I’ll keep the commentary short. Days 14 and 16 were good ones for me…I ended up with over 5000 words between the two days. Day 15 was decent, too, with about 1800 words. I hope all you other NaNo’s are sticking with it, not panicking when you have to sleep instead of writing (Yvonne!) and not wanting to erase everything you have so far (Jenny!).
Anyway, here’s an excerpt I wrote last night. Read more »
I never wanted a cell phone. Honest. I always figured that if I was away from home, I didn’t want to be contacted. However, several years ago, my wife at the time decided that we should have cell phones, so I got locked into a contract, and I had a cell phone.
Now, this cell phone was the most basic thing you could get. It did have a camera, but that was the only special feature it had. And I got used to it. It came in handy after the divorce and after my car broke down, because I needed rides places all the time.
So, in this age of Smart Phones, touch screens, and mobile web browsing, I was carrying around a dinosaur. And I was proud of it. However, after about 4 years, it started to give me problems, and as I text more often, I wanted a QWERTY keypad. When it was time to renew my contract, and using all the discounts I had for using the same phone for so long, I got a new phone.
It’s a Samsung Rogue. It has a touch screen. It browses the inturwebz. It is teh awesome.
So now, I’m constantly playing with my phone, touching the screen, polishing the screen, showing it off to other phone people. I have become a phone person. Me. jaynova. A phone person.
Meh.
I even bought the extended battery, so now, I can paly with my phone even longer!
I’m not sure how I let this happen.
OH! In an unrelated note, don’t forget to DONATE TO MOVEMBER TO HELP FIGHT PROSTATE AND TESTICULAR CANCER!!!
Whew! This week has been a busy one. I was busy at work, busy cleaning my apartment, busy writing my NaNoWriMo novel, busy writing for this music blog, and busy growing a damn mustache!
I won’t talk about work here, and you don’t want to know about my apartment, but I will remind you that I’m growing a mustache for Movember, an event in which I grow a mustache and YOU DONATE MONEY TO FIGHT TESTICULAR AND PROSTATE CANCER. This is very important to me because I actually have a prostate and at least two testicles. Read more »
Well, I only got about 1500 words in yesterday. The plan was to get to the 10,000 mark by Thursday so I could skip Friday and be OK. Oh well…I’m not far off the mark. My total for the week thus far is 9650. Not bad, eh?
The new plan: I’m taking today off, still. Tomorrow, I play catch up and write 2500 words. Sunday is a crazy writing frenzy, so don’t expect to see me on the facebooks much. Then, I should have a nice buffer between me and my laziness. Onward to 50,000!
Oh, and don’t forget to DONATE TO END PROSTATE CANCER AND TESTICULAR CANCER!!! Thank you.
OH, yeah…here’s a short (and unproofread) exceprt:
Old Crow’s frown became a grin. “So, the great Joe Milton, Street Sorcerer, the Magus of midtown, is looking for the Black Gospel. You must either be in great danger, or just plain crazy. Or both.”
Joe shook his head, knelt down as if to tie his shoe, then stood back up. . “Neither, actually. I’m not looking for it. I’m looking for someone who may have been looking for it. A college student, perhaps.”
Old Crow laughed. “Why? Trying to form a coven? A cabal of college students?” Joe said nothing. “Have you tried the Golden Apple? It’s an occult shop–”
Yes, I’ve tried there. Crow, you know there’s nothing but hedge mages and dabblers in those places. This is me you’re talking to.”
“I know it is. That’s why I’m not going to help you.”
“But you could if you wanted too, right? You’ve met this kid. He came to you. I just need his name.”
Old crow laughed again, his breath wheezing in and out as he did. “You know better than that, Milton! You know that all sales are confidential!”
“Even if your cooperation could save the world?”
Old Crow stopped laughing and looked at Joe coldly. “Not. Interested. Please leave.”
Joe shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door. Before he left, he turned to the old man and regarded him nonchalantly, but said, “OK. But when the world ends, just remember, you could have helped.” With that, he walked out the door, and into the night.
***
He did not walk away empty handed. Joe took two things away from his trip to the book store.
The first thing he got was confirmation. He had know Old Crow long enough to be able to read him, to read his aura, to read his mannerisms, all without looking like he was trying too hard. When he pulled his guilt trip on Crow, he had seen something, a flicker of guilt, of doubt, that had proven that however was looking for the Black Gospel had been there. He or she had probably purchased something. So Joe knew he was on the right track.
