Here’s Part 3 of this writing exercise. I have no idea how many parts there will be or how it will end. Or if it will end. Like real exercise, you never know until you get to the gym and start sweating. Okay, that was a terrible analogy.
I am not surprised, but neither am I especially pleased, because I was certain there was someone behind me and the acoustics in the area are not likely to lead me to mistake my own footsteps for those of someone else.
But even as I think this the whole experience begins to muddy in my mind. I am cold and a little tired and in no mood to play games with my own brain. I give in, give up. Yes, I imagined the entire thing. No one was following me. No one was there.
Instead of trudging forward and that much closer to the delicious steaming mug of hot chocolate that would be mine, I pivot around and face the way I came from. I retrace my steps, peering down into the trodden snow, examining my shoe prints and looking for others. There’s not enough light and given that letting my imagination fill in the blanks is quite possibly the reason I am now walking opposite my destination, I stop, pull out my phone and turn on its flashlight function (I wonder if it’s called Torch mode in the UK). I crouch down, my knees creaking unhappily from the cold and the damp, and wave the phone across the path I’ve made. I can see my prints clearly. I don’t see any others.
My imagination, that’s all. Time for hot chocolate and some apparently well-needed rest.
I continue to backtrack just a little more, having not quite reached the point of total satisfaction. It’s kind of like art–I’ll know it when I see it. Or in this case, when I get there.
The not-terribly-impressive beam of light sweeps back and forth from the phone and suddenly it slips through my gloved hand, landing in the snow with a soft plop. It sinks a little. I mutter a choice epitaph, then reach down to scoop it out, but the glove endows my hand with the gift of clumsiness and I instead push it further into the snow.
More cursing ensues. I pull the glove off and stuff it into a coat pocket. I begin fishing with my bare fingers, already numbing from the cold.
It is then that I hear the footsteps coming from behind me.
Part 1 can be found here or if you hate clicking and being whisked away by the internet, it’s also available in the spoiler tag below.
[show_more more=”A Walk in the Snow, Part 1 (click the expand)” color=”#1e73be” size=”110″]
A Walk in the Snow, Part 1
It is very quiet in the snow.
That’s how I hear the person walking behind me. I stop and a moment later the person stops. It is silent again.
I am walking down a service road that’s about two kilometers long. Its main function is to provide access to railway workers and park staff, but there’s little vehicle traffic on it most days. Tonight it’s covered in virgin snow and I’m up to my knees in the stuff after an early winter blast. My breath frosts in front of me, a steamy cloud that drifts up into a clear, dark sky and disappears.
I’m about halfway down the road, heading toward South Street, the main road that runs through my neighborhood. I live a few blocks east of South. I like telling people that, then watch their faces as they try to process it.
It’s bright enough to make my way without a flashlight. There is no artificial light here, just the stars dotting the black above and the snow shimmering around me.
I became aware of the footsteps–more the sound of someone pushing their way through the snow, really–a few minutes earlier. Twice I’ve tested by stopping and the person following has also stopped. It’s hard to escape the sensation that I am prey being stalked. The snow is just deep enough to make a quick escape impossible. The closest things to weapons I carry are my house keys and smartphone. I keep my breathing calm, knowing this person is probably close enough to see the puffs. Don’t show signs of panic. I gaze up at the sky, as if I’m looking for a constellation. Casual. Curious. Inconspicuous.
Maybe.
I resume walking and count one thousand one, one thousand two. The footsteps resume behind me, shushing through the snow. It will take at least fifteen minutes to reach South Street, where the road is plowed, the sidewalks shoveled and regular traffic passes by. It seems very far away. I strain to hear cars but it’s late and all I hear are my steps and the ones mirrored behind me. [/show_more]
A Walk in the Snow, Part 2
It’s nothing, I tell myself. Well, obviously it’s something, but it’s just someone who happened to hit the service road shortly after I did, probably using it as a shortcut in the same way, and the only reason they stop every time I stop is they don’t want to close the gap between us and get awkwardly close, which would be even creepier than simply walking a respectable distance behind.
