I’ve been a part of the usual November grind of NaNoWriMo for a few years now, and my first time out in 2005 produced about 60% of a novel that hasn’t been touched since. For your perusal; the first few hundred words of chapter 1. Enjoy:
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Alonso Quijano toed the clod of dirt at his feet repeatedly, the bits of grass still attached pealing off to reveal a solid mass; a rock most likely. He kicked it away, annoyed and multitudinously bored. The days were long, the harvest not yet begun, and the quotidian reminders of his father echoed in his ears each morning before, during, and after breaking fast. When the final leaf fell from the cork tree, he was to be considered an adult, an entrant to the vast and wonderful boredoms of adulthood, marriage, and land ownership.
Adulthood bothered him no more than the pithy sarcasm he received for the complaints to his father. The second and third aspects bore a greater burden, one that a “youth’s shortsighted laziness†(as the old boar described him) could not help but be wary of.
Alonso more and more frequently recalled the words of his mother, now long gone, lost to the cults of the north. “You are born, you live a simple, innocent, and chaste life. A wave of despair shall descend upon you and burry your innocence; you will die. Rebirth will find you simple and sated of your youthful lusts, a tool to your spouse, children, and community. Then you will die again. Rebirth is questionable.†Shortly after beginning to spout such idyllic nonsense, Alonso’s father had her bagged up and shipped out of the village. Craziness does not mesh with the routines of a simple farmer. Boredom and unhappiness however seemed to fit quite well.
For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Alonso craned his neck to the sky, watching for signs of the late summer rains, of the harbingers of his ensnaring to his second life. The sun shone down upon him in reply though; full, bright, and alone in the cerulean heavens. The cork tree behind the cottage remained full and vivacious. Its foliage would know at least another two or three months of sunlight.
           What should have sated his fear, and prolonged the happy moments of childhood acted only as a reminder of the Fate that awaited him. In two months time – three if the season held late, which it very well may, the unseasonable lack of late rains pointed to a long summer – he must move from his father’s home. His marriage had been arranged, likely not favorable for either youth, yet necessary regardless. He had not met her as of yet, as she resided many miles away, in one of the southern villages nearest the wood. His father told him she would travel north upon the break of the season’s first storm, most likely in a month’s time. Her beauty, lauded by those lucky enough to meet her concerned Alonso not. Rather, he found himself asking constantly of her humors, her bearing, what intellect God bestowed upon her simple village mind. A bland, stupid wife scared him more than an ugly one. Ugliness dissipated in time. He would spend the rest of his life in conversation with the woman, and together they would raise children. How awful it would be to have dull, dim-witted children!
           These thoughts and more plagued young Alonso, occupying the entirety of his considerations for much of the day (and many days before as well). The sun already sank past its high point, marking the latter half of the day beginning, and he had yet to accomplish any thing of note, not something his father would fail to find great fault in. He may have another two or three months until his freedom (of a miserable sort) from his father, but for those months it would not due to neglect his duties entirely. Sulking had no effect on the gruff sensibilities of a middle-aged olive farmer. He forced himself away from his revelries and made to retreat back into the cottage, hoping to find his sister at work preparing the mid-day meal, or better yet finishing it. Food might help to at least calm his physical restlessness. For that matter, it might brighten his spirits if of a high enough quality.
           The cottage sat beneath the boughs of two enormous firs, nearly as high as the eye could readily see while standing beneath, offering cool shade for the ill ventilated home. The grounds around the home were mostly clear, with the exception of one gorgeous, billowing juniper stand flanking the cottage’s far side. In front was a simple path, no less quaint and plain than the paths of most every other home in the squat, sprawling village. It stretched to the main road (if one dared name it as such – only wide enough to bear the girth of a single horse and cart, mind you a cart no larger than the horse bearing it) where the other cottage’s entrances snaked together creating a vast web of simple homes for their simple denizens. Behind the small home were a failing wooden shed (one of Alonso’s neglected duties as it stood), home to the family’s single brown steed, a gentle bay named Acemila. The shed also housed the two carts his father owned for gathering the olives, one reserved for Alonso’s impending departure. Blast if he couldn’t keep from seeing his future in every shingle and farm tool his father owned.
           Fortunately (less so, when he learned later in what capacity) his ruminations cut short as the road leading north erupted with ferocious, angry shouts. Turning abruptly toward the source of the disturbance, Alonso witnessed the rising of a great cloud of dust no less than a 1000 yards from his current position. Rather than waxing idly at its cause he brushed away the occupying thoughts and ran toward the ruckus, curiosity flirting with worry. Some truly angry voices could be heard from within the cloud.
           As he approached, he could make out at least half of the village in the mess. The cloud itself emanated from the frantic circling motions of two horses connected to a wagon – a device much too large for the village’s simple road. Combine the inept conveyance with a crowd of angry men and women waving sharp implements at the horses and a tragedy appeared eager to announce itself to the gathering.
           Alonso slowed his approach, not wishing to become embroiled in the struggle, at least not before knowing its cause. Whatever brought the entirety of a village to arms may very well deserve it, but it was impossible to forget the amplification of previous misunderstandings, most notably the traveling doctor, whose medicines and tinctures failed to mend the mind of a quickly failing goat. The man nearly hung for his ‘flagrant lies and false medicines’.
           As the redeeming angel of that case, Alonso’s father had quickly ended the confrontation, and so Alonso scoured the crowd looking for him, waiting for his approach to the situation before joining in the judgment of the mob.
My Fiction
I hit the bookstore on Tuesday and picked up a couple new big titles that I’ve been looking forward to for a long time. The new Chuck Palahniuk book, Rant showed up on shelves alongside the new Michael Chabon book, The Yiddish Policemen’s Union. I noticed Michiko Kakutani wrote a rather intriguing review of Chabon’s newest, comparing his newest hero to Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe (arguably two of my favorite literary hero/detectives ever written), meaning I’m foaming at the mouth to finish up my current read and start on Chabon’s newest. I’ll be sure to post a review when I get to the book and share my own thoughts.
After the last couple of weeks of genius episodes and a recent devotion to the series that I can’t quite figure out why I didn’t have in the past (seriously, when Creed ate that potato…genius). So, I was intrigued by this post I saw over at Fimoculous mentioning how half the actors on the show are actually creative and executive influences on the show:
Here it is then; I’ve been waiting for a good long while to say this, but Pro number 10 is getting to go out and enjoy the nice weather whenever the heck I feel like it. There are no more amazing days, with beautiful weather that I’m stuck working all the way throughout because of some horrible sheduling and need for work. I can stay out all day if I choose and then head home and work when it gets dark, or just hold off on my writing until the weather is worse.
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