The second thing he took with him was a small slip of paper.
The slip of paper was a sales receipt, hand written by Old Crow himself. It’s a good thing the old guy hasn’t upgraded his register, Joe thought, even though in all honesty, it probably wouldn’t have mattered.
When Joe got back to his hotel room, he got out a map of the York Campus. He wasn’t positive that the kid in question was staying on campus, but the map was as good a place as any to start. Joe got into his bag and pulled out a roll of dental floss and a needle. With the needle, he punched a small hole in the receipt. He then took the dental floss, broke off a piece of it, and threaded it through the the hole, tying it in a knot around the paper. Next, he crumpled the paper into a ball, leaving the small tab with the dental floss sticking out of the ball.
For the final sup of preparation, Joe pricked his thum with the needle and ran his wounded digit along the string. As he did this, he closed his eyes and imagined a yellow light issuing forth from the pin prick, covering the thread in golden light and crimson blood. He took three deep breaths.
With his eyes still closed, he imagined an indigo circle around himself and the bed. He cleared his throat and Hummed “Ommmmmmmmm” five times while imaging a purple pentacle appearing withing the circle. Once he was satisfied that his circle was cast and all ill was banished, he opened his eyes.
Joe looked down at the map. He held the threaded wad of paper out over the map and said aloud, “If I were a recently purchased portion of the Black Gospel, where would I be?” He started moving his hand in a clockwise circle along the parameter of the map. Wen he had no result, he tightened his circle, moving closer and closer to the center. As he passed over a group of dormitories with the paper, he felt a slight tug, which did not surprise him.
Good, he thought. At least I know he’s on campus. He then moved the paper closer to the map and held it over the dorms. He started his circle again, this time around the dorms, much slower. As soon ad the paper was over Kolbe Hall, the paper stopped, dangling slightly at an impossible angle from Joe’s hand. “Bingo,” he said quietly.
Well, today’s the fourth day of NaNoWriMo, and we’ve got a health competition here at work, with me, Yvonne, Jessica, Jenny, and Kelly K. all participating! Before I give a brief excerpt of what I wrote on day 3, I figured I could give some advice. If you’re going to be writing, you need music.
No one can tall you what kind of music to listen to. Except me. I can. You should listen to Instrumental Surf Rock.
Here’s my soundtrack thus far:
jaynova’s surf-a-paluau station on Pandora.
Shots in the Dark-various artists (A Henry Mancini surf tribute!)
Ventures Play Telstar, The Lonely Bull And Others/The Ventures in Space-The Ventures (2 albums on 1 CD!)
Mr. Eliminator-Dick Dale and his Del-Tones (With too many vocal tracks.)
Non-surf music: Secret Adventure-Constant Comment.
So go listen to that music, NaNos!
Ok, here’s a short excerpt from yesterday’s writing. The main character is my John Constantine rip-off. Sue me.
Joe 1
Now.
“Joe Milton!?! What the hell happened to you?!?”
Joe looked up from the bar where he was nursing a Guinness to see his friend Nathanstaring at him, wide eyed and terrified.
Nathan continued, “You look like you’ve been through a wood chipper!” Read more »
Ok, so I’ve been growing my upper lip hair for MOVEMBER, the month-long, mustache-growing evemt to raise money for Prostate Cancer awareness. Please click on the link above and donate to sponsor my ’stache. I’d like to thank my friend Yvonne for getting the donation ball rolling!
Here is what I look like, 3 days in…
Three days of 'stache growing
It will look more ridiculous in about a week, so I need your sponsorship to convince me it’s worth it!
Ok, now that that’s out of the way, I’m also doing NaNoWriMo. I’m a little over 4000 words in, and so far it’s ok. Here’s a short excerpt from yesterday:
Here’s the set-up..a secret agent woman (Melissa Guice) is talking to her surperior (Commander Jacobs).
“Yes, yes, Guice. What do you know of Project Elder?”
Melissa blinked at Jacobs, taken aback. “Um…I know that it’s a myth. A story told to young recruits to send them on a snipe hunt. A test to see how much the young blood are willing to suspend their disbelief.”
Jacobs took the cigar out of his mouth slowly, in a way that Melissa could only imagine was for dramatic purposes. “What if I told you that it was real, and that the worst case scenario was unfolding this very moment?” Read more »
Ok…I’ve got my NaNo hat, my laptop, and a lot of coffee…time to get this started.
