I'm throwing in the towel.

I might change my mind, but I doubt it. I just don't feel like it. The novel has taken a turn that can only end in a predictable way. If it's predictable anyway, there's no point in finishing it.

Anyway, I think the first couple of weeks served their purpose. I had several days of inspired creativity that reminded me that I can be creative and inspired if I wake up at 4 a.m. Also, I've come to that yearly recognition of the fact that if I have to choose between being a published author or sleeping until 5 a.m., I'll take the extra hour of sleep.

Seriously, I struggle with this guilt over not being an artist of some sort, having spent so many years of my early childhood drawing or writing or taking piano lessons. I don't, in my heart, believe that there is a more rewarding path; however, it's just not a realistic path for me. Not in the traditional sense. But it has made me appreciate other arts, though I'm still fighting my inner snob.

I keep thinking of Alice Walker's "In Search of Our Mother's Garden." Gardens, quilts, cozy living rooms, cupcakes, etc. were the only available art forms or expressions for many mothers for many generations. Women, especially those who had families, were not considered to be capable of creative expression, but they were. There expressions just weren't recognized as serious.

And then I was thinking about being a teacher - one of the least desirable and least affirmed career paths that a person can choose in the U.S. LOW PAY. NO RECOGNITION. ETC. It certainly requires a lot of creativity and inspiration as well as love and a multitude of other skills and virtues. Nonetheless, teachers remain the objects of ridicule and disrespect, put upon by governments officials who dictate mandates that they don't want to provide funds to support.

It occured to me, despite my learned and inherited prejudices for unadulterated art and against common creativity, that, even if I don't wake up at 4 a.m. and write a publishable novel, I'm still a pretty damned fine artist. Look at the beautiful, intelligent, sweet kid I've created out of the minimum of raw materials! Look at the kids who've written poems this year because I forced them to read Whitman and Hughes! Maybe the world just doesn't recognize common creativity because women are better at it than men. Probably.

Taking the day off.

I slept til 7:30 this morning! I've decided that I'm just going to let Saturday be a real Saturday. I'm not going to do anything I don't feel like doing, including writing my novel. If I get in the mood later, I'll do it. I did wake up briefly at 6 a.m. to jot down a poem that popped into my head. I've been teaching Whitman this week in English 11, and I had my kids write a poem about America based on either "I Hear America Singing" or Langston Hughes' "Let American Be America Again," which we compared with Whitman's optimistic verse. I had intended to write one myself as a model, but I never got around to it. My kids were harrassing me about not having a poem to read at our poetry reading Friday. Anyway, this is the poem that popped into my head this morning:

I hear American singing
a fat lush who's forgotten the words
but keeps singing anyway - discordantly -
until he's thrown into the streets by the manager.

I hear America singing
a blue-haired matron in a Gloria Vanderbilt pantsuit
sitting upright and stiff in a hand-polished pew -
loudly and off-key and without knowing the meaning of the lyrics -
to the chagrin of the parishioners behind her -
to the chagrin of the homeless man she passes an hour later,
passes on the other side of the street.

I hear America singing
a plastic boy band with fake smiles or a trashy
diva with fake eyelashes
with a fake voice piped in from a recording in Bangladesh -
replaced yearly by newer models, turning up again pregnant and broke
on the cover of the National Enquirer.

I hear America singing
a rapper with a gold grill -
diamond studded, a chrome Rolls Royce -
singing about the poverty and neglect of his people
while he makes time with the diva in a Hollywood night club
while his sister sings on a dark corner in Compton -
impoverished and neglected.

No Coffee.

The coffee machine broke...right in the middle of my slump. Well, I hope it's the middle. I hope it's not the beginning. Hopefully, in a couple of days I'll be riding high again. I think I need something really awful to happen to someone in the story to put things back at high velocity. Or maybe I need to re-visit Dutch. I've definitely focused too much on Augustine and her heart-breaker friends (and enemies).

Nonetheless, the coffee machine broke. It spit out one last 1/4 cup of black sludge, which I promptly diluted to make an honest last cup, before it gave up the ghost. I hope that's not metaphorical.

I'm only posting this excerpt because I love the last two sentences.

