Love, Loss, and Lessons Learned: Week 2 in Review

And thus week 2 draws to a close. So, too, do a few other things.

It seems only fitting that at this point in my noveling, I should take a moment to stop and look around. Chronologically speaking, I'm at the halfway point of what has (so far, anyway) been the most inspiring, challenging, and rewarding month of my life. The story should be half over by now, and I'm not quite certain that I'm at that point just yet. I come in well ahead of my word count daily, so it's not exactly quantity that I'm concerned with. What I have to do now is keep my eyes on letting (as No Plot? No Problem! author Chris Baty puts it) my 49,999th and 50,000th words be "The" and "End." (Okay, so "End" is probably going to clock in somewhere around 68,882 at the rate I'm going, but you get the idea.) In order to accomplish that, I'm going to have to set my sights on pushing for plot advancement and not dawdle on the details along the way, as I so love to do.

Anybody who knows me well or has spoken to me in the last few days knows that this has been an extremely rocky week. Nothing, save this literary adventure of mine, has been ideal very recently. A good friend of mine from back home lost her little brother in a car accident over the weekend, and it's one of those times when I pound my fists in frustration that I'm so damnably far away from the majority of the people I love most. I'm the sort of person who always wants to be there for people, and it kills me (gods, my apologies - no pun intended) when I can't. I stayed up once until 4am to be absolutely certain I won a vintage Kenner Millennium Falcon on EBay to give to my brother for Christmas. When I was in high school, I heard the guy I had a crush on was home sick with a cold, so I raced over to his house armed with ice cream, soup, and a DVD of one of his favorite movies. I've faced rain, snow, and dead of night just to sit with a friend whose car broke down so they didn't have to wait for the tow truck alone. I probably shouldn't broadcast this to people, but the fact is I'd go to the ends of the Earth for anyone I care about, if for no other reason than to give them pause to think, "Dang, that chick is crazy. But she must really like me."

The unfortunate part in all that is that recently, when I've had any kind of downer situation, whether it was something minor as a lousy day in the office or something as big as a family crisis, there was one person I was hoping would be there for me... who wasn't. What's more, I had a lot of big, exciting moments that I wanted to tell to someone, too, and that one person I so eagerly wanted to share them with always seemed too busy focusing on his own hectic life to give much thought to mine. It's strange who we choose to play the starring roles in our lives, especially since in my case, it usually ends up being someone who never shows up to the set when he's called. There may be others standing in the sidelines who would have the proper dedication for that sort of thing, but for one reason or another, they're just not right for the part, or else woefully committed to other projects. Some people just have that allure that somehow manages to distract from other aspects that leave them woefully lacking. People go nuts for Marilyn Monroe, but few realize what horrible work ethic she had, especially late in her career. (Yeah, I know I'm gonna get hate mail for that.) At any rate, the time came when I was forced to make a choice.

It's funny how one heartache can heal you from another. I don't really talk to any of my exes now, but when I think of them, I do still smile most of the time. And I'd like to think that in the unlikely event I ever ran into one of them now, I'd be able to have a conversation with him without any bitterness involved. Maybe it's because he wouldn't be the most recent "ex" anymore. (Though this more recent heartache is less of an "ex" and more of a "never quite was," but I digress.) So maybe some one of these days, a few years from now, I'll be able to talk to this person and say, "Hey, it's really okay, I think I just showed up at the wrong time in your life."

Not right now, though. For now, all I can really say to this person, who will likely never read this, is that I have no regrets, because I can honestly say that there was nothing I didn't do to try to win you over. I met every idea you threw at me with unhampered enthusiasm, not just because I wanted to earn points with you, but because I honestly believed that you were the sort of person who could make things happen. I do wish you'd had half the confidence in me that you did in yourself, but I suppose that point's moot now. For all your planning and striving and working toward your goals, there was one thing you left out. And I'm sorry, but I just can't wait any longer.

I have a point, I promise.

