Hitting over 37,300 words on DW

I had a decent early dinner and worked on DW and managed to reach 37,300 words, so far. I'm still not sure what the story's about because I know some of the stuff I'm working on is tedious and unreadable, but it's a beginning.

The turkey make me sleepy so I took a nap, too. I still managed slam through 2300 words. Late Monday night I'm headed for Hong Kong hoping I don't fuck up, again, but you never know till you do it what's going to happen.

I'm forcing myself to keep writing despite the last couple days. What little confidence I had in myself got shattered thanks to that job in DC. I got down there, got the collection and archives packed in about the amount of time I said I would, got it picked up even though our trucker didn't show up and got it packed into containers to protect the shipment during transit, all on schedule. I was proud...and tired.

But...because I didn't do one last step -- have plastic banding put around these nice solid containers to hold the lids in place -- somehow along the way a 700 pound 48x40x45 inch container got dumped on its side and the top popped off...and the collection got messed up, inside. Some of it wound up caught between the clear shrink wrap on the container and the container, itself. Items may be missing; they won't know till they've gone through everything.

I got sick. Seriously. A blinding headache and depression like I've never felt. It was a lovely collection of books and photos and papers from Eastern Europe under Communism...and it may be ruined. It brought out memories of every stupid thing I've ever done in my life, and there are a lot of them, and jolted me down to the point where I actually was suggesting to Brendan he find someone else to write his story because I would just fuck it up. He ignored me.

I'm better now...but still upset. And shaky. And nothing pleases me. Nothing. I should never write when I feel like this...but if I don't I don't meet the challenge for NaNoWriMo. So I put down bland and boring and figure I'll come back to it later.

Maybe.

Some of today's work on DW...

I've had two hideous days at work so worked on a moment of tenderness between Dair and Adam to cleanse myself...and I have no idea where this goes in the story, yet...
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Sometimes I would watch Dair as he worked. Always quietly. Always in a way that would cause him no disturbance.

The first time I did this was by accident. I returned from repairing the door to a shed to find him seated on an old lounging chair he kept in his studio, hunched over and his legs crossed. It was late and dark so I thought he was resting, but as I approached and before I called to him I noticed he was focused on two pieces of glass -- his left hand held one that was a red as deep as blood and gleaming like a ruby; his right hand held one that was pale and shifted between a soft blue and a clearness as clean as a freshly cut diamond. His face was caught in a frown as his eyes shifted from one to the other, holding each at slightly different angles so their colors changed with the light.

I stopped. Almost held my breath for fear I would startle him.

He held them side by side, then one atop the other, then switching them around, using the light from a lamp beside him to shine through them, then the harsh overhead light. I saw he wore the gloves I had found for him. I had thought he did this only to silence my concerns...but this time I began to believe he did not want his blood to mar the beauty of the pieces he so lovingly gazed upon.

He reminded me of the youngest children in my skiing classes. So focused on doing everything just right. Turning their feet just so. Holding their poles at the proper angle while drifting down the beginner slopes. Even on snowboards, they held this sort of focus. A focus only someone innocent can manage. Blocking out the world and all its distractions.

He was so beautiful there. Just sitting there. Shadows behind him. His dark eyes searching for something. Inspiration? Agreement? Acknowledgement? I wanted to know but dared not break the spell.

Finally, he shifted and slowly rose to his feet to climb off the recliner to head back to his workbench. I silently moved closer to keep him in view and found him crouched before a small mound of shattered glass that gleamed in shades of amber. He would pick one up to look through then place it back on the pile, never toss, never drop. Over and over he did this...until he found the one he wanted. Then he stood up and turned on a strong lamp above his bench and, from what I could tell, looked at all three resting side by side in the palms of his hands.

I had been hungry when I arrived home, and somewhere in the back of my mind I still was, but to see him like this cast aside all other concerns. I felt as if I were seeing him fresh and new.

I silently maneuvered to the lounger and sat to watch as he laid the pieces together and turned to another small pile of red glass to go through the same process. Then he did this with the blue, each time placing another sliver of glass with the others.

I was so focused on watching him it took me several moments to realize there were a dozen sketches of me tacked to the walls, each from a different angle catching a different expression of my face. Exactly right and well-detailed. I could not remember him ever doing them. Had he taken photographs of me without my knowing?