They took the ferry across the river and back, leaning over the railings and laughing at the tourists' multi-colored beads. She found herself wishing that he would kiss her again, and she worried that she was becoming addicted to this sort of thing. What would she do when life went back to normal, which it was bound to do? God. She'd have to go another five years of the same that she'd already been through. The idea made her shudder. John must have thought she was cold because he wrapped his arms around her to protect her from the wind. Which is exactly what he'd do if he intended to break my heart, she thought sadly.
"I'm okay," she said, disentangling herself from his arms. "Thanks."
The ferry finally came to rest again at the crowded station on the New Orleans side of the river.
"That was nice," she said, "It's been a nice morning. Why don't we call it a day?"
He looked concerned. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, "I'm fine. This is just too much for me. It's overload. The Anthony thing..." she stopped and looked away. "And you can't help what you do."
She could tell by the guilty look that passed over his face that he knew what she meant.
"Augustine, look, I understand how you're feeling. It can all be too much. It's not too late to back out," he said, and she thought that she sensed a hopeful note in his voice. "Dempsy doesn't need to know what happened between you and Anthony last night."
Augustine flushed. She wondered if Dempsy would know that she'd lured Anthony onto a date, that she'd done all that she could to encourage Anthony to do the very thing that Dempsy had pleaded with her to stop. Dempsy would never believe that it was part of a conspiratorial trap to bring Anthony back to her. Even if she would, Augustine was not at liberty to discuss it. The one paper that Dutch had insisted that she sign before she left his office was a confidentiality agreement that had seemed harmless and fair at the time. She was overcome with a sense of paranoia. She suddenly felt as if she was the one in a trap.
"Look," John said, "I'm here to help you, not to hurt you. It's nice for me to finally be able to say that, and I'm especially glad that I get to say it to you. You wouldn't believe some of the women that I have to spend my time with. Please, please, for me, just finish the day. We won't call it a date. You're doing me a favor. Maybe I'm doing you a favor. Put it all out of your mind, and let's just have a good time. Okay? No Anthony. No Dempsy. No Dutch. Just a couple of people who work to hard getting some fresh air."
She felt suspicious, but he had an almost desperate look in his eyes. Augustine told herself that she was safe because she knew the score. She wasn't an innocent lamb walking into a wolf's den. She didn't let herself consider the fact that a seasoned lamb was probably more appealing to a wolf anyway.

Slump.

I guess I spoke too soon. I did write today as usual but not as prolifically and without the usual gusto. I just didn't feel like it, and I didn't reach 20,000. I stopped a mere 400 or so words short. How sad.

Anyway, I DID write, so I guess I shouldn't be too hard on myself. I may be in the throes of the two-week slump. I've heard it's pretty common, and that you just have to push through to week three. We'll see. Right now, I can't imagine having a finished product. How different from yesterday.

On a bright and ridiculous note, Fain and I put up our Christmas tree yesterday. I know. I know. Sad and suburban. But, before you say anything, remember that I have a two-year old who is much more interested in Christmas than in Thanksgiving. And I lay all the blame entirely at his feet.

I'll post a photo as soon as I get a battery for my camera.

17504 words and no sign of stopping.

I'm almost at 20,000. I suspect that I'll hit it tomorrow morning. I had to force myself to stop this morning, even though the baby's still asleep. I don't like to work beyond a certain point because I like to leave somewhat excited about the next scene.

I nearly worked in another kiss. It would have been easy because Augustine decided to jump the gun and begin working on breaking her mark's heart. Her case involves an old flame who has left his wife, her cousin. The moment came. The kiss was inevitable, and, boy, howdy, it would've been a good one, but I forced myself to wait. I didn't feel like three kisses in two chapters would have been the way to go. However, the non-kiss in Chapter Nine is probably more intense than the kisses in Chapter Eight. Whew. If I keep up at this rate, I'll never have to date again.

Speaking of which, a co-worker said yesterday, "I bet you've got men lined up outside your door."

My reply? "Yep. Unfortunately, they're all bill-collectors."

