Current Word Count: 28.840 and the day's still young
Words to go: 21160
Average Daily Word Required to Meet Goal: 1333
It's hard to believe we've been writing for 15 days now.
Right about now is when people start getting burnt out, especially teachers and students. "I have homework" or "I just can't find time around grading" are perfectly logical reasons.
But I'm weird, and at least this year, writing seems to be my superpower. It's not like I've got nothing to do (trust me), and it's not like I've got the plot all worked out already (ha ha, trust me), but I'm finding something new every day -and it keeps me coming back.
So this is the novel so far: Constantine Gideon is a feckless writer with writer's block who has put all his dreams into this one last hope that he can become a bestselling novelist. Right about this time is when he stumbles upon a body next to a dumpster at the Outback Steakhouse. "Then I did what any normal, reasonable, well-balanced writer would do: I covered her body with trash bags, and I took her wallet to Denny’s where I planned to thoroughly inspect it to get a better idea of who she was."That's right, my friends: Constantine is obstructing justice to solve this murder himself and use the storyline for his bestselling novel.
But here's what goes wrong: he gets caught by a quirky, troubled niece of the Denny's manager and she is threatening to turn him in unless she can help solve the murder.
Here's a preview of how this goes. NOTE: It's a rough draft so there's a little bit of talking-heads dialogue going on. There will be more setting and description to come later.
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“I didn’t want to tell anyone this because I want to do it on my own, but here’s how things look. I”m a novelist, okay? I’m a failed writer who works at a bookstore and has no prospects for my life. I’m thirty eight years old and yesterday my sister showed me how much I need to grow up. It was Halloween, I was dressed as Dracula, she wasn’t… It’s a long story.”
“You were dressed up as Dracula?” she asked, her eyes squinty.
“Yes, but that’s not the point.”
“You couldn’t have done something original?”
“I like Dracula, okay?”
“But really? You couldn’t have picked a costume that isn’t fifty percent off in every drug store?”
“That’s not the point! The point is that I’ve realized for once in my life that I’m not in college anymore. I’m a failure at everything. My own dog doesn’t even like me.”
“Wow. Your own dog doesn’t even like you?”
“Nope.”
“That’s pretty sad, dude.”
“You’re telling me. On top of everything else, I need to be a grown up. And the only way I can be a grown up on my own terms is to write a bestselling novel.”
“But you’re a novelist?”
“Yeah.”
“So why don’t you publish the novel you’re working on? Or aren’t you working on one?”
“I’ve been working on the same novel for the last eight years. It’s not ready.”
“How many pages is it?”
“One thousand, eight hundred, and fifteen.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s not ready?”
“No.”
“Can’t you just cut three hundred and fifty pages out of it and publish that?”
“No, it’s… it’s complicated. It’s not ready.”
She scoffed. “Will it ever be?”
I didn’t answer. It had never occurred to me that it might never be ready.
“So what does your one thousand, eight hundred and ten-“
“Fifteen.”
“Okay, fifteen page novel have to do with you mugging a girl? Are you that desperate for cash?”
“No! I was walking to Denny’s after work-“
“Okay, that part of the story is believable.”
“Very funny,” I mocked. “And I walked right past here. See, the sidewalk is right there. I walked past here on my way to Denny’s and I just saw her here.”
“You just… saw her?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t think it’s unbelievable that no one else all day saw her?”
I shrugged.
“And you don’t think it’s unbelievable that there’s no evidence from your story? Like if you were lying, you could have made up a better lie about your car breaking down or something and then there would be an oil stain on the asphalt that would prove that you were there this afternoon.”
Out of curiosity, I inspected the asphalt and guess what? There was oil stains. Everywhere, in fact.
“Yes, but you see, that proves that I’m not lying?”
She furrowed her brow. “Come again?”
“Because I’m a writer, right? I lie for a living, right? So logically I would be good at it. Logically, I would have thought of the oil stain thing if I was scrambling for a lie, but why would I lie if this was the truth?”
Her expression was unreadable and unmovable. “You do realize that argument will not hold up in court?”
“Well, maybe the court has unrealistic expectations?”
“Yeah, you can’t tell them that, either.” She shifted. “Wait a minute, if you’re so good at lying as you’ve claimed, then how come I don’t know you’re lying now?”
“Because I’m telling the truth!”
“Wow. Convincing. But you forget that I saw you with a body. You forget that I saw you with a wallet. You forget that you’re here now and you got off work like four hours ago. That doesn’t support your innocent writer act. Innocent writers would have called the cops.”
“But I’m going to solve the murder myself.”
“What?”
“I’m handling my own investigation and I’m going to solve the murder. I’m on the side of justice, I just don’t look like it.” She didn’t move or say anything. “I’m going to write a novel from the murder investigation. That’s my secret, okay? Dammit.” I started pacing again. “There’s my secret. Are you happy now?”
“That is your secret?”
“So I’m here in the dark trying to recover whatever evidence I can so that I can identify the clues and start off on my own. Then I’ll call the cops and have them take care of her.”
Kimy was silent for a long time. Her eyes darted to the body a few times. She looked at the sidewalk and to Denny’s a few times. She did nervous things like put her hands in her pockets, then take them out, then put them back in again. “Wow.”
“Cool, right?”
“No. Not cool. Worst lie I’ve ever heard.”
“What?”
“That is the worst, lame-wad lie I have ever heard, and as a novelist, you should have done better.”
“No! It’s the truth!”
“If it’s the truth, then explain to me how you are going to keep the cops from identifying your fingerprints on her wallet and on her body?”
“What? They can identify fingerprints on bodies?”
“Shoulda thought that through, huh? And if this was true, explain for me how you’re going to keep anyone from identifying you at the scene of the crime? I mean, you’re on a busy street for one-“ The cars whooshed by for emphasis. “-And for two, you’re next to a busy restaurant. Not just a busy ma and pa restaurant but a corporate chain. Did anyone from the restaurant see you?”
My face went white.
“Oh, someone did see you. Good. So when I call the cops and tell them that you’re a crackpot sociopathic murderer with purple socks, there’s going to be a witness placing you at the scene of the crime.”
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Writing is my superpower this time. Not because I'm brilliant (because you can see from my very rough draft that I'm clearly not) and not because I have nothing to do, but because this story is writing itself. Isn't it weird that characters seem to show up and they tell you what they want to do? I mean, three weeks ago, I would have no idea that a writer would want to take a dead body to his apartment to perform his own autopsy, pass out at the idea, and then return the body. Even yesterday, I had no idea that Constantine has a restraining order because he stalked her as inspiration to write a character, or that today he would break into the dead girls' apartment as a means of leading his own investigation. I mean, who are these people?
When you're interested, the reader will be interested. And when the writer is interested in her own work, it's sometimes because she has no idea of where it's going. And that's why writing is my superpower: there's no way that what is happening right now is part of my natural writing process. But that's the best part: show up every day and be surprised.
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