I saw him weave a little and take in a deep breath. His whole being still focused on the glass spread atop his bench, he backed up to the lounger. I could see he was planning to sit so I straddled it to let him glide down at its foot. He shifted back and felt my leg and looked around at me...and his face became a smile. His dark eyes grew lighter and open. All without the least bit of shock or surprise.

His voice was a whisper of reverence as he said, “I’m trying something new. Dunno if it’ll work, but why not?”

I replied in the same tone, “Do you wish to tell me of it?”

“Let’s how it goes, first. ‘Kay?”

I smiled and nodded and drew him into my embrace, running my hands softly over his arms and chest.

“Your muscles are tight,” I said. “And I think I hear your tummy saying it wishes to be fed. Have you eaten anything, today?”

He took in a deep breath and gave me a gentle shrug.

I nodded. “Then it is good I took a steak from the freezer and brought with me some of that potato salad you like. And we can begin with a nice mushroom soup. Would that be satisfactory, monsieur?”

“I would love it,” purred from him.

“Then as you take a nice hot shower...” He looked at me, feigning insult, so I added, “To remove the dustings of glass I see on you. Very hot. Very careful. By the time you are done, dinner will be served. No need to dress; we are very informal.”

He chuckled and caressed the line of my chin with the backs of his left fingers as his right hand wound itself in with mine. He was almost back into my world.

Lost...

Just when I think I've found the thread I need to make DW a coherent story with meaning instead of just a character study of a man trying to rebuild his life...it breaks. The only consistency I've found, so far, is Dair and Adam loved each other, deeply, madly, truly. And that was taken away from Dair. And Adam knows of his turmoil and pain but can't do anything to stop it from where he is.

Something that seems to be building in this is Dair becoming aware of how vile people can be while seeming to be on your side. His sister-in-law is one; she testifies on behalf of Adam's parents when they sue Dair then purrs some hideous things about Adam as an apology after the fact...and nearly gets her head ripped off. Of course, then she plays victim to his irrational behavior.

I can see anger building in Dair even in this fractured story. Adam dies in an avalanche while protecting his skiing students. One dies with him but the rest are saved. He's only allowed to be a hero until someone informs the press he slept with men or women for money. That starts the anger building.

Then Adam's parents won't even let Dair say goodbye to his body but cut him off...even after having disowned Adam. Then comes the lawsuit and Dair being forced to leave his home by a homophobic judge...hmm...it almost seems like too much is being heaped on him...and probably is in order to make up for a lack of knowing how to handle the story. I'm slinging everything at it to see what sticks.

I guess I'll keep doing that till I hit 50K in wordage or the end of the month cuts me off.

Broke 30,000 word on DW...

I've got the full book pretty much blocked in, but there are sections that aren't fleshed out yet...like Dair's assault trial and more remembrances of Adam's. Still...it's going to be a lot of work to break 50,000. What's helping is finding this impish photo that could be Adam.

This is what he becomes after meeting Dair -- like a happy kitten or puppy. Dair becomes his raison d'etre and he loves having someone who is strong for him but also needs him at times. Which Dair does when he's working. Right now I don't mention any tattoos, but I think he should have some. And maybe piercings. Things he uses to remind himself he's alive.

And this is Dair in the main part of the story -- dark and lost and moody. I have to be careful with this because he's starting to come across as something of a weak asshole. Him beating up a little homophobe named Bobby in front of Reverend Samuels' church and congregation needs to come as a shock to him. He falls into a animalistic rage at comments made by the little shit, something he never does.

I like the physical looks of Kyle Krieger...but no tatts or piercings for Dair. He's got his art and scars on his fingers from working with shards of glass; he doesn't need ink to make him feel alive.

God...I have so much left to do...

Yesterday was not a good day...

Well...on top of everything else that happened on Friday, my flight was delayed an hour. I didn't get back to Buffalo till nearly 1am. Then I did something I don't usually do...at least, haven't since I worked at Book Soup. Back then I'd get off at midnight and walk down La Cienega to my apartment near Wilshire so would occasionally stop at Norm's and have an early morning breakfast of eggs, hash-browns, bacon and toast with hot tea. Theirs were perfection.

