loose upon, and he has never felt so useless, so impotent, so defeated.

Hunched over, cursing, gasping for breath, he screams to noone and nothing at all, to everything, to God, he screams, unintelligible, incoherent. He screams to release it, it can never be released, never leave him, this rage. His breathing becomes shallower, calmer, measured. The voices audible, he finally recognizes them. Finally picks one out from the others. His mother. Annie. Cutter. Decimal. He has conversations with them, in his head, talks, yells, screams, rages at them.

And Decimal is the only one that answers.

Ow. Frickin' ow.

So I was going up the stairs at Morseland, a little too eager, stumbled, jammed my middle finger on my right hand. I type now with it outstretched, unused, throbbing. I was hoping it would have swollen to a ridiculous size so that I could include it in today's photo but that was not to be. Instead, you get this frightening close up (celebrating the release of L4D2? Sure!)

Been thinking about those who used to support this effort who are no longer here. Most notably, mom. Yeah. Last year she was absent on this (she never got my email about it, post-November she was ticked that I hadn't tried again) but in prior years (as I'm sure I've mentioned here) she would write detailed notes, once even read me her notes as I drove her to the airport. Her comments were always wonderful, constructive, funny.... And so. And so.

But there are others, people whose IP addresses don't show up in the stats, and I miss them too.

That said: there are so many wonderful wonderful people out there asking me about word counts, the story, how everything's going, keeping me going on those days when I feel like I really don't want to go on (those don't happen now that I'm over 75% done -- thing just wraps itself up at this point). And so, to all y'all, I say thank you. Very much. Over and over. This thing is like a marathon and without people on the sides telling you what a great job you're doing, a marathon is a lonely-ass experience.

Bah! Today's excerpt? It's all about the importance of constantly backing up your data! Even if it is some undisclosed year in the late 1800s.

The two returned to the office after Dui had finished eating. Dui was keen to go over the notes that Decimal had made that day but they were nowhere to be found. Even at her worst, Estelle had never completely removed documents that were laying around, nor had she ever made the mistake of discarding them.

"Perhaps you put them in the safe?" Dui wondered. Decimal didn't think that was the case but agreed that it was possible he had done so and forgotten. Dui went to the far wall of the room, pushed aside an elaborate replica of a DaVinci sketch which hung, framed and hinged on the wall, obscuring the safe in which they kept all sensitive documents. He opened the safe and pulled their working file from inside. Together, they flipped through each page in the file but could find no trace of the documents which Decimal had worked on that day.

"This is curious indeed," Decimal said. "I'm certain that I did not leave the building with them."

"I wonder if we have been robbed," Dui said with sudden alarm. "Could someone have broken in while we were away, looking for some insight into the system, found only these documents laying out and absconded with them?"

"I suppose it's possible," Decimal allowed. "But did you notice any signs of forced entry when you returned this afternoon?"

"I did not. But, I will admit that I was exhausted, likely weak with hunger, and so jubilant about the success of my meeting with Cutter that it is possible that I overlooked any such signs." Dui sighed, slumped into a chair. "This is terrible. A whole day's work gone." Suddenly hopeful, he gazed up at Decimal, a pleading look on his face. "But wait -- did you not make a back up copy of the pages? You are always so good about making backups."

Decimal frowned. "I'm sorry to say that I did not make any copies. I don't know why I failed to do so today, as you are correct in observing that I am most particular about creating archives of our work in case such an event were to occur. Today, I have failed."

"What a disaster," Dui lamented.

"But, fear not, aside from the graver implications that such a robbery holds -- and I am still not certain that Miss Cabot did not simply relocate or misplace the papers -- I am certain that we can recreate the work I did with minimal effort or loss of time. I shall work deep into the night if I have to."

"I admire and appreciate your dedication to this work, Jonathan," Dui said, the melancholy breaking, if just for that moment. "Really, I do. I know I don't say that often enough, but I wanted to be sure that you knew that."

"Thank you, Melvil," Decimal said gratefully. "It is good to hear that."

"Absolutely, Jonathan. I would still be refining bottled juice if it weren't for you."

"I'm sure that's not true," Decimal chuckled. "But thank you."

"Indeed," Dui replied. "Now, let's get to work."

Still Feeling My Way Around This Wall

Past 36,000 words which means that since it's the 16th, I can write fewer than 1000 words a day for the next 14 days I could write fewer than 1000 words per day and finish by the 30th. Wild.

Annnd every word written the past couple days has been a struggle, has been steps in absolutely no direction. On Friday I had a revelation taking me somewhere but that path quickly closed. Now all that comes to me is the first lines for other things (I want to write a story that starts, "Yeah, it's true, when Bobby was a young kid, he killed some dude." I don't know why, but the feel of that opening line is attractive. Conversational, confessional. There's no story beyond that. I don't know who Bobby is, nor who the narrator is, but for some reason, I want to write that story.)

So, now, I'm going to go find something that will pass for an excerpt for the day.

He rises to his knees, kneels, in front of what used to be in front of the altar. Thinks about praying, thinks about his mother praying, thinks about his mother, not able to find anything in his room. How would she feel now, here, in this world, where there was seemingly nothing left to find? Would it drive her mad? Nothing to organize, nothing to tidy, but at the same time, nothing to lose, nothing to be lost, nothing to create any sort of chaos. Somehow, the ultimate in orderliness had been created, and here Dot was, stuck in the middle of it, without any idea.

