Has it really been a year since I updated this site? Yikes! Some writer I am. In my defense, I can only say that a lot has gone on in my life over the past year, including moving twice, and beginning the transition from 15 years of self-employment to having a Real Job[TM] again. At this stage, I have the Real Job, but I'm still dealing with my own clients after work, which is kind of exhausting. We'll see how things evolve...
But I have done at least some writing over the past year. No short stories (that I can recall offhand, anyway), but I believe as of my last novel update, I was at 60,000 words — and I'm now at 118,137. I wrote a fair chunk during Novel in 90 last year, and then did NaNoWriMo again which got me a fair bit further along. I seem to do better when I have some kind of external accountability — some sense that someone other than me will notice whether I'm writing or not. I suppose eventually editors and agents are the ones who provide that sort of accountability, but for the time being, community projects like these seem to be helpful for me.
Anyway — now that life seems to be settling down a little, I hope to be making more regular posts to this site. But in the meantime, here's another novel excerpt. Some may recognize similarities to a certain truly warped scene in the Cath Maige Tuired...
“So, no car,” she mused. “Well, then. You’ll just have to give me a ride home on your back! Come on, turn around!” She tried to wriggle around behind him, but he pulled away.
“What? No! That is a terrible idea. A, I am drunk, B, I have arthritis.” He gestured futilely with his cane. “C, I just spent the last several minutes puking into a hole in the sidewalk that you knocked me into. And D, who does that?”
“Arthritis, shmar — smarth — OK, I can’t say that word. Anyway. Don’t be a pussy. You can do it!” She tried again to get round behind him and jump on his back, nearly knocking both of them down in the process, as well as making his already uneasy stomach lurch uncomfortably.
“No!” he protested, putting his back to a lamppost so she couldn’t climb on it. “I am way too drunk — I’d end up dropping you on your ass, if my knees didn’t give out first. Or possibly puking on you. Again. Because apparently it’s been that kind of night.” Feeling woozy and tired, and still aching in multiple places from the fall and the purse assault, he slid down the lamppost until he was sitting on the sidewalk.
“You would not do that,” she said decisively, trying to pull him back to his feet. “Because you are a hippy, so that means you’re into peace and love and stuff, right? Not dropping people on their asses and puking on them. Unless you’re a terrorist, that is. Are you? Because Uncle Bill said something about testing some anti-terrorist thingy…”
“What? No, of course I’m not! And what anti-terrorist thingy do you—“
“OK, then you are a hippy! So come on, hippy! Get up and carry me!”
“Why would I carry someone who can’t even call me by my actual name?” he asked, somewhat petulantly.
“I know your name! It’s — it’s — something with a D. Or maybe a B. No, probably D. Dave. Don. Dwight. Something like that…”
“No, that is not my name. Not Dave, not Don, not Dwight. It’s Dag.”
“Right. Doug. Get up and carry me, Doug!”
“That is not my name! Dag, not Doug. ’S Norwegian. Dag Ferdin Abramsen, if you want to be precise.”
“Fine, whatever! Get up and carry me on your back, Dag Ferdin Abramsen!”
The whole thing was giving him a bizarre sense of deja vu, although he couldn’t imagine why, since drunken daughters of corporate CEOs demanding piggy-back rides really wasn’t a regular occurrence in his life. Even without the throwing up part. But somehow the idea was just surreal enough to be faintly appealing, though all common sense was advising him strongly against it. He lurched to his feet. “Oh, all right. But only as far as Queen Street!”