The only place open 24 hours in Buffalo, it seems, is Dennys...and they aren't up to Norm's. Not in the slightest. It was okay, and I'm sure I had too high of expectations, but still...how hard is it to deliver eggs hot instead of warm? And give you a pot of hot water for tea instead of having to take your cup away to pour more water into it?

Of course it didn't help that I was in a foul mood, so I got home and settled down by 3:30 and slept almost till noon. And worked some on DW but not as much as intended. I'm going through UG to clean it up one last time, then I'm prepping it in e-book for Smashwords and Kindle...and maybe Kobo, since they now had an adult line they offer. I'll set up the paperback for December, sometime.

The story works well...but I'm still finding typos to correct...and I'm cutting back on my use of commas. I am very antiquated when it comes to those. I'm also thinking of going into A65 and removing them, there...but that would be a bit much. I wrote it like it needed and my old-style grammar was right for it when I did it.

I'm going to use Thanksgiving to slam through DW. It won't be a coherent story when I'm done but it will have the basics, and I do prefer rewriting to writing. Much easier and creative, to my mind.

At least...what mind I have left...

Scrambled...

I thought I'd have a few hours to work on DW at the airport, this evening...but the trucker who was supposed to pick up the shipment I packed, yesterday, not only didn't show but told me it wasn't even booked. It was. I called and spoke with two different people, this week, to verify it.Got a big shrug over the phone.

So I located a UHaul close to the site, went there...and it doesn't exist, anymore. Found another and got a cargo van...and some of the slowest service ever...then parked my car in an underground lot since they don't offer a place for me to leave it, picked up the shipment, took it from DC to Baltimore, unloaded it for transport to New Haven, drove back to DC in traffic fit for the 405 on a Friday night, turned the van in, got my car, had dinner (since I'd skipped lunch) and drove back to Baltimore's airport...to find TSA Precheck wasn't open and I had to go through a massively long line and get myself verified despite having all the documents I needed to prove I really was Precheck.

I just sat down and my flight boards in 45 minutes. Not enough time to get back into the story.
Dammit. I did have some ideas while driving...and driving...and driving. I'll work on all those tomorrow. Right now I'm savoring a mango-a-go-go smoothie from Jamba Juice, with vitamins, and letting myself catch up with myself.

I did realize I was having the wrong person being the fighter in this story. Dair's stubborn and won't back down if pushed, but he doesn't let petty things bug him; he refuses to hand that kind of control over. Adam is the one taking offense at slights, and Dair keeps him in check. Then Adam dies and Dair's world is shattered. He doesn't know how to rebuild it so settles in to letting Wallace control things...which makes Wallace perfectly happy.

Wow...by the time I'm done with this first draft, I might actually know what the story is.

Workin' it...

Job done. Pickup tomorrow. I could not live in DC. Parts of it are really pretty but the attitude of people and the drivers brings out the worst of my LA beast behind the wheel. And so much of it is tight. Seriously...San Francisco tight. Not my idea of a great place to spend your life.

My hotel is...odd. Comfortable but very motel in style. I'm on the second floor so had to carry my bags up steps that were made for size-fives. And it's got a Keurig coffee maker (that I use to make tea) and which I do NOT like. The water comes out tepid, and I've found the same in other Keurigs I've had to use. I wind up having to nuke my tea for a minute to make it drinkably hot. But it does have a microwave, iron and board, free parking...and it was available.

I didn't do a lot of writing on DW when I got back; I was beat. On my feet six straight hours shifting and building boxes and packing and moving things around, but I did have an interesting thought about why I can't figure Dair out. I think I'm hitting at it from the wrong direction. I wanted him flawed or tormented in some way and finding Adam to be his saving grace...and that just wasn't working. It's SOOOOOOO typical. So Screenwriting 101. Two damaged people meet and make each other whole, again. UGH.

So while I'm working I'm thinking and wondering what I'm missing and then realized I wrote it last night. Dair's decent and kind. He's loving. He sees Adam as a wounded creature and connects with him and saves him...and is torn up when he loses him. He doesn't need the melodramatic crap of being damaged, himself, to be worthy of having his story told. He's been kicked overboard into an ocean of doubt and hate and is fighting to get back to shore.