And so he does pray, kneeling there, in the dust, in the dirt, amidst the splinters and fragments of what used to be a church. It didn't matter, he tells himself, that the church is no longer there. If God is anywhere, then God is everywhere. If God is anywhere. Dot has his doubts. Dot has all of his doubts, and wonds if they are the only thing that remain untouched. Like cockroaches and tax collectors, his doubts (and apparently himself) are the only things to survive the apocalypse.

He stops himself there. Was this the apocalypse? Has he decided that that's what has happened? Had the ultimate battle between good and evil transpired as foretold in revelations? Certainly, the landscape looked scarred as if by battle, but why then was he the only one around? Who had won? If it was the apocalypse, did it matter if he prayed? If it wasn't, did it matter anyway?

No matter, he thinks. No matter at all. I will pray anyway, and if God isn't around, then the Devil can laugh at me. It would be refreshing to hear a different voice laughing at him, so used to hearing God's laughter was he. So used to hearing God laugh.

So he prays. Prays for knowledge, understanding, strength and willpower. All the things he had ever prayed for in his life, leaving out his usual plea for world peace as the world seemed beyond that now. Seemed beyond praying for now. Seemed, somehow, at peace now anyhow. He thinks of other things to pray for. To pray about. His family? Who knows where they are? Who knows who they are? He throws them into the mix. His friends? Where are they now? He prays for his friends, a generic prayer, let them be well, or let them be at peace, let them be whoever they happen to be. Anything else? He can't remember, he can't decide, decides he is done with prayer. Forever? For today, at least. Done with prayer for today.

He rises to his feet, feels enclosed by the ghost of the church. Feels enclosed for the first time since. Since when? Since what? How long has he been as such? This question haunts him. This question will haunt him. How can he have no concept of time? He always felt that as long as he was alive that there would be time left and now it feels as if there is no time left. As if time has fled the world. And he checks his pocket watch and yes, it still works, is still measuring time, but it its own master, it ticks as it will, it does not determine time. It is possibly measuring imaginary time. It is probably measuring nothing.

Unapologetic Word Padding

Blurry am I. Eh, so it goes. Settling in to watch the Blackhawks game....

This morning I engaged in some serious word padding. So far ahead of schedule, why would I do that? Needed to write. Couldn't come up with a damn thing. So this, my friends, is what happens. Shit starts getting silly. People start hearing "accordionly" when the actual word was "accordingly." Yeah.

And actually, that kind of silly crap is what I excel at writing. If I may refer back to the Baywatch Thing again (Sopel shoots; he scores!) the most wonderful parts were where I was throwing quality to the wind and just letting my funny freak flag fly.... So. Anyhow. Here's some absolute crap for your enjoyment.

"Jonathan," Dui said, sitting down opposite his partner.

Decimal looked up from the newspaper he was reading. "Melvil," he said. "How was your meeting?"

"It went very well. Cutter is most accommodating, very supportive of our effort. I believe that together we have devised a solution to the cataloging issue."

"That is excellent. I would be most interested in hearing all about it, only do allow me to finish reading this article."

"Of course. What does it concern?"

"It regards the Columbian Exhibition in Chicago this year. It seems that they've nearly completed building the fairgrounds and are well on their way towards being ready for the fair to begin."

"Why does that interest you so much?"

"Allow me to finish -- as well as the work is going, there is also a dark side, a seedy underbelly, a nefarious undercurrent in the air."

"Do tell!" Dui said, growing more interested.

"Well, everything was going smoothly, Daniel Burnham's plan going as scheduled, the work getting done accordingly--"

"Accordionly?" Dui asked, misunderstanding Decimal. "What do you mean it was going accordionly?"

"No, sir, you misheard me. I said that the work was getting done accordingly."

"My mistake. I apologize for interrupting you."

"By all means, it is of no matter."

"Pray, continue."

"Where was I?"

"You were saying that the work was going accordionly."

"Accordingly."

"Yes, yes, the work was going accordingly."

"So, as I was saying, the work was going accordionly," Decimal stopped and laughed. "Look what you've done, sir! Now you've got me saying it!"

Dui laughed as well, could barely speak, so amused was he. "Oh, I do apologize!" he managed. "I am dreadfully sorry!"

Decimal wiped tears from his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, calm himself, regain his composure. "Ahh, sir, that was hilarious."

Dui nodded. "It certainly feels good to laugh in that manner. It feels like it has been quite a long time since I have done so."

"I know what you mean," Decimal agreed. "There has been something of a dark cloud hanging over your countenance for a long time."

"How long would you say, Decimal? How long have I been as such?"

Decimal pauses, appears deep in thought. "I would have to say that you have seemed at the very least melancholy since the day that we met."

"I suspected as much," Dui said. "I haven't felt myself in a very long time."

"Perhaps you should try feeling yourself more often!" Decimal proposed.

Dui was initially shocked by his friend's inappropriate comment, but then, in the spirit of the moment, got the joke, laughter resumed, the pair guffawing to the point that other diners looked in their direction with wonder and awe.