I suppose I'm venturing far too much into the personal realm now, but as anyone who writes more than shopping lists can tell you, everything that affects me in any significant way is going to impact what happens when I sit down at the keys. I've had a couple of fairly big shakedowns rattle me this week, and wouldn't you know it, I still exceeded my word count every single day. Maybe it's because my writing was the one thing I felt was stable, the one stationary point I could hold onto when so many other things in my world seemed to be spinning rapidly out of control. This week was, in a word (or two), the pits. But I'm still ahead of my game, and I'm eager to put it all to bed. I'm pleased to report that I've discovered that there are some dreams it's perfectly okay to let go of, and that you should never, ever fight for something that doesn't make you happy anymore, simply because it once did.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do. There's a framed sketch of me that an old flame of mine once drew and gave to me for Christmas that I took down after we stopped talking, because I couldn't bear the sight of it anymore (one thing I'll say for him - he was a very thoughtful lad). I think I've sufficiently exorcised my demons with him that I can safely put it back on my wall now. I'm going to grab a hammer and nail and hang up a reminder that old wounds do heal, and that there's no reason to throw the good memories out with the bad. And then, I'm going to sit myself back down and dive into tonight's noveling. Week 3 beckons.

Oh, and to my most recent loss - aside from the casual reference to a nice head of hair on my male protagonist, no, I am not going to put you in my novel.



Week 2 Snippets:

Day 8:
...Not likely, a voice in my head cautioned as I saw the stout figure of Dr. Fletcher stroll through the door. I groaned inwardly. If there were one moment in his maddeningly anal retentive life that Fate would choose to pluck him ...from one of his obsessive routines and throw him into my lap, this would be it.

Dr. Ervin Fletcher was a Professor Emeritus in the Archaeology department, and head of Special Collections in the library. He was also the sort of person who would (and did) write letters of complaint to the publishers of Scientific American for binding their subscription cards crookedly in their issues. His fastidious attention to detail and strict punctuality, not to mention his recent retirement from academics, made him a natural choice for the position. It also made him a royal thorn in my side.

It was a running joke around the library that the Royal Observatory in London set Greenwich Mean Time based on Fletcher’s watch, which normally worked to our advantage. He could be depended on to set foot in the library at promptly 10:36am every Thursday morning, just long enough for him to have walked from his house three blocks off-campus, stopped for coffee at the west end dining hall, checked in at his office in the Jenkins building, and taken a leisurely stroll down the path to the library. Today was Wednesday, and a quick glance at the clock on the counter revealed the time to be 11:42. Which is why he was the last person on Earth I expected, or wanted, to darken my doorstep.

Day 9:
“It’s funny how you don’t even notice it,” she continued, undaunted. “I saw how you looked at him when he walked in today.” She picked idly at her fingernails, her tone gratingly nonchalant. “I’ve made my share of bad judgment call...s, Lanie. I buy off the rack without even trying things on. I’ve got a five year lease on a ten year old car. Hell, I get my hair done by a woman who sent away for her beautician’s license from an ad in the Enquirer. But you? Hell, you don’t tie your shoes in the morning without giving a ten-minute pep talk to the laces. So you falling for an antiques thief? Call me crazy, I don’t buy it.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “You don’t buy it? You don’t even know him. How could you possibly know what he’s capable of?”

She leaned forward conspiratorially, arms folded on the desk. “Not him, sweets. You. Maybe you’re still trying to talk yourself out of it, but I can practically hear your breath catch in your throat whenever he carries his elegant British self through that door. And granted, I haven’t really known you for a long period of time, but you’re one of the most practical, levelheaded people in the world.” She held up a staying hand to still my protest before my lips could even form it. “…Or at least on this campus, which is sadly just about all I see of the world on a regular basis, anyway. So even if it hasn’t clued the rest of your brain in just yet, there’s one little corner of your mind that carries a torch for that boy, and I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t have happened without it having put him through some sort of Grade A full phase boot camp application process pulled straight from the modern woman’s dating handbook; a process which, mind you, I personally wouldn’t consider complete without a full physical exam, but your methods are entirely your own. So yeah, I think you’re safe. As for what he’s capable of?” She cast her eyes heavenward, allowing herself a moment’s daydream. “Well, I’ve got my theories on the subject, but you’ll just have to confirm them for me after you conduct the physical.”