That's what finally came out tonight. I began to write the bit when he calls off the wedding and to my shock he said Wallace killed Adam in his fight to protect Dair. Not physically but psychically. He's the reason Dair can't see Adam in his mind's eye, anymore. He's the reason Dair can't create wonders with his art, anymore. In order to fight off the legal maneuverings of Adam's parents, he destroyed Adam...and the fight Wallace and Dair have is cold and harsh and brutal...and Wallace is finally shown to be a manipulative political machine, not a man.

It seems Dair's story is about Dair regaining control of his life and rebuilding his ability to not give a shit what other people think.

Some of DW...

I worked on this on the plane and once I was in the hotel. Adam and Dair have been together about a year, maybe less, when he gets a letter from home and vanishes. Dair finds him crying in the basement and they argue before Adam rushes out of the house. This is immediately following that --
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I sat on the bench he let me build for him. I know it was cold but I felt nothing, only emptiness. I know I had thoughts in my head but cannot think of what they were. I know the beauty of the waterfall just up the hill tried to soothe me but it achieved nothing. It was only a pretty image, no longer real to me. I was alone in the world, no chance of return to my life, no more with a family, and I could not feel even the cement upon which I sat.

I felt something cover my shoulders and managed to make myself look around. It was Dair. He had brought me my parka. I barely acknowledged him. Then he knelt before me, took one hand and slipped a glove onto it. I let him. He did the same with the other hand...and I still let him. Then he picked a piece of paper off the snow, looked at it and looked at me confused.

“Your letter?” he asked.

I could only nod.

He folded it to put in my parka’s pocket so I said, “You may read it.”

He hesitated then said, “My French isn’t very good.”

I nodded. I had forgotten, for the moment.

“I have learned from a friend...my father is dying. Cancer. I try to call but the number has been changed. Not registered. So I wrote to him, asking to come see him. My phone number...my address are in the letter. Today I receive a response from my mother. She returned it. Asks why I bother them. They have no son by my name.”

“...Adam...”

“I am orphaned. Because of what I am.”

“No...no...mon ange...mon mere est son mere...”

I chuckled. “You are right -- your French is...is not so good...” Then I began to shake and sob and he drew me close and held me as I wept. No. No...I cried as a baby cries. Knowing something is wrong and not able to understand and giving in fully to his emotions in a way that is completely out of his control. My body shook with sobs and I let him keep his arms around me. I let him see me weak and broken. And still he held me. My losses and pains and desolation poured onto his shirt and molded it to him. My breath grew harsh and difficult to grasp. My head began to scream from pain and my heart throbbed as if I had run a hundred miles. And when I finally took back control, still he held me. Still he caressed my back, with nothing more than tenderness. Still he leaned his head against mine to give me support.

When finally I pulled away, I was no longer beautiful, but flush and swollen and scoured by my loss, but still he held my face and looked at me with kindness. He produced a cloth...one of the clean, white, cotton diapers he used for everything...and let me clear my nose and wipe my eyes. And he said nothing.

He guided me to my feet and led me inside through his studio. Across to the bathroom. Into the shower I had built. A hundred colors of clear and opaque tiles supported by soft molding and gray grout. Glass doors folded open to let us enter. He leaned me against the wall and undressed me there. Slowly, like one does a child. And I let him. His own shirt and pants, he shrugged them off and let them stay on the floor of the shower. His briefs he did not remove, nor mine, his quiet way of letting me know that was not the intention of this moment. He turned on the hot with a bit of cold mingled in and guided me around to it. Held me, face to face, his arms wrapped around me, letting the water pound on my neck and shoulders as the steam filled my soul with life and wonder. Nothing...nothing...nothing had ever felt so perfect.

He dried me as I dried him, both slow and gentle, but as I began to dress he stopped me and gave to me a pair of his jeans. His waist was a bit larger than mine, and the jeans would bunch around his ankles, but on me they looked casual and had only the slightest break at the hem. He gave me his favorite shirt, black and warm and just the right size for me, so long as I wore nothing under it. He gave me socks and, once I was dressed, put on me his parka.