This is logical enough that my mind clicks over from “stalker with knife will paint the snow with my blood” to “thinking about inane activities to engage in once home and the kettle of water is boiling for a big mug of hot chocolate.” I feel tension is my shoulders and neck ease up, the knots loosening. There’s a long lazy S in the road up ahead and once I’m into the second curve of it I’ll be able to see South Street. If it turns out I’m wrong I can start screaming like a little girl and plunge ahead in the snow, waving my arms frantically to catch the attention of drivers. I can hope the brushed aluminum casing of my phone is more solid than the drop test videos on YouTube suggest if I must brandish it as a weapon.
I enter the midway point of the S and realize my heart is racing and the shoulder and neck muscles have turned taut, but not from fear–from excitement, the excitement of having made it through whatever it was that has been happening on this snow-covered service road. I am likely excited because of an overactive imagination and that produces an actual giggle, one I stifle almost immediately. He might hear it. Or she. Or it.
I pick the pace up a bit, fancying myself an inefficient but determined snow plow. I’m in the bottom of the S now and there it is ahead, the light standard at the entrance of the service road, casting its alien yellow light over the gate that is locked and piled on with snow, looking like a Christmas diorama. Beyond it is South Street. The angle means I can’t quite see it yet, as the service road climbs a short hill where it connects to the main road, but I hear a vehicle go by.
Feeling brave, if not totally victorious, I lurch ahead a little more than stop and dare to turn around and see who has been following me.
I’ve kicked around this story idea for awhile. It uses the same premise as Fade-Out or The Tommyknockers (among other stories). This is Part 1 and I may or may not get finished. For this exercise I’ve decided to tell the story as a series of tweets (it’s a little easier now with the expanded 280 character limit). It’s like a found footage movie, but without the footage.
Tweets from the end of the world
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 3rd
Was riding at Colony Farm, nearly wiped out on something sticking up out of gravel. Something dark, rounded. Dug around a bit with stick, no idea. May come back tomorrow if weather good. Bike & me OK.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 4th
Went back to Colony, brought camping shovel. Tried to dig around object but park worker told me to leave. WTF, they’re never there. Will try again on weekend.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 6th
@RealFrump the name is a Simpsons reference (isn’t everything?) Look it up.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 7th
Back at Colony again. No workers. Dug and wtf, whatever it is, its huge judging from curve. Giant rock? Gravel pit nearby so probably that. Very smooth. Looks like it’s higher out of ground now. Maybe just brain being dumb. #notallbrains
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 8th
Went back to Colony again. YES I AM OBSESSED. Rock is definitely bigger or ground around it is sinking. #notageologist Surface very smooth and cold, almost looks like crystal? No shovel today.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 9th
Brought Liam, we dug for 20 min? Liam: Big as fuckin house. Potty mouth. Surface is translucent. Can almost make out a pattern about an inch or so down. Cloudy so phone pic is crap.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 10th
Definitely rising out of ground. Has pushed up enough to split trail in two. Park workers probably rope off area soon. Better picture of pattern. Just random lines to me. Liam says alien language.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 11th
CAUTION: DO NOT CROSS tape around object on all sides, four posts holding up tape. Looks like boxing ring. No other activity. Object little taller than me, looks like 18-20 feet across (what’s visible). Liam says could be radioactive, stay clear.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 12th
Temporary fence up now, about 20-30 feet from object. Can go around but off trail very marshy. Object def. taller than me now, maybe 15 feet high. Liam made sketch of hidden part, wrote “alien mothership” underneath. Cute. Like Tommyknockers (shit book but fun) /1
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 12th
Have not lost any teeth yet or built weird energy-saving devices.