Day 10:
“God,” he repeated with some thoughtful reflection. “It’s faith we come to again, is it?” He took a step toward her. “Is it your faith that sends you to distant shores then, Eleanor?”

“Faith is what gives me the fortitude to do so, ...Alexander,” she replied. “But it is not why I am here.”

“Why, then?” He prodded gently, and I saw a fire that was more than mere cordial warmth in his gaze.

She dropped an arm to her side, the other draped protectively over the swell of her belly. “England is a dangerous land, Alexander, perhaps even more so than the one we go to now. We are faced with acts of war and treachery. We cannot even practice our own religion openly. What sort of an uncertain world is it when even the Church is no longer safe?” She turned back toward the sea, casting her gaze out into the unknown. “When we next set foot on land, it will be in a place where there is no such danger, although I cannot speak for the numerous others that may await us. And perhaps I am foolish for thinking so, but it is a chance I am willing to take. My child shall take her first breath on American soil. And it is there that I shall seek to raise her.”

“Her?” He asked, glancing down at the bulge beneath her hand.

A soft laugh escaped her. “Yes… I’ve long been of the mind that this shall be a girlchild, although I suppose I’ve no real reason to think so.”

“Oh?” He turned away from the ocean, leaning his elbows on the railing. “And what shall you call her?”

“Why, I shall name her for her homeland, of course,” she replied. “Virginia.”

Day 11:
“Sorry I’m late,” I mumbled.

“Oh, honey, don’t be ridiculous,” Marge said, lazily turning a page. “The only thing I should be upset with you for is leaving me alone to entertain myself with this dime-store drivel.”

“Why do you read i...t, then?” I asked, crossing idly to the window and peering out through the blinds at the gloomy, slate-gray day.

“Not like there’s anything else to do around here,” she muttered, her tone almost bitter. “Ten’ll get you twenty the only people we’re going to see in here today are going to be wandering in like lost sheep off the moors. You can’t see a thing with that fog out there. I was actually starting to get a little nervous with you being late. I figured maybe you’d gone off the road and wrapped your car around a tree or something.”

I smirked, glancing over my shoulder at her. “I doubt very much that even the dashing Dr. Fleet would be able to snatch me back from the jaws of death in that case.”

“Hey,” Marge protested with mock offense. “Don’t even think about it. He’s for me. You’ve already got that young British buck nipping at your heels.”

“If he is, I certainly haven’t seen him,” I observed. “Although it’s damn near impossible to see anything out here today.” I cast another furtive glance outside toward the parking lot.

“He’s not here,” she said without looking up from her book.

I swiveled around, irritated both at her assumption that I’d been looking for him and at the fact that she had been at least partially correct. I splayed my hands stubbornly on my hips. “I didn’t ask.”

“Unh hunh,” she said again, and I thought I felt her eyes following me as I headed for the stacks in dogged pursuit of something to occupy my morning.

Day 12:
I remained curled up on the couch all night, falling into the occasional fitful doze. I awoke every time his face appeared behind my eyelids, interrupted occasionally by that of the menacing visage of an Indian warrior decorated wi...th raven’s feathers, or the shimmering eyes of the young woman at the ship’s railing.

It was well before dawn when I finally gave up the struggle, rising and moving toward the kitchen, barely feeling my own footsteps as I walked. It was almost as though I were still in the dream that found me standing aboard the ship on the Atlantic crossing. I poured some coffee and sat at the small kitchen table, staring out the window into the backyard. Even in the predawn gloom I could see that the mist remained, casting its heavy pallor over every living thing in its path. I hugged my arms to my chest, struggling to remind myself that just as Kendall was a common name, Alexander Kendall was a name that could easily have belonged to more than one person. Another Alexander Kendall could have known the family motto and have requested to have it engraved on his tombstone. It was another Alexander Kendall who now lay silent and still in that forgotten grave beneath the sassafras trees.

Why, then, was I now filled with an unshakable sense of foreboding?

