Last Tuesday, I met with my book club. Caitlin asked me what I was up to, and I mentioned that I was writing a novel for NaNoWriMo. I told them about the concept and they asked me about my novel.

I told them that it was set in post apocalyptic San Francisco, but I was still figuring out the story.

sound of a record skipping

Why did I do that? I brushed past it and changed the topic. On the drive home I kept thinking about it. I was embarrassed that I was writing a story about zombies. But that wasn’t it; I wasn’t embarrassed by the zombies. I was embarrassed that I was writing toward a goal that was meaningless.

Two years ago, when I failed to complete the novel I was writing, it was because I didn’t know how to write it. I was so out of touch with my romantic side that I looked forward into the heart of the story and froze up. This year, as the beginning of November approached, I chose my topic because I knew it would not be challenging. It turns out that it was, but in a way I didn’t expect. It was challenging to even work on it because it felt hollow.

Driving home, I was fired up about just chucking what I had done and starting over completely. A day later, I realized that I was still thinking about it the wrong way. One of the reasons that NaNoWriMo is great is that it provides an external motivation for something that I really wish I’d do more of on my own. But in this case, it was an external crutch. I was focused on meeting that goal, but it was a completely arbitrary one. It’s not actually what I want to do.

Three years ago, after I had finished my first novel, I decided that the next year, I was going to write short stories instead of another novel. I never did it, but I should have, because I love short stories and I want to write them. So, that’s what I’m going to do for the rest of the month.

Three short stories in 15 days.

Then at least one each month for the next eleven months.

I’ve started NaNoWriMo again this year, for the first time in 2 years. I’m off to a fairly unimpressive start, with only 275 words written yesterday.

My stated plan is write a murder mystery slash political thriller set in a post-zombiepocalypse world. It should be awesome and/or gruesome.

You can follow my progress via this image: . At least, once it starts working, you can.

A Parisian man just attempted to ask me… something about my computer. I replied that I don’t speak French (in French. One of the few things I know how to say). He then spoke more loudly and slowly.

Sorry, dude, I don’t speak loud slow French either.

This morning, I was sitting in the lobby doing computery things, and I struck up a conversation with Veronique, a Quebecoise who had just arrived at the hostel and was planning her day out on a big map of Madrid while waiting for check-in time. It turned out that we were both planning to go see the Museo de Arte Reina Sofia, a Spanish modern art museum, so we went together. It was a great museum, with lots of Picasso, including Guernica, which is so impressive that I took a picture of it, even though I think taking pictures of art in museums is silly. But before that (for this is not really a post about high culture), as we were about to leave the hostel for the museum, I put on some sunscreen and offered it to her. She declined, saying that we would be inside, and

“…besides, I don’t like the cream, on my skin.”

She continued.

“I’m not sure how I manage to not burn yesterday with all the outside, but I only creamed myself once.”

…I did not laugh.

For a moment, the bull quieted.

He stood stock still in the dust of the arena, his sides heaving with the residuals of his exertion. The matador shook his cape to capture the bull’s attention, but he was far enough away that the bull did not charge. The bull lowered his head to sniff at the ground where it was damp with pools of his blood.

He sniffed cautiously, raised his head quickly to check that none of the toreros had advanced, then sniffed another pool. He raised his head and looked all around in bewilderment, and at that moment the pretense of the bull as primal aggressive force fell away, and he was just a confused and frightened animal.

Then the matador drew closer and the bull lowered his head and charged.

In Barajas Airport, an announcement comes on over the PA system, first in Spanish, then in English

The law requires that we remind you that smoking is permitted in Barajas Airport. Out of consideration of others, please use the designated smoking areas.

Not only is smoking allowed in the airports, they’re apparently required by law to tell you it’s allowed.

Typing an SMS on Google Voice’s website, there’s a little counter that displays how many characters you have remaining. If you go over the 160 character limit, it starts counting down again, but prepends the number of the message you’re on, like this:

2.128

If you go over the limit a second time, the display just changes to this:

Really?

I visited Kevin and Linda and little baby Sophie this weekend, and we went to get frozen yogurt. After parking in the far reaches of the parking lot in a space that was physically smaller than Kevin’s car (curb-tire interactions were involved), we walked to the mall and got some yogurt.

Well, almost.

Sophie had to be changed first (I understand this is a common occurrence), and she did not wish to be changed. Sure, at some level she did. She was crying at the discomfort of it. But when it came to the actual changing process: no. But Kevin outweighs her by an order of magnitude, and was eventually able to impose his will upon her in diaper form. And then she was back into her carseat, which melded with her stroller, but was still fussy, though sunshades were raised and lowered in a variety of fashions.

Linda, who was pushing the stroller, started weaving from side to side, snaking her way down the row of cars, and Sophie quieted.

“If I go in a straight line,” she explained, “Sophie will cry again.”

And I understood. “Babies hate efficiency,” I said.

And we laughed, and continued happily on our way, because what better way to spend a hot August afternoon than visiting old friends (and a new one), soaking up the heat, and meandering in the general direction of frozen dessert.

Friday night, walking out of the dance, a man asked me for help.

He was clearly homeless. He was wearing faded chinos that ended an inch higher than fitting ones would have and a thin flannel shirt. He was clutching a backpack to his chest with one hand on the protruding neck of a guitar. His graying hair was tied back in a ponytail.

He told me that he thought he had had a seizure. I asked if I should call 911, and he said yes. I called and explained to the dispatcher. While I was talking to her, he clutched at his chest and made a pained expression. I asked if his chest hurt, and he said yes. He was shaking and he asked me if it was cold.

After I hung up, I asked him his name. He said it was “Lucky”.

The paramedics came less than a minute after I was off the phone. They immediately started tending to him and asking him what was going on, and one turned to me while checking him out.

“It’s ok,” he told me. “We pick him up all the time.”
And then: “Thank you for the call.”

I wished Lucky well and walked back to my bike. I don’t know if he had had a seizure, or if his chest hurt, or if he needed emergency medical attention. I do know that he needed a blanket, a pair of shoes, and a warm bed, and two out of three were a short phone call away, courtesy of a medical response that turns no one away.

I felt used, for myself and for the people who actually would care for him. And then I felt guilty, because who am I to begrudge a poor old man a few hours of warmth and care.

So I’m watching the opening credits of The Spirit, which was pretty universally panned, and I’m wondering if I really want to watch it, if it’s as bad as they all say.

And then I read

and Samuel L. Jackson as “The Octopus”

It is not possible that this movie is not awesome.