"You're too much, Decimal," Dui said when the laughter subsided.

"It pleases me to see you smile, Dui," Decimal said. "I hope to see it more often."

"Yes, yes. I as well. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy that."

"You'd forgotten how much you enjoyed feeling yourself?"

"Now you're just pushing it, Decimal," Dui said.

"You're right. That didn't feel right the moment it came out of my mouth. I am sorry."

"Think nothing of it. Now, I beseech you: do go on."

"Yes, it appears that there has been a murder on the fairgrounds."

"Murder you say?"

"Yes," Decimal replied. "Murder. Murder most foul."

The Mystery

The true mystery is why every one of these Nanovels seem to turn into a mystery. Aside from last year's attempt at a political thriller, each of the others has been some sort of attempt at suspense, and I have so much trouble with coming up with the punchline.... The Baywatch Thing remains my greatest triumph, even though it ended in a hurried and hackneyed manner, and that does have the elements of a suspenseful mystery thriller type thing. Anyhow, I apparently like twists and/or turns....

A conversation the other day about point of view has me thinking about the various merits of the various forms. My first Nano was a rambling first-person mess. I avoided that in the second one by switching to third-person omniscient form. Illinoir was a return to first person, and I think I was pretty successful in keeping the rambling stream of conscious stuff out of it. Last year, with Lincoln we managed some semblance of a third-person-limited-omniscient form which is actually pretty good in terms of keeping my head out of the characters' heads, but allowing for some jumping around to different people. This year has been strictly third-person limited, which has its merits in that I know how to write it, but it does force me to keep locked into Dui's thoughts. Can't say what other people are thinking -- have to make sure to mention that it seemed that they were thinking a particular thing.

Anyway -- my biggest problem with third person omniscience was that I didn't know how to reveal things to the reader. If the narrator knows everything, how can you have a shadowy, unknown figure? All my performance studies training taught me how to extract the voice of the character of the narrator from a work, but I don't really know how to write the narrator as a character.

Or, maybe I do, and I just don't know it.

Blah blah blah. You're all just here for the excerpt! Let's get to it! Here's a little bit of foreshadowization! (And did I mention that were beyond the 30,000 word mark? As of now: 32,208. Less than 20k to go!)

"Cutter is important to this story, isn't he?" Dot asks.

"Indubitably," Decimal replies.

"Creating the system wasn't enough."

"Not by a long shot. You needed -- we needed -- his methods of cataloging in order to create a way for people to find the books they needed."

"We couldn't have done that on our own?"

"We were over our heads as it was. The system was simple, but there was more work than just you and I could do. Going to outside sources helped immensely but we were so focused upon the creation of a classification that could fit all current books while being open enough to allow for future publications. The world was changing -- still is changing, I hope -- and there was no way for us to foresee the advances in society and technology that would create entirely new subjects needing new branches in the system. We had to be open minded, forward-thinking, prognosticators if you will."

"That was the beauty of it," Dot says, allowing himself a moment of pride. "Numbers are infinite. Dots make everything possible. If you have enough of them, you can do anything."

"Exactly," Decimal replies. "And there are always plenty of dots to go around."

The Cutter Classification System

Here's the obligatory wearing-a-previous-year's-NaNoWriMo-shirt shot. Enjoy!

Yes, we got back on track yesterday and even more so today. An easy 2147 words describing a meeting between Charles Ammi Cutter and our good friend Melvil Dui. The two were contemporaries, both lived in Boston. Check this -- Cutter has a system of his own. It's called the Cutter Expansive Classification System and there's a reason you haven't heard of it (except for you librarians out there.) In comparison to the DDC, it is utter insanity. Just reading that "How Cutter call numbers are constructed" section in the Wikipedia article makes my head hurt.

Anyhow -- always a good idea to add another character. Spices things up. Moves things forward. Allows you to create dialog for someone else (not that all the characters don't have the exact same voice anyhow....*sigh*). Also, gives you room for some sort of conflict. Conflict as in someone-attempting-to-steal-Dui's-life-work kind of conflict. Oh yeah. I said it. This Cutter guy is a bad dude.

But not yet:

Dui spotted a Kenyan book -- though he used the term loosely: it was made up of sheets of paper fashioned from leaves, bound together with hempen string -- and gestured to it. "May I?" he asked.

Cutter nodded. "Of course, sir. Only, be careful. That is one of but 6 copies of that work."

Dui gingerly pulled the book from its shelf and opened it. The writing was all in strange figures and characters that he did not recognize.

"The Kenyan people have no written language. Theirs is an oral tradition. This was created at my request in an attempt to inscribe some of their stories and myths. Only I and 3 other people who accompanied me on the expedition know the true meaning of these symbols."

"This is incredible. You have helped a civilization to start down the path of a written language?"

Cutter shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, and no. The books were produced, but there was a faction of the population who were opposed to their creation. Violently opposed."

Dui looked up from the book. "Oh dear."

"Yes, indeed. The men with whom we created the book and developed the language, the women who prepared the leaves, the children who spun the string. They were all rounded up and executed. Viciously, and publicly. Two of my fellow travelers were also branded as heretics and killed as well. I was lucky to escape with my life."