A bit of spontaneous writing where Christian (circa Road Closed, when he is 20 years old) talks about his hair and puberty (925 words):
Christian talks about his hair, puberty and jetting blood
What would you think if I told you I’m a redhead? Would you think I have a fiery temper? That I’m a passionate lover?
I’m pretty mellow most of the time. The rest of the time I’m usually asleep. As for being a passionate lover, I kiss like a St. Bernard. Yeah, it’s gross. Usually because I’ve been drinking. I’m the St. Bernard in that Bugs Bunny cartoon that helps himself to the keg around his neck.
Regarding other redhead myths, I’m also not a witch, and the question of whether or not I have a soul remains to be determined. I probably won’t be able to answer that one, at least not without scaring the crap out of you when I return from the spirit realm with a really convincing response.
Puberty arrived shortly after I turned 14 and a couple of things happened, as you probably know from that talk your mom and dad avoided having that you later heard on the street. The first was the growth spurt. I went from kid height to slightly taller than my father in what felt like a span of a few weeks. I swear I could actively hear my bones popping and stretching.
And the hair. Oh god, the hair. It was like I caught a hair grenade just as it exploded. Hair on my chest, hair down yonder–so much and so fast that I almost wanted to ask about it, wondering if it was normal. But who do you talk to about something that? A priest at confession, maybe, but my family didn’t go to church. Besides, it wasn’t a sin, it was just weird.
The facial hair was the biggest surprise. We’ve all seen those high school photos where the guys are sporting wispy My First Mustaches. They look ridiculous, all of them. I didn’t have one of those. I woke up one morning and had five o’ clock shadow, as if someone had pressed it onto the lower half of my face and neck while I slept. It was so thick it might have been applied with a paint brush. By the end of each day I had enough stubble to strike a match on. I hated it. Worst of all, while the rest of my hair was a brilliant red, the facial hair was jet black. I was two-tone. It looked ridiculous. I looked ridiculous.
I taught myself to shave by using my dad’s Gillette razor. He also had a straight razor I’d seen him use once or twice but the one time I picked it up I got the strongest, strangest premonition that involved me staggering around the bathroom, painting the room with the blood jetting from my neck. I cut myself plenty with the Gillette because I had no idea what I was doing, I was just desperate to get rid of the two-tone, because it was entirely too mock-worthy and as we all know, schoolkids are not kindly creatures.
After a particularly bad week of nicks that left my face and neck covered with dabs of toilet paper, I made a trip to the local pharmacy and furtively headed past the shelves of condoms and lubricants to the hair coloring section. I grabbed a box and for a moment considered lifting it. I have one of those YES I JUST COMMITTED A CRIME COME AND SEARCH ME faces, though, so I shuffled to the checkout at the back of the store to pay for the goods.
“Is that for your mother?” the checkout girl asked. She was about 18 but I didn’t recognize her. She was in high school, I was in middle school. We orbited in different galaxies.
I lifted my head, wondering why I didn’t think of that, and was about to proclaim, “Oh god yes! Of course it’s for my mother!” and then she really looked at me and I watched her eyes go from my (red) hair to my face to the box of hair color, back to my face, and then rather too quickly to the till to ring through the purchase.
Dammit.
The worst part is I made a complete botch-up of the dye job. I read the instructions, it didn’t matter. I was sober. Again, it made no difference. I had plenty of shadow but not really enough hair. My attempt left the bottom of my face looking diseased. I shaved off the stubble and scoured the dye that had stained through to the skin with some pumice soap my mom had but never used. It made me smell nice, but left my face looking raw and terrible.
The next day at school was the first time I got mocked for my looks. Of course.
I learned to accept my two-tone hair, but I never learned to like it. I shave religiously now–I say a prayer before each shave that goes something like, “Please God make all of my facial hair fall out and never come back” and then I quickly take it back because I’d probably lose my eyebrows and look like a freak. Also I use an electric razor. Much less nicking and clean-up is easier. For a time I took the shaver with me everywhere, like a companion, and I’d just spontaneously whip it out and make sure that five o’ clock shadow never got past 10 a.m.
