Decision of the Day

Most of you know I do NaNo every year. That's where you attempt to write 50,000 in 30 days in November. I have a row of winner gifs on the right of the page for four years running. As of today, I doubt there will be a 2010 winner gif. Rather than tell the story twice, I'm including a post of a conversation I had with an old pal in the Pen. If you've read the blog for more than a year or two, you know that one thing I always do during NaNo is play on the forum boards in a room call The Smoking Pen Bar & Grill on the NaNoWriMo website. It is a fictional place where you create events and characters. Serge has been a fixture for awhile, the psychic bartender. LOL, and he a good friend, to have. It is a mental break and fun during a stress filled month. I am including my post today from the Smoking Pen 2010. Just simpler and much easier to read.

I stepped into the Pen and looked around. It was nearly empty at the moment, only a few writers here and there, pounding away at their laptops or frantically writing with pen on paper. I winced at that. I could think of nothing more painful than having to write that way these days. It was a thing I no longer did without pain.

"Good Morning, Madam."

I gave him a small smile and slid onto the bar stool. I stroked the top of the shiny bar, enjoying the cool feel of the finished wood. "Morning, Serge."

He placed the coffee in front of me and waited. I sipped and remained silent.

"You'll regret it, you know."

I nodded. "I already do but I think it is probably for the best."

"You could change track, go in another direction, start over."

I laughed. "You sound like everyone else for a change. That's unexpected."

He shrugged. "Hey, in here I'm who you want, no, who you need me to be."

"Well," I said, "today, I need no pressure. I need to be able to go home and go to bed without worrying about word counts. I hate the stupid story. It was a bad choice. There is no story there. I'm just writing meaningless crap. I don't want to write like that. There is too much else to do that matters."

"Do it for the pleasure."

"That's just it. I'm not having fun with this. When it stops being fun it is time to run." I looked at him. "I do not know if I'm going to ever write anything else. I've felt this coming for a while now. Something happened to me. I don't know what. I just know I can't do it. Not this time. Maybe never."

"Get some rest before you make a final decision," he said, wiping the bar between us.

I laughed. "Rest? They carry that at Wal-mart?"

"Major construction is done. Your brother has gone home. House is empty. Now rest."

Shaking my head and pushing my empty cup to him, I said, "Maybe that's the problem. For a little while, I had someone in the house to talk to and laugh with and do things for. There was sound in the house. You know, I remember saying once that happiness was islands in a sea of misery. You sail from island to island, only allowed to stay briefly at any one of them. Life is a series of losses. We learn to accept them and sail on or we go nuts and drift aimlessly in that sea. I can't afford to go nuts. I need a port."

"Madam, will I see you next year?"

I laughed. "I'm not a prophet nor a seer. Unlike some people, I do not know what comes next. I don't know if you'll see me tomorrow. But I'll be around. If I feel like it I may pop in during the month. But storywise, I'm pretty much finished."

He nodded, reached out and squeeze my hand. "Vaya con dios, amiga."

I slid off the stool and smiled. "Hasta luego, querido."

The door of the Pen closed quietly behind me. I sighed and sailed down the street.

And that is probably that.