"Did the other books survive?"

"We had an original run of 10. Three, I saw destroyed with my own eyes. I, myself managed to save three of them (two of which I gave away as gifts -- one to President Lincoln, the other to the King of Prussia). My fellow compatriots each have one."

Dui did the math. "That leaves one more."

"Yes," Cutter said gravely. "The location of the 10th book is unknown to me. Its disappearance is a most troublesome and disturbing mystery. I have spent many years in search of this book, but all my efforts have been for naught."

"That must be a very consuming and involving task," Dui supposed.

"Yes, it is, indeed. Much of my finances are tied up in the reacquisition of the book. I have men searching the globe for it, looking for any indication of its location, or any evidence that it even exists. They follow every rumor, every murmur, no matter how small or far-fetched. It has cost me dearly, this quest of mine."

"Not just in money, I would imagine."

"You are correct," Cutter said, his voice revealing the pain of a man who has lost a great many things dear to him. "It cost me many friends, my wife, and very nearly my sanity."

"You say it cost you your wife?" Dui asked, confused. "But Clarise is still with you, is she not?"

"She is," Cutter said. "Rather, she is back with me. I didn't always let others carry out the search on my behalf. I once traveled in service to the quest myself. She hated my constant absence, my sleepless nights, my furtive meetings with shadowy agents in the darkest corners of far flung lands. She couldn't rest knowing that I might be in danger, that she had no way of knowing whether I was safely ensconced in my hotel or out tracking down some clue purchased with blood, sweat, tears, and a considerable amount of money from some shady, unseemly ruffian who would just as soon slit my throat as he would give me the time of day."

"How did you convince her to return to you?"

"Well, as I said, I began to hire private detectives, agents who acted as my proxies. I now have a large network of men who act as my eyes and ears, and sometimes as my hands, all across the world. Only when there is a matter that requires my personal attention or intervention do I travel now. And always, I bring Clarise. These promises were what allowed me to convince my love to return to my arms."

"Do you not feel trapped by that? Wouldn't you rather be searching for the book yourself?"

"I admit that there is a part of me that wishes I was still out there, still on the hunt. It was terribly exciting, never knowing where the search would take me next. Never knowing what danger lurked around the next corner." Cutter sighed wistfully. "But no, I am an old man now. I leave that business to the younger lads. And truthfully, without my Clarise, I'm no good to anyone. I told her I would forgo looking for the book, that I would forget about its very existence, if it meant that she would come back to me."

"But you were able to compromise," Dui said.

"Yes. And that's the beauty of love, true love." Cutter smiled, his face transformed with thoughts of his wife.

"I'm surprised you came back to Boston without her."

"Well, she understands that it is important work that you and I are doing, and that her presence might simply be a distraction. Besides, it is frightfully cold here, and the children would be devastated if they couldn't have their winter in Florida. Yes, I miss my dear love, but we work for the greater good, and that is of the utmost importance."

"That's an incredibly healthy attitude, I must say."

"Needs must when the devil drives, Dewey. If the perfection of your classification system requires that I be apart from my wife, then so be it. It is of no great import in the grand scheme of things."

Back in the Saddle

1734 words today, back in the good graces of the Nano gods. So, this year we have the biggest ever day (4300 words) and the smallest ever day (246...at least, I'm assuming that's the smallest ever day, further research required.) Nothing really monumental to speak of today, which is surprising, considering the fact that today he actually invented the Dewey Decimal System.... Finding the flashbacks to be easier now to write than the present stuff, opposite of how things were last week. Used to be more excited about this 1930s-ish post-apocalypse, but have no idea what to really do with it. Also, the Asus is making annoying clicking noises as I type on it now. Son of a....

"You were right," Dot says.
"Of course I was," Decimal replies.
"What do you mean, of course you were?" Dot asks, incredulous. "There were so many things about which you were wrong."
"Like what?"
"Like the dot painting shit. The dot currency experiment. The dot weaponry." Dot enumerates the items on his fingers. He searches his memory for more examples. "I could go on."
"All of those were your ideas," Decimal says.
"That can't be possible. I remember...."
"Yes? What do you remember?"
"I'm not sure. But, we were partners, weren't we?"
"Still are partners, so it seems."
"Yes, once and future partners, we. So the failures are shared."
"But the success was not."
"How can you say that? Your name is in the title of the system we developed."
"Nobody knows who I am. You don't know who I am. I don't even know who I am."
"You're Jonathan Decimal, facilitator, synergizer, catalyst for change."
Decimal smiles wanly. "Yes, I am those things. And those things are indeed me. But where do I go when the sun goes down?"
"Where do you go when the -- what are you talking about?"
"Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I'm just a figment of your imagination?"
"Now you've truly gone off the deep end. If you're a figment of my imagination, then -- " Dot trails off, blinks his eyes and looks about himself wildly, for Decimal had disappeared. "Jonathan? Jonathan, where the hell did you go?"

We've Slowed Down

Well, what can I say? A 4000+ word day could only be followed by....230 words? What the hell? Ok, so I took a little break, actually did some work, and then went to the Blackhawks game (Hawks win 3-2 in a shootout!)