I brought it with me to college but one day I forgot it at the apartment, couldn’t find it when I returned, and now I’m apparently growing a beard.
I vowed to write at least 250 words of fiction every day this year, so here’s the first attempt. I tried scouring some writing prompt sites but they left me feeling despair, so I just mulled things over, remembered how much I hate snow and the results are below (352 words).
This is the first part of what could be a scene, a story or a big budget Hollywood production. I can’t say when I’ll write Part 2. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not. It’s a surprise.
A Walk in the Snow, Part 1
It is very quiet in the snow.
That’s how I hear the person walking behind me. I stop and a moment later the person stops. It is silent again.
I am walking down a service road that’s about two kilometers long. Its main function is to provide access to railway workers and park staff, but there’s little vehicle traffic on it most days. Tonight it’s covered in virgin snow and I’m up to my knees in the stuff after an early winter blast. My breath frosts in front of me, a steamy cloud that drifts up into a clear, dark sky and disappears.
I’m about halfway down the road, heading toward South Street, the main road that runs through my neighborhood. I live a few blocks east of South. I like telling people that, then watch their faces as they try to process it.
It’s bright enough to make my way without a flashlight. There is no artificial light here, just the stars dotting the black above and the snow shimmering around me.
I became aware of the footsteps–more the sound of someone pushing their way through the snow, really–a few minutes earlier. Twice I’ve tested by stopping and the person following has also stopped. It’s hard to escape the sensation that I am prey being stalked. The snow is just deep enough to make a quick escape impossible. The closest things to weapons I carry are my house keys and smartphone. I keep my breathing calm, knowing this person is probably close enough to see the puffs. Don’t show signs of panic. I gaze up at the sky, as if I’m looking for a constellation. Casual. Curious. Inconspicuous.
Maybe.
I resume walking and count one thousand one, one thousand two. The footsteps resume behind me, shushing through the snow. It will take at least fifteen minutes to reach South Street, where the road is plowed, the sidewalks shoveled and regular traffic passes by. It seems very far away. I strain to hear cars but it’s late and all I hear are my steps and the ones mirrored behind me.
Yep, with today being the last day of the month, it’s time to summarize my National Novel Writing Month effort this year and LOL is a pretty good summary.
I wrote 2557 words a few days in…for a different novel. Then my keyboard was stilled as I was overwhelmed by events, ennui, personal drama and The Rains (I read today that this November is the fourth-wettest since they started keeping records. The forecast is for sun to return next month. Then probably blizzards for the next three months).
In all, my effort was so minimal it’s difficult to feel disappointed. It’s like scolding yourself for how you placed in a race you never actually participated in.
Apart from this blog, my writing in general has stalled, which is not good. I’ll be returning to The Other 11 Months writing group on Sunday and seeing how it goes there, but if I am to write more I need to do it more often than just on Sundays. It’s not like writing is a religious experience for me.
But perhaps I should pray to the spirit of Harlan Ellison. Except he’s still alive and would tell me to stop writing nonsense on a blog and start writing a ripping good yarn by grabbing legal pad and fountain pen.
Tomorrow I’ll unveil my newest and bestest writing plan.
There are two weeks left before the end of the month. As of today to be on track with my NaNoWriMo novel progress, I would need to have written:
26,672 words
As of today, I have actually written:
2,557 words
This gives me a word deficit of:
24,115 words
In order to successfully complete NaNoWriMo 2017, I would need to increase my daily input of words from 1,667 words to:
3,388 words
This is actually not an impossible goal. It would require several hours of intense writing every day, though putting in extra time during the remaining four weekend days would help offset that a bit.
The reality is that’s not going to happen. NaNoWriMo has often been the tonic to cure my writing blahs but this year–even with the regular writing group I’ve been going to–it just hasn’t happened. November has been a busy and stressful month, I’ve exercised less, eaten more, and I now seem to have some kind of official fall/winter sinusitis thing going which is making me seriously consider one of those horrible “nasal irrigation” devices because thirty seconds of shoving this weird thing up my nose in exchange for being able to breathe normally has real appeal.
