I would like to write about love but its like a dog chasing its own tail The end is both the end and beginning and vice-versa, if you see what I mean. Seeing yourself in the action of being in love is not that exciting unless you happen to scale a sheer rock face on a weekly visit to your lover. Wrong! Writing letters, buying gifts, spending time together, intimate moments, nights out or in. Yeah! Its a rich tapestry Yeah if you follow me. So. Love. Are we feeling intimate? Well as a whole its worth the effort id say. That sounds like an ending but in fact its not. Its a cosmic camera snapshot of me on a bad day or in ‘normal’ mode. There are things in this world that defy logic, common sense, the rule of law, even perception itself. But this is my experience. If you have not experienced anything similar then you have never experienced how I felt. This does not mean you haven’t experienced love. I believe in one love but just as you can feel happy or sad to different degrees so it is with love…
Well there we have something. Now On with the novel.
‘Well I thought I wanted the boardroom job and the executive car and the secretary,’ thought Jack. He made a cup of tea putting in two clicks of sweetener, just like his Dad.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said Myra (which if you look past the murderous connotations, if you can for the time being. Then you might see that it is quite a pretty name)
‘mmm,’ murmured jack ‘ I was thinking about shoes. I haven’t got a really good pair. Yes I have. I’ve got the ones my Dad got me.’
‘Sit down a while,’ said Myra moving a cushion.
‘I’m not a Labrador,’ said Jack sitting down on the other end of the sofa.
‘Coffee?’ asked Myra
‘Tea,’ said jack.
‘Good,’ said Myra.
‘I want to talk about your…’
‘Dad,’ Said Myra
‘Dad? What’s he done wrong?’
‘Well. I don’t feel that we are connecting when we see each other any more,’
‘Hmmm?’ murmured jack
‘Look this is really …difficult,’
‘What happened mmm?
I am playing with my Pokémon plushy. It is squeezable, soft and round and smells like bathrooms. It is so cute and well made and it is so Charmander, even down to the fire on the end of this tail. That’s my brother, over there, the one playing cars. He’s the one who poured bubble bath over it. Mom sorted it out and I have to go by her rules until I am old enough to live my by self. And if his favourite car goes missing one day I will laugh.
Sounds in the hall again did not make Jake stop in his labour. There was a pain in his fingertip as he drove the needle through four thicknesses of denim. If only I had a thimble! thought Jake. He looked down the unfinished seam and to me it looked like an American desert road that stretched onwards and onwards and onwards until the dusty heat haze on the horizon. To Jake it was both a knowledge of the amount of work to come and Epic in its ambition at the same time. With the knowledge came a certainty of more pain and monotony, of shifting in his seat, of finding the ideal position in which to manually sew. As he pondered the Epic soon overcame knowledge and experience and sheer life force made each new stitch happen as if my magic. Centimetre by centimetre, side by side, the stitches extended the finished section until it was long enough to place over the sofa arm to see what it would look like when finished. As expected the result was a sign of progress, to Jake, Epic! Jake surveyed the evidence of his handiwork. Previously loved denim jeans and a jacket lay in cut pieces strewn over any available surface and the floor. The bin lay full to overflowing with old denim and stuffing from a past denim cushion project that in the end was just not Epic enough to sustain Jakes interest. But the arm of the sofa looked Epic! He covered the rest of the sofa with his clothes and a jacket until only the denim covered arm could be seen. He draped denim over the other visible areas and looked again. Epic!
Are you in love yet? Have my words cast their spell over you? I did not think so/my gracious thanks. Perhaps love is something that can only be appreciated once experienced. Ask about an intensity of love on a scale on 1 to ten. Its probably a waste of time. How do we quantify love anyway?
It was morning. Hell knew this just as he knew that his limbs were fit enough to get him to work on his bike at speed without much effort on his part. What he did not know did not overly concern him. The nightly news bulletin wasn’t even on his radar, so to speak. He read, he sewed, he worked, he wanked (a lot). He ate, he washed up. He looked at himself in the mirror every morning and smiled. His clothes were clean-ish, his haircut short-ish, his fashion-sense reserved-ish, his love-life Onan-ish, his outlook bright-ish not that this concerned him much. To Hell self-analysis was akin to his bike forming the power of speech and asking for Kevlar reinforced tyres and regular maintenance at the local bike-gym. Impossible. Something he couldn’t possibly afford to do. He liked the way butter melted on slightly burned toast and that was enough to get him through the day filled with mind numbing physical labour and occasional piss taking from his work mates. It was pure and simple. Hell sewed on occasion and made little models from Blu-tack which he would have photographed but he did not own a camera. Hell earned enough money to pay his rent, pay off some debts which he had accrued gambling. What money he had over, after smoking, he spent on clothes or on dog treats for his parents dogs. He was happy. If you asked him Do you love life? He would look at the ground, grin and say ‘Its OK!!’ Do you know Hell? Do you like Hell? What do you think Hell ought to do? Go to Hell? or Get The Hell out of town? Would you marry Hell? Or Run the Hell for cover?
Hell made the news one day. He was stabbed after walking into his newsagents during a robbery and died at the scene. Only his family attended his funeral. An accidental end to what may be called an accidental life. And finally because I couldn’t resist it – another question – Did Hell go to Hell?
This is the first eleven hundred and fifty words of my novel I am writing using the #365daynovel system at http://www.dreamplaywrite.com/
1150 words took around a few hours on and off and I used an old piece of writing for the first paragraph just modified it a bit.
One thing the program recommends is that you hire a professional editor or get knowledgeable friends and family to check your novel for quality of things like language, grammar and if it is good enough (would I hear that it was crap or even countenance such a suggestion?)
Well this is where you come in. A bit like a critique I am asking for your feedback but not on style but on langauge, grammar readability. OK! If you have a question or would like a project to get into note me and we can get the ball rolling together!
Well I hope you enjoy what i have written so far and don’t forget to follow me and send likes. All is appreciated.