Today's excerpt? Appropriately short:

"God, I know this place, know it well," Dot says.
"Yes," Decimal says sadly, "you do."

We're not Slowing Down

Almost every Tuesday at 6:30, Jake & Tony show up at Morseland. It brightens the hell out of my night every time. So here we all are....

Would you believe that we're at 26,909 words? That we passed 25k today and kept on going? That before the end of the night, we'll undoubtedly be well past 27k? That that means a near 4000 word day? Twice in one month? Spent a lot of time last night comparing Excel sheets from the past few years and was surprised that I ever finished one of these before. Every year before there were 500 word days, 400 word days.... And no streak of 2000 word days like we've got this year.

Don't know where it's coming from, but it's coming, and that's great. Last couple days have been fun stuff. Tonight we're verging on actually inventing some sort of book classification and organization system. Watch:

Dui's anger rose yet again. "I am producing nothing? Sir, our failure is a team effort. You've failed with me every step of the way!"

"And I couldn't have done it without you," Decimal said.

"There's that famous Decimal humor I've missed so much. Oh, what have I done without that?" Dui rose from his chair, stalked about the room, glaring at the books. He searched for one in particular, a book on humor written by the great philosopher Franzini in 1233. Unable to find it, he grabbed a book at random and flung it in Decimal's direction. "I don't know what book that was, but perhaps it will aide you in becoming more helpful to me."

The book landed at Decimal's feet. He picked it up and read the cover. "A Treatise on the Methodology and Practice of Bipedal Amputation. I'm not sure how that is relevant."

"I'm not either. How about this?" Dui sent another book flying at Decimal.

"Steam Engines Analyzed and Discussed. Another miss, sir."

Dui grew angrier and angrier, began throwing random books at Decimal, overturning great stacks, sending entire shelves to the floor. Decimal made no move to stop Dui, and did not flinch as heavy volumes came close to taking off his head. During Dui's entire tantrum, he appeared as calm as could be, as if he had been expecting this all along, as if he had been hoping for it all along. Eventually there was but one book left on the shelf and Dui stopped, breathing heavily.

"Is that the one, Melvil?" Decimal asked. "Is that the book you were looking for?"

Dui glanced at the remaining volume and shook his head. "No, I must have missed it."

"Ah well, it is no matter. I likely wouldn't have gotten much use out of it anyhow."

"No I can't imagine that you would have."

"Feel better?"

"I suppose. I certainly seemed to have worked out my anger on these books." The poor books; they had never done anything to hurt Dui, and here he was inflicting great peril and harm upon them. "I'm just upset that I couldn't find what I was looking for."

"They must not have been very well organized," Decimal offered.

"No, I suppose they weren't," Dui agreed. "And now I have to clean up this mess. I'd never live this down amongst the club members."

"Perhaps, Melvil, we could consider this a great opportunity."

"I'm sorry? I fail to see how the task of picking up all these books could possibly be an opportunity."

"Well, there's nothing that says that you have to put them back the same way you found them."

Things Jonathan Decimal Helped to Invent

• Braille
• Morse Code (with help from Dash Lineart)
• Modern Musical Notation
• Dots (candy)
• Pointilism
• Scatter Plot Graphs

You can see the pattern. Anybody have other suggestions?

Crossing 20,000

Last night, crossed 20,000 and beyond. Now up to 21978. Blazin'!

An important moment this evening, as I discovered exactly who and what Decimal is doing here, in this story. Turns out, he was there when many different great men had their epiphanies. He's a....well, I'll let him tell you.

"Don't I know it!" Decimal said. "The whole situation makes about the same amount of sense. I mean, it's not like it hasn't happened to me before. There was the telegraph guy, the mathematician, the blind guy, the musician, the candy maker.... Each time, each time I received a note under my door with an address and a name and I went, and though I'd never met the man before, I knew him, knew his life, and knew what needed to happen in order for him to fulfill his destiny."

"This is more shitfuck," Dui said quietly. He still hadn't quite got the hang of it.

"I assure you, I am telling the truth. I have had this same conversation a dozen times and each man has had the same reaction. The same responses. The same disbelief. So, each time I have tried a different tactic. Some have worked better than others. I will make a note that mysterious and cryptic is not the right tack to take. Maybe next time I'll figure it out."

"Who. The. Hell. Are. You?"

"My name is Jonathan Decimal. I'm a facilitator. A synergizer. A catalyst for change in a volatile environment. I help men find their goals, achieve their aims, reach new heights. Where great men are stuck, I am there to help."

"And you are here to help me?"

"That is correct. I am here to help you. Together, we'll make you a great man."

Dui still didn't fully trust Decimal, the story was so fantastic that it defied belief, but at least the man's intentions seemed benign. "Well then, Decimal. What exactly are we going to do? Where does my future lie?"

"I don't know exactly, Dewey," Decimal admitted. "But I do know one thing."

"What's that?" Dui asked.

"It's going to have something to do with dots."

Week 2!

Me, next to the Bears defense. Only one of the two of us showed up to work today.

As week 2 started, we were at 17,030 words which is about 2 days ahead of the 30 day pace. We still have no plot to speak of, but hell, what's that matter? Words still come. I despair that there is nothing to write and then go ahead and write another few dozen words. This thing is being written in 100-word chunks, each of which takes about 5 minutes to write with 15 minute intervals in between each one.

