Countdown to Insanity

Is it Friday yet?

That's the question I keep asking myself. It has nothing to do with the end of the working week or the beginning of the weekend and everything to do with getting no sleep and going insane for a 30 day period.

Yes, it's NaNoWriMo time again.

After last year's experience, I'm surprised I didn't completely try to prevent myself from acknowledging that the site or the project even existed. Last year, I was prepared. I had 30 or so pages of notes for a novel I'd been planning to write for years; I'd been carrying them around, periodically adding to them. I had dutifully bought a copy of Anne Lamont's Bird by Bird, and read the first half of it. I had carefully outlined my interweaving plots on index cards and filed them in a flippable notebook with color coordinated paper clips. My freezer was stocked with multiple bags of coffee and a vast selection of Hot Pockets. I had a list of fellow participants with whom to compare notes and send peppy and supportive emails. I was ready.

And then... what happened?

I started out in a blaze of glory and wrote with wild abandon. And the further I got enmeshed in my plot, the worse things got. Last year's plot was fictionalized reality, which meant that when my main character started to lose her grip on reality, I went along for the ride with her. I believe the entire project crashed and burned somewhere around November 28th, when I found myself scrawling "HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE" in a notebook stained with red wine, spilled in my haste to drain the bottle. Roger Mexico was in town that weekend for the Thanksgiving holidays, and was out with the boys; he was probably relieved to get away from me, since I was borderline certifiable by that point.

I learned my lesson from last year's attempt. Writing a novel where your main character goes insane midplot is a bad idea, if you plan on getting it completed in 30 days without throwing yourself in front of a bus. Using a plot that you've considered to be your shot at the Great American Novel is also a bad idea, since an setback becomes monumental when the stakes are that high.

So here I am for round two. The bruises from last year have healed, and I'm more determined than ever to finish. Rosencrantz has decided to throw her hat into the ring as well, and we've been keeping each other posted on our preparations for the upcoming month. (Paisley has decided not to join us this year. I believe her exact words were "Hell, no.")

I'm using many of the characters from last year's attempt. This year's novel is a sequel of sorts, so people have moved on in their lives. Some have moved to other parts of the world, some have walked out of the narrative into their own stories. Whether those stories will be told of not, whether they will be comedies or tradgedies still remains to be seen.

I'm not sure where the story will take me. One fact that may weigh heavily into the progression of the narrative - I finally saw Mulholland Drive recently. Alternate realities in the middle of a narrative are fair game, and may serve the storyline well.

Depending upon whether I get my issues reseolved with Blogger or not, I'm still considering posting my progress online on a site I've set aside for this purpose. (Blogger has not been kind to me lately. My archives from August and October refuse to show up on the website, and the other night the site simply refused to publish my post. That problem worked itself out, but my archives are still missing in action.) If the website doesn't work, I will still be taking advantage of the new feature that the good folks at NaNoWriMo have added to their site this year: novel excerpts. In addition to the updateable word count, authors have the option of providing readable proof of their progress. I'll keep everyone posted when new stuff goes up.

(And for those of you brave souls who want to seek out my progress on the NaNoWriMo website, I've decided to write under Myopic this year. Last year, I wrote under my real name and had to reveal my secret identity to complete strangers so they could send me nagging emails about my lagging word count. And for those interested in comparing my lack of progress to Rosencrantz, she will be writing under the alias of Ratatosk. She's listed her favorite authors as James Joyce, Marcel Proust, and Donald Barthelme. I feel outclassed already.)

So tonight, I'll be assembling my notes from the various notebooks I've scribbled them in. The coffee's been bought, my house is somewhat in order, and I'm approaching Zero Hour with an excited apprehension. The madness begins in just over 54 hours....

Inside Pandora's Box

There are times that I think the world is an evil place.

When I'm at work, I occasionally read the news. And it's very seldom that you read anything good these days. Terrorism, war, campaign mudslinging, missing children, hurricanes, police dishonesty, worldwide political unrest. It's enough to almost make you give up on the rest of the human race.

Lately, the news has been filled with stories of a person with a gun. A person who kills without warning, with a frightening randomness. The lead story changed with every new victim, every press conference with the police, every new clue.

I don't know anyone in Montgomery County, in the DC area. Zappagirl's parents live in Virginia, though. She was going to visit them. My boss at work was leaving on vacation as well, first to Williamsburg, then off to visit her daughter in Maryland. Quietly, I worried for them.

A few nights ago, the news was changing faster than usual. A live announcement broke into Late Night with David Letterman, with a description of a car and a license plate number, and the name of a man wanted for questioning.

Soon, I thought to myself as I looked up from my computer. It will all be over soon.

I fell asleep with the television on, and was awakened by the news that an arrest had been made. I mumbled a sleepy thanks to the universe, and passed out until the alarm went off a few hours later.

All the next day, I checked CNN for the latest updates. And as the details unfolded, I learned about a new name in this tragic story.

It seems there was a man from Northern Kentucky, just across the river. A quiet church-going man, a loving grandfather. He drove a truck for a living, and was two weeks from retirement. Once he had lived in the area of the shootings, and still had family there.

I'm sure as he drove along towards his destination that the news of the sniper was on his mind. The news of it was everywhere; it was unavoidable. As he headed into Maryland, he probably shared the same lingering feeling of anger and apprehension and confusion as many others had.

As he listened to the radio, he heard the reports of the license plate number and the description of the car. In the back of his head, he stored that information.

An hour later, he pulled into a rest stop and saw the car. He called 911, he made the report, he blocked the exit with the help of another trucker and watched history unfold. Watched the horrible events of the last month come to a hopeful end as the police swarmed the rest stop and surrounded the car. All because of his actions.

And this man does not consider himself a hero. In his words, "I done my job, what I thought had to be done - but I'm no hero."

I tend to disagree. Because of this man, communities are returning to a normal life. Children are able to play outside again. Going to buy groceries or fill up the gas tank no longer is accompanied by a heavy fear in the pit of the stomach.

And far away from Montgomery County, in my small apartment, I read all this news with feelings of great relief. I will probably never meet Ron Lantz. Our paths will never cross. I will never be able to thank him for what he's done for thousands of people I will also never meet. I will never be able to thank him for what he's done for me.

Because of this stranger's actions at a rest stop I will never visit, the world doesn't seem to be as bad a place to be. The human race doesn't seem to be a lost cause.

Because of one stranger's courage, I have hope again.