I’d prefer to just be able to breathe normally.
I’m still hoping to kickstart my writing before the end of the month, but I know the only secret is to just make myself do it and the fact that I haven’t is maybe underlining the fact that I just don’t care enough anymore. Maybe all the future holds is blog ramblings and funny cat pictures.
On Day 4 of NaNoWriMo I wrote zero words, going 0-4 for the first four days and leaving me with a deficit of 6,668 words–a positively devilish amount to catch up on (ho ho).
My plan today was to go to the usual write-in at Waves in sunny downtown New Westminster (where during the other 11 months of the year it’s known as, well, The Other 11 Months) and do a good bit of catching up by reviving my unfinished 2013 novel, Start of the World (definitely a working title).
Good news: I did indeed write, putting together 2557 words. This gives me a deficit after five days of 5778 words. If you divide that over the remaining 25 days, I would need to write an additional 231 words per day, which seems pretty easy when looked at this way. So I should be good as long as I keep up a slightly above average pace from here on out.
But here’s the surprise twist: I didn’t work on Start of the World. Instead, I continued work on my 2014 NaNo novel, Road Closed. I added 50,000 words to the current word count total, bringing it to 120,242 words, then started back on it.
I’m not sure if this is the right thing to do, a good thing to do or something else. It is clearly a thing to do because I’m doing it. Tomorrow I’ll decide if I want to keep doing it. I’m not sure there’s 50,000 more words in this novel but you never know. I could channel my inner Stephen King and just not leave out anything at all, writing a kind of complete and uncut edition right from the start. Smothering my inner editor with a pillow. Not killing my darlings, but nurturing them and encouraging them to procreate. And other assorted weird analogies.
Anyway, it was nice to write again.
We had twelve people in attendance, but the table (which mysteriously moves every week) only seats eight, so multiple people had to sit on the floor. I’m betting some of them will arrive earlier next week to indulge in the luxury of writing while sitting in a chair.
I still haven’t written anything but the weekend beckons and it’s my chance to get the proverbial ball rolling on this year’s novel attempt. One might say actually getting some words down at this point would be novel, ho ho.
I kind of wish weekends were three days long, though. It would help. Also helping would be if the goal of NaNoWriMo was, say, 10,000 words. I could churn that out in desperation on the final weekend if I had to.
Not that I’ll need to, mind you. No sir. This weekend (the first weekend) I’m going to catch up on word count (from zero to greater than zero) then keep flying through to victory by the end of the month.
But I’ve settled on an alternate plan, which is to rewrite my failed 2013 novel, which had the awkward working title of Start of the World. I’ll spend time tomorrow mulling and then tomorrow evening I’m going to start writing. I have some ideas.
I can’t say I’m confident in how this will turn out, but I am genuinely interested in tackling this particular unfinished project again, so I have that in my favor.
Also, while I’m not yet changing the description of the novel, I am probably not going to keep the title of Cosmic Tingles. That might work better…elsewhere.
It’s just after 10 p.m. as I type these words and my story progress stands at zero. I have written nothing. The previous two sentences are two more than I’ve written for my NaNoWriMo 2017 project.
If the evening ends with me writing nothing–and that seems rather likely at this point–I will need to double my effort to 3,334 words tomorrow to stay on track. Am I already doomed? Perhaps.
But perhaps not. Maybe in desperation I will find inspiration. Maybe I’ll dig out some old unfinished work and pick up where I left off, the words gushing forth like blood from a skewered artery.
It’s funny how something that only happens once a year can sneak up on you. Or how when you try to think of ideas your brain just seizes up and refuses to even offer up anything, even objectively terrible stuff.
But I will ponder tonight, evaluate my back-up plan and make a decision tomorrow on how to proceed.