As I write this, we're up to a whopping 18699 words. Here are some of today's. Not too many. It's Sunday and I know you would rather be watching football. Or poking yourself in the eye.

"Come now, Mr. Dewey. Don't be so dramatic," Decimal said soothingly. "You've had a rough few days. It's perfectly understandable."

"But that's just the thing," Dui looked up. "The past few days haven't been any more or less rough than all the ones before it. They've all been equally mediocre, more or less, taken on average."

And on the Seventh Day....

More writing outside! It's a beautiful day! Everything is sunny!

We're a week into Nano here, and we're over a quarter done on the word count. We still have no plot to speak of, but things are progressing towards one, perhaps. Nothing like a cryptic mysterious figure to speed things along.

But poor dear, desparate, deluded Dui. Here is a longish excerpt (467 words!) of a diner scene that rivals the great meeting between Pacino and DeNiro in Heat.

They adjourned for breakfast, that morning, soon after meeting. Decimal spoke of a restaurant around the corner that Dui had long been a fan of. As they ate their eggs and bacon, they were silent, but when they had finished, Dui began firing questions rapidly at his tablemate.

"So, who are you?" he asked.

"We already figured that out," Decimal replied. "I'm Jonathan Decimal."

"Yes, yes," Dui said. "I mean, who are you?"

"Oh, I understand. No wait, I don't. I'm Jonathan Decimal," Decimal repeated his name loudly and slowly, as if Dui didn't speak English and just by changing the speed and volume of his speech, Decimal could impart understanding.

"You are a frustrating son of a bitch, aren't you?" Dui asked. His swear earlier had felt good and he thought he might try it some more. He was always on the lookout for new hobbies.

"Oh you have no idea, sir," Decimal replied, that infuriating smile, along with a fleck of scrambled egg, on his lips. He leaned back in his chair and patted his belly, and looked for all the world as a man without a care, a man without a thought, and absolutely, thought Dui, a man without any intention of explaining his sudden appearance in Dui's quarters, in Dui's life.

Well, thought Dui, I can play that game too. He took another sip of his coffee and leaned back in his own chair, patted his own belly, tried on an expression of smug satisfaction, checked his reflection in the window over Decimal's shoulder, decided that the expression wasn't the look he was going for, tried another, and another, until he felt that he had found the proper one.

Decimal laughed and said, "Are you going to make faces at me all day, or are you going to tell me why you called me here?"

"Why I called you here?" Dui asked, his facial expression returning to his usual ("worried schoolboy called to the principal's office for something he may or may not have done but isn't sure and is wracking his brain to discover if there is something infraction in his recent past for which he has been caught") all sense of cool, calm and collected out the window. "You appear in my apartment unannounced, you know everything about me, you invite me to breakfast, you stick me with the tab" -- Decimal had deftly ignored the check as the waiter had presented it, had waited it out so long that Dui had felt no option but to pay the bill -- "and now you want to know why I called you here? Sir, I've had just about enough. I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, but it has been anything but. It has been everything but."

Getting Tense

So, I'm writing this thing in two different tenses -- the "modern" stuff is all in present tense. Actions are happening, shit's going down. The flashbacky stuff is all in past tense. It's in the past. It's done.

But I keep having to go back and change the flashbacky stuff to past tense stuff because I slip into present tense stuff, and it's really starting to tick me off. I think I naturally like writing in present tense. I think if we went back and looked at my old stuff, a good majority would be written in present tense. I like present tense. Past tense is weak. Present tense brings you into the action (if there is any). Present tense is watching a movie, seeing this happen. Past tense is like, "Hey, if you give a crap, something happened yesterday or twenty years ago or whenever."

I wrote a short story for my senior English class, that, if I remember correctly, was about an emergency in Hell, where all the damned were rising up and taking over and Satan was in a tizzy and had to call God for help or something along those lines. Anyhow, it was all written in present tense and one of the first changes my teacher made me do was to change it to past tense. And, yeah, I did it, because I wanted a better grade and everything, but I'm thinking, "This hasn't hapepned yet."....

Um. Anyhow.

Dui Don't

"Yes, but have you invented the Dewey Decimal System while on weed?"

That's right, I have introduced a little bit of deus ex sativa, if you will. Not for myself, mind you, but for Mr. Melvil Dewey (or, as he is referring to himself at this point in the story, "Dui.") In actuality (according to the biography of Dewey that I am reading) the idea came to him while sitting in church; he nearly cried "Eureka!" during a long sermon. I, however, have taken some liberties with history (again and again). He's still inspired by the divine at church, but only for things such as new and improved grape juice (Dewey invented Snapple?). Unfortunately, this does not lead him to the levels of greatness in his life that he had hoped for, so, at his wit's end, alone (his dear Annie wants nothing to do with him anymore!) he turns to the pot. Poor, deluded Dewey. Don't worry, gentle reader, all things will work out in the end; the DDS will be invented, the identity of our mysterious stranger will be revealed, and the 15,000 word line will be crossed shortly....