I have a long weekend ahead of me. No school today due to Veteran's Day. It's going to take real will-power not to begin decorating for Christmas, cheesy as that may sound. I've got the pre-lit tree (multi-colored lights, of course), the knick-knacks and bric-a-bracs. To be honest, I've been shutting myself up in the kitchen at night for a few minutes to listen to my Rat Pack Christmas album in secret.

But, before then, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade! Just weeks away!

And, just think, we'll have complete novels to edit over the Christmas holiday!

I'm so giddy over my characters' kisses that I wanted to share them.

Which totally makes this even more like a slumber party.

John, obviously, is the professional heart-breaker. Augustine is the heart-breaker in training. I think she's doing alright.

I have bus duty under an old willow oak in the mornings, rain or shine. My partner is the drama teacher. I began telling him the plot of the story a few days ago and caught him up on it. Now, when I get under the tree, he asks, "What happened today?"

He called the story scandalicious.

My first kiss.

At the marina, Augustine emerged from her car hesitantly. John approached her and stood facing her for a moment with a slight frown on his face, and then, with a nearly imperceptible movement of his hand, he unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.
"Really," he said as he turned and walked up the dock, "That's entirely inappropriate."
Augustine flushed and angrily charged after him with her fists at her side, but as she was about to lay into him, he turned, caught her by her shoulders, and covered her mouth with his. For a moment, she seemed to loosen and sink, and then she abruptly recovered herself and pushed him away.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she fumed, wiping her mouth.
He smiled and climbed aboard a boat with Rosinante IV painted across the hull, "Relax."
"Relax? Are you crazy? Do you really believe that I'm going to set a foot of mine on that boat with you when you've just mauled me in the wide open?"
"Do or don't, but understand this: it's nothing personal. It's strictly business. Dutch wants you to be able to break someone's heart by the end of two weeks. The state you're in now, you couldn't break your mother's heart. You need to relax."

My second kiss.

"So you fixed them up?"
Augustine nodded. "They got married about six months later, right after Anthony and I graduated from law school."
"That's interesting," John said with a curious look on his face.
"Glad you think so," Augustine said, finishing her glass of wine.
"No, I mean, your story reminds me..." he paused and seemed to change his mind about what he intended to say. "The next step is encouraging the student to share his, or her, feelings."
"Son of a bitch," Augustine said and stood up. "I'm going home. I've had enough of this for one night."
"Understood," he replied calmly and gave her his hand to assist her off of the boat, but she surprised him.
Rather than immediately jumping overboard, she strode across the deck to him and reached up around his neck, pulling his head down to hers and returning his earlier kiss, with an angry passion. When she had finished, she took the steps indepedently and abandoned him and his boat without a glance over her shoulder.

It's amazing what you can adapt to.

I can't believe that I don't even loll in bed when the alarm goes off at 4 a.m. I just pop right up and move like an automaton through the motions: pull on funny socks and bathrobe, turn on the coffee maker, turn on the computer, brush my teeth, splash water on my face, turn on the small living room light, return to the coffee maker for a cup of joe, sit at the computer, type. It's mechanical.

Then, as I go through my day, after having typed abot 1700 words, I don't even think about the novel. It might cross quickly through my mind, like a catbird darting from one crape myrtle to another, but it doesn't light anywhere in the open.

Last time we did this, I obsessed on the book all day, and I was nervous every time I sat at the computer. This time, I suppress the faintest twinge of self-doubt when I first sit in my writing chair, but, in truth, I'm too tired to engage in too much doubt of any kind. As we know from Descartes, doubt is a skill of logic, and this early in the morning skills and logic are still sleeping.

I'm ashamed to say that this is quickly becoming something worse than chick lit, Natalie. I was compelled to pop a blouse button and to engage in a fought off kiss between the two attractive main characters, which is definitely sinking below chick lit into the romance novel domain. Argh. But, wow, what a kiss. It's been so long since I have personally experienced a kiss that I have to confess to a little tingle of my own upon writing the scene, and the male lead does make me a little giddy. I'll probably insert more kissing just for my own benefit.

However, my two main characters are both celibate, so it won't be too bawdy. I know, weird, right? Especially considering the nature of the story, but they each have very legitimate reasons for avoiding the complications inherent in physical intimacy. They're going to spend a lot of time together over the next two (book) weeks, so there's no telling what may happen.