Day 13:
What happened at that moment could have been an answer to my silent, desperate prayer, or it could have been a matter of simple mechanics. The jolt to the door jostled the lock into its trick spot, and the key made a full, easy rot...ation. The door gave way as I pressed against it, and time seemed to slow around me as I stumbled easily into the foyer, slamming it solidly shut behind me. It was only after my hand found the deadbolt and gave it a solid turn, when the bolt clicked reassuringly into place, that I was able to focus on the fact that I had not taken a proper breath in almost a full two minutes.

As if immediately catching onto this fact, my brain’s wiring immediately began to misfire. I saw sparks of light like lazy fireflies swirling in dancing arcs before my eyes. Anything other than what was directly in front of me became lost to the darkness that descended over it. A moment earlier, time had seemed to slow to an interminable crawl; now, it was as though it had been kicked into hyperdrive. Funny, I’d always thought night took a lot longer to fall than this.

My body responded almost instantly to the blackness that crept in around me, and I felt instantly fatigued. A dull hum like an oncoming swarm of bees sounded from somewhere far off. I sank lazily against the door as my eyelids drooped, and there was a heaviness in my limbs that made me wonder for a brief moment if I’d somehow been drugged when I wasn’t looking. The thought didn’t concern me overly much at the moment, though; all I wanted was to lay down, or at least to sit. I turned my head slowly toward the living room off to my left and stared at the couch, which seemed an unfathomable distance away. No… too far. I pulled in a shallow breath, realizing that no matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. As I made a vain effort to inhale, I slid down the length of the door until I found myself seated on the floor. My field of view was now restricted to a tiny pinprick of light, one steady, stable point among the fireflies. The hum of the bees was now a roar so loud as to be almost deafening. Wanting to rid myself of it, as well as the awareness of anything else my senses were at the moment incapable of handling, my eyes drifted shut, and I was abruptly rewarded with silence and darkness.

Day 14:
“Perhaps I’d best explain what brought me to the shores of America in the first place.” He lifted his teacup, took a long swallow, and set it on the coffee table beside mine. “As I said upon our first meeting, I was born and raised in South...wark. My father’s name was Abraham, and he made his living laying brick. He was proud of his trade, and was desirous that I should follow his footsteps into the Tilers and Bricklayers Company. Upon my coming of the proper age, however, I proved somewhat less than apt with mortar and trowel. Upon entering the company in my fourteenth year, he set me beside a tiler by the name of Ananias Dare, who was not much older than I but already adept at brick work. We got on well from the first, and Nias, as I knew him, was always exceedingly patient with my fumblings. My father, bless him, was not always so patient, and his appraisals of my efforts amounted to mere grunts of dismay when he would pass by and see that I’d lain two rows when the men on either side of me were already at work on their sixth. It was only after a misstep with a hammer and chisel that very nearly cost me my right thumb that he at long last threw his hands in the air and declared me entirely unsuitable for the trade. He sat with me that afternoon as Goodwife Merrick stitched my thumb and began to talk, and I don’t think he stopped until she’d torn my own shirt from my back to use for dressing and sent me on my way with a swift pat to my backside and a bottle of brandy for the pain. The brandy hardly seemed necessary, at that. I made it through the surgery without breaking a sweat, so focused was I on his proposal. Come to think of it, I’m rather convinced that was what he intended.”

In the brief time I’d known him, this was as animated as I’d ever seen him. I suppressed a small smile as I reached for my teacup, nodding for him to continue.

“In any event, even as the goodly Mistress Merrick was reassembling my hand, my father made it clear to me that while he was sore disappointed that I would never be any good for laying brick, he had every intention that I be good and true at something in my life. It was upon the breaking of the very next dawn when he marched me across the river to St. Martin to meet John White, an artist I had long admired, and as it happened quite the patron of games of chance. And so it happened that in the common room of Morley’s Tavern that morning a game of cross and pile took place, upon which my father offered as his wager the apprenticeship of his only son. The coin was tossed, my father called cross, White took pile. It fell cross, and my father gave a bow to Master White, bid him good day, and set off for his day’s work, trowel in hand. I was left to the care of John White, and by the time my hand had healed, the very first thing that was placed into it was a paintbrush.”