We join our intrepid hero in the throes of a marijuana high, his mind reeling, his heart racing, his thoughts completely nonsensical. (P.S., we're both deeply sorry about the destruction of the ukulele. Dui borrowed it from a friend and promises to replace it.)

He fell back into his chair, the drapes fell back together, Dui became yet another shadow behind yet another curtain in yet another building in yet another city. Anonymous, nameless, faceless, soulless. Urban life was soul stealing, he decided, and decided also, that he was fine with that. Closing his eyes, hearing music in his head, seeing colorful patterns that matched the beat and tempo of the music, he smiled, wondered how long he had been sitting there, what time it was, how he had gotten so tired, so hungry, just sitting there, thinking, wondering what his friends were doing, where they were, where he was -- no wait, he was in his room, he knew that much, what that music was, what --

Dui woke in his bed, his eyes crusty with morning mucus. He scratched at them, clearing them enough to open. His eyelids felt creaky, rusty, like his joints. His mouth dry, a disgusting taste lingering, so thick that not even a long swallow of water from the glass at his bedside could cut through it. Dui moaned, now regretting his choice of the previous evening. This hang-over was wreaking havoc on his senses, his sensibility.

He sat up in bed, took stock of his room. It looked as if a hurricane had swept through, upending books, scattering papers, disheveling his bedding, his clothes. What demons possessed me last night? he wondered. He set to cleaning up his mess, noticed that his ukulele had been splintered, split in two.

"Son of a bitch," Dui said aloud. He wasn't given much to swearing, but he also wasn't given much to getting intoxicated and tearing his room apart, so he figured it was a day for new and different experiences. By the end of it, he mused, he'd be gambling on the outcomes of the prostitute cage matches that were held in the south end.

Footsteps....

"You could bring the sun to tears," the man says again, shaking his head, a small smile on his face, a wistful look in his eyes -- they are green, Dot notices, beguiling, ever watchful, tricky, deceptive.

"How can I bring the sun to tears when it never shows its face?"

"I want you to remember my name," says the man.

"Do you remember mine?"

"Of course -- it is Melville Louis Kossuth Dewey. And also it is Melvil Dewey, and also Dew-E and Do-e and Dui and now, simply Dot. I imagine by the time we finish with each other you will have changed it to a symbol, something indecipherable but undoubtedly deeply significant."

"How do I know you? How do you know me? I remember you but I don't remember you. I know you but don't know you."

"Because I have always been with you, you have always been with me," the man replies.

Dot looks back at the way he has come, sees one set of footprints, his lone trail stretching off into the distance. "But I came here alone."

"You refer to the lone set of footprints. Looks can be deceiving."

"What do you mean?" Dot asks, but he thinks he knows, thinks he has read this story before, written in flowery script on framed pieces of paper in bathrooms in houses he has visited.

"Melville, you see but one set of footprints because I was carrying you," the man says.

"But.... You can't be...."

The man laughs, heartily, the sound as strange to Dot as anything he has heard. "No, Melville, I'm just pulling your leg. You've been alone this whole time."

Houston, We Have Another Character

The voices buzz up again, frantic, reaching new levels of noise, new heights of pain in his head. Dot clasps his head in his hands, willing the agony away, but nothing he does, nothing he can do, eases the pain, the noise, the din, he just wants some goddamn quiet, and when he thinks he can't take anymore, when he knows that the noise is going to kill him, it stops. Suddenly. Completely. Silence like he hasn't known in ages.
And then the man speaks.
You could bring the sun to tears, he says. It is a whisper, but Dot can hear it as if they were standing side by side. The voice is gravel against brick, out of practice, disused. But familiar, known to Dot like the road, like the man himself. Another piece of another puzzle. Dot fights the urge to talk, to reply, the man can't possibly be talking to him, can't know he is there, hasn't turned, hasn't seen him, Dot is silent, Dot is hidden, Dot is nowhere.

Street Scene

Surprised again? These are deliberate photos. How do I always look so shocked? Tomorrow: a new expression. I promise.

Melvil Dewey invented the vertical file. That's about the extent of the writing I can find about the event. Here is a more detailed description of his initial conception of the item. I'm pretty sure it went exactly like this.

"A vertical file," he said. "A hanging file. I don't know what to call it yet. The verti-hanger, perhaps. The Upright File Storage Brigade. I'm not sure. Regardless, imagine two sheets of heavy paper, attached at one edge, lengthwise, and at the top, the opening, two rods extending the length of the paper. You could put documents into the opening, and use the rods to hang the contraption in a deep-bottomed drawer. A vertical filing system. Each one of these files could then be labeled, kept in order, all documents in one particular file would pertain to one another, so perhaps, there would be a file for information concerning your home loan, and another file concerning your applications to various colleges or universities, yet another dealing with the intricacies of your health situation, records and such. No longer would all these documents have to be scattered about, or tied together with bits of string or ribbon, or bound into large unwieldy books. Stored in my device, they would be kept flat and wrinkle-free, and what's more, incredibly easy to locate when one needed to consult them."

Tuesday!

This is my usual Tuesday spot -- booth at Morseland, awaiting liquor deliveries. I think somehow I took myself by surprise with this photo though, and I'm not quite sure how that works.