Then he dressed himself in my workpants, undershirt, pullover sweater and camo-jacket. They fit him tight...but to my surprise, they looked perfect on him. Then we walked through the brisk evening air, hand in hand down the winding drive, stopping to watch the melting snow fill the stream that filled the little pond before dancing over the rocks to tumble down into rapids. The moon danced from cloud to cloud and stars cast adoring winks at us as we passed the road that led to the new housing. The parking lot for Harrison’s was full and it was all so nice and normal and human to see people loading groceries into their cars. I slowed to watch them with a quiet sense of wonder.

We waited for the light before crossing the 39 then wandered up the drive to Marion’s lodge and entered and passed those dining in the restaurant or lounging by the fire to go straight to her office.

Marion was at her desk, writing. She looked up at seeing us and a soft frown crossed her face.

Dair brushed his fingers against my arm and asked, “May I share this?”

I gave him a slight shrug.

He turned to his mother and said, “Adam received a letter. From a place he once called home but no longer can.”

Marion leaned back and saw my pants on him and his shirt on me and how he looked at her, unmoving, and how I could not focus my eyes on anything for more than a second, and she rose and came to me and straightened my collar and buttoned one more button on the shirt and smoothed my eyebrows and chuckled and said, “Y’know, if Gareth were here, I’d be able to say something silly like, Here’s my three sons.” She must have seen confusion in my face because she added, “Old TV show when I was a little girl. I had such a crush on Dan Grady, I think half the reason I married my second husband is because he looked like him. Stupid thing to do...and I’m rambling so...”

I shrugged and sort-of smiled and could see her eyes were dancing. She held me close, like a mother should hold her child, and I hugged her and felt Dair’s hand caress the back of my neck and for the first time in my life I knew love and support and peace. And I vowed to become worthy of it.

I'm running out of story...

So far it looks like DW will top out at about 40,000 words. That's with me slamming through it, leaving most of the details and depth for later...but I don't know if I can make up the difference in time to make it by the end of the month. I have some bits written that need to be plugged in, I'm just not sure where, yet; plus I'm still having trouble with Dair's motivation. So this will not be a quick easy book to write.

Off to DC tomorrow afternoon for a quick job so we'll see if I can keep up any momentum. Right now I'm at 23,000 words, but I know most of what I'm writing is garbage that will need a lot of work. A hell of a lot.

I wanted to have Underground Guy out in at least an ebook by Thanksgiving, but I haven't gotten my second proofer's work back and need to go through the story to make the grammar consistent and then it'll take some time to set up chapters and table of contents and all that stuff. I guess I overextended, again.

Typical.

I'm writing myself out...

One thing about pushing to write during National Novel Writing Month is you wind up drained by the end of the day and nothing is left. Today I just coasted but still did a fair amount. I'm up over 21,000 words but they're aren't of any quality. Just place-holders for ideas I have brewing.

I need to understand something more about Dair if I want Dair's Window to work. He's too even, right now...a bit bland for an artist. He's got a temper but only when being bullied or pushed over his gayness, so it doesn't count. I need to understand why Adam meant so damn much to him...and there's no question something more than just love is going on here.

The question the story first emphasized is, How do you rebuild your life after your soul mate dies? Well, why is Adam Dair's soul mate? I don't know that, yet. I thought Dair was talking to me but he's only chatting in vague terms. I wonder if it has something to do with why his father left the house to him instead of his brother. Or why he went away to college and then spent 2 years in Europe rather than return home.

Right now, Dair's sister-in-law, Caroline, is revealing more about herself than he is. She's one of those sweet to your face people who stabs you in the back the first chance she gets. It's her way of showing she has some meaning in the world, which is pathetic but I've known people like that. I've known people whose sole purpose is to use and hurt others, like they're out to make themselves feel superior to others. I'm sure there's more to it than that, but that's what comes across.

With Dair, however...he's a creator, not a destructive force. He's a protector not a user. Does he think Adam needs protection? Adam doesn't see it that way, but maybe he does. Is Dair the kind of guy who needs someone to need him? I can't see that working in this relationship dynamic. Adam becomes Dair's protector, really. So why is it working out that way?

Crap, the more I write on this story the more question I have about it...