Me and my NaNo hat
If you’ve never done this before, here are some words of advice:
1) Don’t get discouraged. Read more »
Today begins Movember, the month-long event in which men around the world grow mustaches, and others donate to sponsor said mustaches. Your donations go to the Prostate Cancer Foundation and the Lance Armstrong Foundation Today, I’m clean shaven and ready to go! Throughout the month, I’ll post pics of the horrible thing that will be nesting just below my nose.
So, Here’s me:
and HERE IS THE LINK TO DONATE: jaynova’s “MoSpace”.
So go, donate, and help fight Cancer!
Here’s another excerpt from a short story I’m writing. Right now, it’s called “Things I Learned from my Father.” This is rough-rough, so there will be lots of changes before this story gets sent off anywhere. Anyway, this is a flashback that’s about 3 single-spaced pages in…
NOTE: I have not proofread this…this is raw, uncut, 100% pure J. Robert Novak here!
One of the last memories I have of my father, one of the last before he went to prison, at least, was at a bar. It was nothing like Crosley’s; it was some downtown dive, near the steel factories. I had just turned 18, and he figured I was old enough to handle alcohol.
The first beer, a Bud Light if I remember right, I drank in silence, nervous about drinking illegally in public, in front of my dad. While I drank it, I watched as my father made the rounds, hugging this guy, shaking that guys hand, buying a bag of some white powder, either cocaine or heroine off of someone else; the whole thing had an air of surrealism about it, like a David Lynch movie. By the second beer, though, I had become accustomed to this, or numbed at least, and I loosened up.
“You OK?” my father asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, why?”
“Ha ha! That’s my girl. I noticed you looking around. What can you tell me?”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, so I looked around again. “Um…That guy?” I pointed to the man who had given my dad the baggie. “He’s a dealer. He’s a little uptight right now….and he looks like he’s been using?”
“Go on,” my dad implored.
“Um…” I looked around some more. “That woman over there? Tattoo on her wrist? She’s in a biker gang. The Guns of Satan, maybe?”
“Knights of Gehenna, but good call. Keep going.”
This was actually becoming a game to me, and in my drunken state, it felt like harmless fun.
“And….That guy. The one who’s staring at you. He’s a cop.”
My dad’s face went completely blank. “Who? Chuck?”
I might have giggled. “I don’t know his name. But he’s definitely a cop. Look at the way he’s watching the place. He doesn’t belong here. Like—” I stopped myself before saying “like me” . I thought I might disappoint my dad if I had said so.
Dad stared at “Chuck” for a moment, silently. There was something in his eyes, a fire, an intensity that I hadn’t seen before. It was unsettling. I tapped my father on the arm and said, quietly, “But what do I know? I could be wrong.”
My father looked at me, frowned, then said “I’ll be back in a second. Stay put.” He walked into a back room beside the bar counter and vanished for a few minutes. The whole time, I was shaking; the whole place suddenly felt very, very wrong. I thought about getting in my car, since I had driven us here, and leaving. I thought about going over to Chuck and telling him that it might be a good idea to do the same. I thought about getting out my cell phone and calling 911.
I did none of these things. When my father returned, there were three other men, large, muscular men, probably bikers or something, though I was no longer playing “I Spy.” They came to our table and stood, staring at Chuck. Nobody said a word, though I wished they had said something, anything. It would have been less intimidating if they had come out yelling and cursing and threatening to murder this man. There was something in their stares, my father’s included, that said that they had killed before.
I tapped my father again to say “Maybe we should just leave,” but the words would not come out. There was this feeling in my git that told my that Chuck was not getting out of this alive, and that it was all my fault. I think I began to cry.
Chuck noticed the scene unfolding, because he put some money on the bar and walked for the door. As he turned his back, my father and his crew followed him out the door.
At this point, a woman, probably the bartender, though I didn’t look up at her, put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s OK, dear,” she said. “You did the right thing.” I never did find out how she knew what I had done. I didn’t care, either. I just wanted out of this place.
After about twenty minutes, my father and his friends came back. The other men returned to the back room, but my father stopped briefly to talk to me. He dropped a badge on the table.
“You were right,” my father said. “I knew you were. You’ve got your father’s instincts! Remember: Always trust your gut.” Then, my father walked away, the scent of gasoline and burnt meat wafting from him.
…can now be found at …To Eleven. So there you go.
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