Writing Dewey's mother is strange. First of all, it makes me realize just how much my own mother -- well, no, how some character's mother -- appears in my writing. And the father is mysteriously absent or overlooked. But Eliza Dewey is nothing like my mother was, save for her previously mentioned predilection towards organization....

Days later, he found himself visiting his mother and father at their home in Adams Center. They ate supper, and afterwards when the dishes had been done, and Joel Dewey had retired for the night, Dew-E followed his mother around the house as she adjusted out of place objects, setting things right again, organizing the universe.

"Was I a happy child, mother?" Dew-E asked.

She did not immediately respond, focusing instead upon straightening a picture that, to Dew-E's eye, had not been askew. She ran her finger along the top edge of the frame, checking for dust, and only when she was satisfied that there was none, did she reply.

"What does it matter? Were you a happy child? What a question." She moved on to the next photograph. "Are you happy now? And what does that matter? Do you honor God? Do you contribute to society? Happiness," she scoffed, shook her head. "He speaks of happiness!"

NaNo tip of the day: Never say "her fingertips" when you could use "the tips of her fingers." That's three bonus words!

Day 2

Phil and Tina and Veronica are in town and Phil and Tina came through Morseland. Advent of the netbook with webcam means the daily picture can be taken anywhere -- today, Phil does a guest spot in the photo of the day. So lovely to see the two of them, always a pleasure, and always great to know that no matter how much time has passed that we have enough shared history that we can pick up where we left off, still know how to make each other laugh, and still remember all the old jokes.

So, we've already crossed the 5000 word mark (smack dab at 5300, as a matter of fact). As usual, not sure how good they are. The story is progressing as a series of flashbacks that old man Dewey (who has changed his name to simply "Dot") is having. Much easier writing the stuff that takes place in the present as opposed to the flashbacks, because that is much more flowy -- a combo of McCarthy & Beckett that I find very very easy (and satisfying) to write. The flashbacks require more structure because there is more interaction, and this is where (currently) the actual happenings are happening.

Anyhow -- three excerpts today. One, a lesson in how to construct a sentence:

He coughs, automatically, unwillingly, the sound comes forth from his throat like a revelation, the only thing real that he has heard, aside from the rain, and aside from the dust, the feel of the rain on his head, the general dampness in his bones, he is not sure that the rain is real, that the sound of the rain is real, that the dampness in his bones is real, and while he thinks about it, that the cough is real.

That's 81 words. Take that.

Now, for a more substantive excerpt:

Those words echo in his mind, anything is possible, he remembers her name, he remembers her face, he remembers her eyes, he remembers her voice, her questions, her desire to know that anything was possible. He remembers telling her, looking into those eyes, telling her, yes, anything is possible, everything is possible. He wonders how he knew that it was, where he found the positivity to convince her that it was, that it is, that everything is possible, his footsteps in the dust, and he looks behind him and sees a trail of footsteps, distorted by rain, by the sudden wind that swirls up, but still the footsteps obviously there, obviously made by him, and he realizes that this too is possible, that he has moved, that he is moving. If the world has moved on, as all evidence appears to indicate, then he too will move on, will move onwards.

This is from the "present-day" section, and I like it, and I like where it came from.

And from the corresponding flashback:

Everything is possible, he thought, and realized that he had said it, had breathed it, his mouth against the nape of her neck, the most amazing thing his lips had ever touched, aside from the rest of the places on her body that they had explored earlier.

"What was that?" she asked. He lifted his head, reluctantly removing his lips from that mystical place, that amazing skin. He looked at her in the eyes, "Everything is possible," he repeated, louder, firmer.

"Is it?" she asked. "Is it really?"

"Yes," he said, and with his eyes tried to show her, didn't know if he was showing her adequately, but tried, and at that moment, vowed to himself to always be trying to show her with his eyes, knowing that his words would not suffice, that words would never suffice, and if anything was possible, that it would be possible for him to show her with his eyes just how true it was.

The man we're talking about here...

And away we go....

So it begins. Sitting/lying on the couch, laptop in hand, words just fly. Nice not to be constrained to the desk. 2234 words in 1.5 hours. The words just flew.

Music: Peeping Tom Peeping Tom and ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead Worlds Apart

He stands outside, a desolate field, upstate New York, long abandoned. Once farmed, tended, cared for, not unlike the man himself, the field now forgotten and barren, not unlike the man himself. The clouds above one solid mass of gray, unbroken for as far as he can see; the silence above and around one solid mass of gray, unbroken for as far as he can hear. It has been a long time since he has heard anything except for the never ending thoughts in his head, unceasing and merciless, a cycle of noise that he would pay a king's ransom to end. There is no peace in his mind, no peace for this old man, not what he expected in his old age. He has made it 60 years to this point, hoping to find some sort of solace in quiet and yet there is none to be found.
His eyes turn to the sky; the only sign of life for miles are black birds reeling and plummeting in the gray. Ravens? Crows? Sparrows. Each one no bigger than his fists clenched at his side, futile anger in his blood which causes tics and gasps when it reaches his heart, then pumping back out as unclean and impure as it was moments before. The birds swoop low and then careen back into the sky, dots swirling about his head, always dots, always dots.