Tuesday, November 28, 2006
He looked up at her from his chair. She seemed to stretch for a long time. He continued to observe her as she let out a soft, contented sigh. As she relaxed, her shoulders straightened, her hips moved forward, and her breasts changed position.
"I just wanted to say that." she announced, looking down at him.
He raised his eyes to meet hers. "Well said." he replied.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
But it had been a month now. His conscience was wearing thin... this was not something that would stay quiet. It was in his dreams. She would appear again and again. Only in his dreams she wasn't crazy or hysterical. She was just a normal, smiling girl, beckoning to him from across the street. But he couldn't go. He had his father and mother waiting behind him, waiting for him to say goodbye to his little friend. And his wife and kids behind them, waiting. And behind them, Andy Chen was waiting to take him and make him Governor, just like his father had been.
In the dream he looks back at Andy and he is saying, "help me". Andy is smiling. He is always smiling. It's one of those very literal dreams, with the notable exception that there are no traffic signs or signals on the street.
So, when the girl's face finally leaves his mind and he wakes up to wipe the crust from his mouth, he thinks of Andy. Although it is 4am and his eyes are bright red and hair sticky with bile, he knows that his chief political adviser will come to his townhouse and sit with him.
In an hour he is showered and sitting on the couch in his robe. Andy Chin is across the room, pouring some water out of a pitcher. He is always like this. Back when they attended Vassar it was easy to see that Andy was made to be a behind the scenes man because he thrived in emergency situations. He was made to be calm, to always seem prepared. Of course, this had all been his idea.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
It hadn’t been very well thought through, his suicide attempt. In fact, it had started as many evenings did in the Harlan home, with his wife and two small children cleaning up and then going to bed. He then sat on the couch, a large, brown leather catcher’s mitt-shaped piece of furniture. It first occurred to him as he sipped his third vodka martini from his favorite blue martini glass (though without the olives or vermouth). It occurred to him to have a couple of Xanax, just to see what would happen. He didn’t think it would kill him, but he wasn’t so sure. Anyway, he wouldn’t mind so much finding out.
After a while he began to feel terribly numb and empty, just like the medicine was meant to make him. But his mind didn’t begin to clear until his fifth drink. And after that, it became more apparent to him that he had almost no hope for the future. He had virtually no future at all.
He’d killed a girl. Not killed her himself, but had her killed. She was 15 years old. So there was very little moral solace in the fact that he hadn’t actually killed her with his bare hands. Because she was fairly innocent. A little twisted, certainly… but a 15 year old girl must always be considered innocent to some very high degree, no matter what kind of strange desires and impulses they’d recently been acting upon. Certainly killing a 15 year old girl in cold blood, or having her killed—or even having sex with her—well, that would have to be considered wrong. So he was very clearly in the wrong there. Very difficult to make something like this right. So there was really no hope for the future when it came to this.
As a congressman, he felt a kind of duty to uphold an objectively moral position on this matter. Naturally, the press and the public would be objective about it. He couldn’t grant himself any special moral latitude just because he had been the one involved. He knew—as a lawyer, for one, and as a politician for another, that he was guilty of a fairly seriously crime and that justice would ultimately have to be applied. That was not something he’d enjoy. That, and whatever might come after, would not be an experience worthwhile enough to live through.
That's right, it is indeed National Write a Fucking Novel Month, and I am writing the Great National Novel. And I am going to write the fuck out of it, fuckers. Really, to make the grade I'll need to write every day. This is unlikely. On the other hand, if I have some very productive days mixed in with the lazy ones, I can accomplish my sweet, sweet, crazy-unrealistic goal, which are exactly the kinds of goals I really enjoy.
So, you lucky bastards, I will be posting each micro-chapter here on SvU (Special Victims Unicorn) just about every day... or so. And I may also post a song or two in the mix, just because I've been into that lately. Perhaps it will be the songs that I am listening to as I write each chapter... that seems about right, eh?
Well, enjoy NaNoWriMo.
And remember: it's a journey, you animals--not a destination.