November, November, November. Oh, November.

So we’ve been doing some work on our house — renovating and redectorating — and this is how our living room is coming along:

Just kidding. I mean, this really is how our living room looks right now, but it’s not going to stay like this for long. Obviously the fridge really would work better in the corner to the left of the television. Then the stove can scootch to the right a few feet, after we put the island on the wall opposite the TV. Then I’ll be able to cook and bake while catching up on episodes of Bones. Because watching Bones always whets my appetite.

Anyway, it’s That Time of Year: when we’re supposed to reflect on life’s blessings and remember to be grateful for our little joys, and share peace and gratitude and goodness with those around us. When we give and give and give, and do and do and do, and does it feel nice to spend time with family, decorating and eating and getting into the holiday spirit? Sure! Does it feel good to have a new tile floor, thanks to your in-laws’ generous hard work, and a new couch, thanks to…well, thanks to the Columbus Day sale at Macy’s? Absolutely! But I’m terribly far behind in my novel because of an avalanche of unforseen circumstances, and seeing as I’d have to write something like 8,000 words a day from now on to actually make it, I’m getting a little down in the dumps. *sigh*

So I’m thinking there’s one thing that’ll get us through the week. And that’s more chihuahua.

* * * * * * * * * *

Winchester Wilcox the Third was summarily startled out of his boots – if he’d had boots, that is – thanks to Thaxton’s other terrible habit of slamming his fist down on top of his desk periodically and for no apparent reason during heated telephone conversations.

“Blast it, Murnighan! I know who’s going to be there! And believe me, I’m not really worried about offending the foremost punctuational experts in the world – it’s going to happen anyway. No – listen – Just make sure I’m on the agenda, and as near the end as possible if you can swing it. I’m counting on you to make this happen.”

Which Winchester Wilcox the Third knew naturally meant, Make it happen or die. Thaxton started to slam his fist again, then held back at the very last moment, taking a deep breath instead.

“For heaven’s sake, T.J.,” Thaxton leaned forward in his chair, and the leather cushions rubbing together made a low and luxurious creaking and crinkling, “It’s a conference on punctuational research. Have you found any rule against –”

T.J. Murnighan was a worrywart, and Winchester Wilcox the Third didn’t understand why Thaxton continued to keep him on as his aide, except maybe for his exceptional schmoozing skills and large family. T.J. had managed to help make Thaxton the most well-connected councilman in Enid; Winchester had heard the wife of a councilman from Santo Bourbono explain it to the wives of councilmen from Toronto and Boncarbo. Winchester heard all sorts of wild things at Nurlene and Thaxton’s parties.

Like the rumor that Councilwoman Storelle Droverson from the sparkling city of Nouveau Paris was carrying on a steamy affair with Ethan Honeywell, the editor-in-chief of Golden Mean magazine. And that Councilman Wait Stringfellow from Manhattan and Amber had become involved in one of Merrick’s juiciest scandals, which involved an art heist, insurance fraud, and six cases of peanut butter.

Winchester, of course, assumed it was all mostly nonsense – people were highly inventive with their stories – but then his canine instinct told him that there was some truth buried deep within. And Winchester Wilcox the Third always trusted his canine instinct. Chihuahuas must always trust their canine instinct! his father taught him.

“Alright, T.J., you just work your magic, okay? Call that cousin of yours. I know you’ll make me happy!”

Thaxton, off the phone at last, sat back in his chair and rested his fist against his mouth. He shifted his eyes down and looked at Winchester, who was momentarily busy attending to an itch behind his ear.

When Winchester finished scratching his ear, he sat up straight and waited a moment before casually looking back over his shoulder at Thaxton.

Thaxton chuckled softly. “What do you think, Winchester?”

Winchester Wilcox the Third studied Thaxton’s face and thought that whatever Thaxton was up to, Thaxton believed it was important, and that no matter what he, Winchester Wilcox the Third, thought, T.J. Murnighan would knock at the front door later that evening after supper, Nurlene would conveniently come down with a terrible headache and feel horribly sorry for having to run off just as T.J. was arriving, and the two men would sit in the living room on the creaky-cushioned leather couches discussing Thaxton’s magnificent plan for blowing the socks off the citizens of Enid.

Thaxton would recline comfortably back into the corner of one couch, leaning on one elbow with his fist resting against his mouth and the other arm stretched across the back, legs crossed. T.J. would sit on the facing couch, right smack in the middle, perched nervously on the edge. No matter how much scotch Thaxton would pour, T.J. would never relax and stop nattering on and on about this detail or that issue long enough for Winchester Wilcox the Third to get some sleep. Perhaps it was for the best – T.J. was annoying, yes, but increidbly bright and really quite harmless.

And anyway, after Thaxton finally dismissed T.J., insisting he’d done a good job as always and that he, Thaxton, would now take care of the rest, don’t worry – Thaxton would collapse into his chair with one last glass of scotch, and take a long, deep breath. Then he’d look into the wisened eyes of Winchester Wilcox the Third – who would be looking back at him, dutifully – and ask with a sigh, “What do you think, Winchester?”

Winchester Wilcox the Third thought Thaxton knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t need anyone else – not even his most trusted companion – to tell him whether it was right or wrong.

So, having thought so, Winchester Wilcox the Third yapped and wagged his tail. Thaxton laughed, dropped his hand from his mouth, uncrossed his legs, and stood up from his chair.

“Alright, friend,” Thaxton said with a scratch on Winchester’s head, “let’s scrounge up some lunch, shall we?”

Now this, Winchester Wilcox the Third thought, was a very excellent plan.

