Category: Chris’ Writing

Have you heard of NaNoWriMo? It’s linked so you can check it out and confirm that I’m not just making up a word. It is short for National Novel Writing Month. The idea is to write 50,000 words during the month of November without thinking (much) about quality, flow, etc. – the things that usually slow a writer down if he’s trying to do his best writing.

Every year I get excited about possibly participating in NaNoWriMo, but have yet to commit for an entire month. If you do the math, you have to write 1666 words per day to hit 50,000 words by December 1. That is a lot of original content, even if the quality isn’t superb.

I’m dying to do it, though. So I’m thinking of starting now and running a few days into November. (As if I can’t just pick any 30 days of the year!) Also, 50,000 words is short for a novel. I’m thinking of writing a series of short stories.

So this is it. Let the writing begin. (Just FYI, this post is 175 words.)

Two months ago, I wrote a post about what it is like late at night at home. For some reason, which I cannot explain or justify, I deleted the post. I remember that it involved dealing with the two dogs – the husky and the labradoodle – while making banana bread.

Tonight, I watched and listened to the labradoodle sleep on the uncomfortable for humans but very comfortable for dogs green chair in the living room. She must have been dreaming because she whimpered and shook from time to time. It worried me, but then she’d open her eyes a bit and stare at me. I roused her and put her out. After, I found myself tiptoeing around on the hardwood floors as if not to wake her (She usually sleeps in the basement). I had forgotten that she was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for me to take her down.

That’s two late nights at home, and it may become an irregular series.

I want to own a cabin far away from everything, so that I may feel the immense solitude of the silent wood around me. I would go there as often as possible to make sense of all of the feverish chaos that is common – welcomed – begged – into every other moment of our lives. There is rarely a break from the thought that I must be doing something, perhaps imparted on all Americans by our Puritan forefathers. Hard work, no questions. I have the impression that we are to explore when we are young, we are to work when we are of age, and then we are to die when the time comes.

It’s unfortunate that more of us do not die young to be reborn with eyes wide open and waiting for the moments in life that make life so precious. It is clear, from what I have seen of the world, that there is a great deal of time wasted on things insignificant and hurtful, and that it would do us – as both a civilized society and as a brazenly savage species – a great favor to disband from one another and discard, if only for a long moment, of our tether to technologies’ dark side.

There is no more nourishing retreat than quiet personal reflection – looking into the space of my own head until it is as familiar as the feeling of returning to my childhood home. I can think of no better place from which to do this than a lonely cabin hidden by tall evergreens and light gray morning fog. I would walk to it, open the door, leave my shoes in the corner of a dirty mud room, sit in a comfortable rocking chair next to a plain table and stare out the window.

I would stare. I would breath. And I would feel free.

“Sit down, will ya?” The waitress stood there, silent, and poured hot black coffee into an undersized stained-brown mug in front of me. “I’ve seen this all before,” I said. “I’m reading,” she turned to leave and I asked her to wait a minute. “What’s the rush? There’s no one else in this place.” She seemed to have no genuine response for this, but her haste conveyed that she had long ago determined that what she had to add to my world didn’t make up for what I’d be taking away from her’s. “Why the rush, sweetie?” She walked away to put the coffee pot on its burner.

I drank my coffee and stared out the window at the soft-yellow reflections of streetlights on the wet asphalt. No one had walked by since the bells on the glass door jingled and jangled upon my entrance, yet I’m not sure it would have mattered if it were mid-day. I’ve seen it all before – life spent waiting for something else to come along. Boys would be sitting in the next booth over staring at dream girls – or just any girls – walking by outside – on the other side of the impenetrable pane of glass that obscures their faces and stifles their advances – their mendacious souls muted. Lame looking businessmen would be behind me talking about something that won’t matter five minutes later while using their BlackBerry’s as forks – nearly, perhaps. Outside, a spent looking mother might walk by in a bright pink sweatsuit. She’d probably be one of those parents too f****** focused on the outcome to realize that they are cooking their children like little frogs in a frying pan.

I stared at the waitress for a long time as she hunched over the counter seemingly perfecting looking bored and pissed at the same time. I squeezed my coffee mug as hard as I could manage, trying to break it. It didn’t break. No one pays attention anymore.

“Excuse me,” I shouted. Startled, slightly, she looked my way. I waived my menu. She walked over. I could see the imprint left by her bony ass on the red-topped swivel stool.

“Do you enjoy waiting?”

“Not all the time.”

“When do you enjoy it?”

“When we’re slammed.”

“You like waiting for people to eat and move on? Don’t you wish you could eat and go sometimes?”

“Why are you here? You’re not going. Why don’t you eat and go?”

“I’ll eat and then I’ll go away out there.”

“What do you want?”

“One egg, dry wheat toast, and a donut. And more coffee.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it unless you want to sit down.”

It’s true that the best writing assignments are usually straightforward and simple. I’m a fan of the 20 minute story exercise where I start with an idea and write for 20 minutes. Sometimes it turns into more, but often the idea is extinguished when the time is up and I’m happy with where the story leaves off.

I’ve just come across another writing exercise, which I will call, “Telling something that happened.” I am to write about something real that happened in my life. There are a few reasons why I like this assignment. First, it allows me to write to my strengths – writing about my experiences. Second, I’m a nostalgic person, so I enjoy any chance I get to look back on things. Finally, for the most part, telling about something that happened should be a succinct story. I like that.

I look forward to implementing this “assignment” in the future. Stay tuned!