Nine-thousand words, a chihuahua, and a lot of nonsense

You may or may not know that I’m currently in the wild throes of National Novel Writing Month, which is to say that I’m throwing an entire month of my life away in an attempt to write 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days, which is to say that it’s all complete nonsense. After one full week, I’m hovering a bit under 9,000 words — a bit behind the recommended daily average, but this year seems much more promising than last, as I only ever made it to just under 13,000 words. And I still have no idea what I’m doing.

So I thought I’d share a piece of it with you, because there’s an excellent chance that this is the first and last time these crazy words will ever reach the public, and if you choose to read it, it should only be so that you can forget that you ever read it. Nevertheless, please don’t steal this crap because, well, I care about your reputation.

The full synopsis (and other inane excerpt) is on my NaNoWriMo profile (under “Novel Info”). Forgive me. And cheer me on, baby!

* * * * * * * * * *

Winchester Wilcox the Third just didn’t understand Thaxton and Nurlene’s terrible habit of waking up at the crack of one hour past dawn. If he had a word for it, his word for it would have been “obscene,” because Winchester Wilcox the Third preferred to sleep at least until the crack of two and a half hours past dawn. Yet, because he was forced to endure the nuisance of living with two people who liked to get out of bed so obscenely early, it was of no doubt to Winchester Wilcox the Third that it had been written in the stars and he was destined to suffer premature ear droop. His fur was already losing its golden luster – he just knew it. Yet it was a fate, he decided one afternoon as he was sitting in the window watching a butterfly flutter from flower to flower, that he would bear with nobility and grace.

That’s not to say that Winchester Wilcox the Third didn’t try to sleep in. His downfall, ultimately, was that he preferred to sleep with his slate blue velvet pillow next to the grassy green drapes. It reminded him of the outdoors – somehow, as he had only ever been out to see the front yard – and every night when he curled up to sleep, he imagined that he was a pioneer chihuahua, exploring vast unknown territories, sleeping in caves and fighting off unimaginable dangers, making friends and enemies with equal mastery.

But because he slept on his blue velvet cushion next to the grassy green drapes, he was doomed to endure the pouring in of light on his chestnut face every morning at the crack of one hour and five minutes past dawn, when Thaxton would pull open the drapes and stare out the window, contemplating the day ahead of him as though it was standing there in the street waiting to be let in. Winchester Wilcox the Third would stir, begrudgingly, and turn around with his back to the window and try to bury his face under his paws.

Then, every day, at the crack of one hour and ten minutes past dawn, he would feel the cool, gentle breeze created by the swooshing of Nurlene’s silken robe, and hear the light shuffle of her satin leather-soled slippers. She would be carrying a cup of fresh, hot coffee for Thaxton, who would say, “Ah! Thank you, my dear, now the day can begin,” and finish with a peck of his dry lips on her porcelain cheek. At which she would reply by combing his hair down across his forehead with her fingers, then smooth out the top of it with her palm with a smile. And before she swooshed back into the bedroom to get dressed, she’d stoop down to the blue velvet pillow bathed in light and vigorously scratch Winchester Wilcox the Third between his ears.

“Hewwowittleswoochypoochywakeymommawuvsoowittowpoochypoo!”

Which would naturally cause anyone to involuntarily lurch out of even the deepest, most peaceful repose and exert a long and vehement shudder.

This day was no different. And Winchester Wilcox the Third, having shaken himself thoroughly from head to tail, stood stock still with his ears perched, his black eyes darting from corner to corner, evaluating the situation. He saw the billowing tail end of Nurlene’s robe slither through the doorway, and then click! the door promptly closed behind her. Winchester Wilcox the Third took two steps forward, then turned around to ensure that Thaxton, too, was where he was meant to be, doing what he was meant to do.

“Morning there, Winchester ol’ chap!” his clear voice boomed from above. Thaxton’s words reverberated through the cold tile floor, and up through Winchester Wilcox the Third’s tiny feet and legs. The chihuahua shivered. Then, seeing Thaxton’s face beaming down at him, Winchester Wilcox the Third turned himself around and trotted a few steps toward the man, stopped a few inches from Thaxton’s navy felt slipper, and wagged his tail as an added friendly gesture.

Thaxton smiled, and nudged the chihuahua under the jaw with his slippered foot. The force of it knocked Winchester Wilcox the Third backwards and sideways a few chihuahua paces, but he wouldn’t complain – Chihuahua strength and chihuahua pride! his father would have said if his father had words. And Winchester Wilcox the Third lived by the implied words of Winchester Wilcox the Second, which (Winchester imagined) were the implied words of Winchester Wilcox the Original; they reverberated in his soul like Thaxton’s voice through his legs. These were the things that moved Winchester Wilcox the Third: his raison d’etre.

Then, as every morning, Winchester Wilcox the Third lightly sniffed the floor immediately in front of him. Finding nothing, he looked back up at Thaxton, who was already staring back out the window with his mind fixed elsewhere. He looked sideways across the room – nearly completely bathed in sunlight now – to the glossy white bedroom door, which was still closed. He twitched his ears in the door’s direction and heard Nurlene’s cheerful humming as she brushed her auburn hair and painted makeup on her face. Winchester Wilcox the Third felt a familiar gurgling, hollow feeling in his belly, and so he turned again – away from the window – and strolled toward the kitchen where breakfast was waiting in a silver dish, leaving Thaxton alone with his rapidly cooling cup of coffee.

Writer’s block

I stare at the screen.
My mind goes blank.
The cursor just blinks.
Taunting me,
Haunting me,
It screams for attention.

Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.

I watch it squirm.
I hear it beg
As it longs to move,
To play,
To dance,
Leaving words in its wake.

Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.

My fingers itch to glide,
Long to run and jump,
Yearn to stretch and soar.
Main players,
Primadonnas,
In this keyboard ballet.

Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!

I close my eyes.
My mind, still blank,
Wanders beyond the walls,
To think,
To dream,
Telling stories to the sky.