“Another cat? Perhaps. For love there is also a season; its seeds must be resown. But a family cat is not replaceable like a wornout coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes its own cat, and none is repeated. I am four cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded but not replaced one another.”

~Irving Townsend

I promise this is not going to become a maudlin “homage to all cats past” blog. But I came across the above quote and paused to count, and was surprised to realize I am fourteen cats old.

It’s nine days until the end of the month, and as I expected, I’m behind.

By the end of today, according to the handy meter on the NaNoWriMo website, I should be at 35,000 words. This is about 6,000 words higher than my current word count of 28,824. Luckily, we’ve rolled into the weekend, when I always manage to get more writing done. (I was 3,000 words in the hole last weekend, and I managed to pull up even, only to fall behind again. Quel surprise.) And then there’s the Thanksgiving holiday ahead, when I will be thankful for two additional uninterrupted days (interrupted only by mashed potatoes and pie, of course) to crank out more words.

I’ve read blog posts and comments about this “contest” (it’s more of a drive, I suppose, since there are no prizes and the race in the end is only with yourself) from people saying, on the one hand, that it helps aspiring writers become actual writers by getting them over the hurdle of their editorial ear which is always stopping them before they even start. Also, for people like me without an agent, an editor, or a contract (not that I’m complaining, it’ll come in time), it provides a handy deadline to keep you from dithering.

And boy, do I dither, but more on that later.

Anyway, the other camp (and I’ve heard these comments in my writing group as well) says that it encourages writers to just throw any old thing on the page or the screen, whether it’s crap or not, and it’s most likely crap.

I guess in response to that criticism, I could only say, have you ever read a first draft that wasn’t crap?

I prefer to consider it a teaching moment. (I have taken a shine to that phrase recently, “teaching moment,” and I don’t know why. It sounds a bit condescending, doesn’t it? Oh well, I still like it.) Writing is hard work. Cranking out 50,000 words in 30 days is not impossible, but it requires momentum, dedication, and persistence. To anyone who thought it would be easy, let that be a lesson to you.

(And to anyone who finds that it IS easy, please, just keep it to yourself for now so that I won’t seethe with envy.)

By the end of the month I don’t expect to have a completed, polished novel. Good heavens, I don’t even expect to have a completed, crappy first draft done. I hope (fingers crossed here) that I will have dumped from my brain onto the screen 50,000 words of scenes, dialogue, ideas, and outlines that I’ll be able to set aside and let percolate while I go back to the third draft of the first novel—which has taken me five years of work to get to its current stage. Let that be a lesson to anyone who thinks it can be done in a month.

I learned to cuss from my dad.

Actually, that’s giving him short shrift. What I really learned from the retired Marine Corps lieutenant colonel was how to speak my mind regardless of consequences. One of my colleagues said recently that I cuss a lot on Facebook. (Which probably sets a terrible example for my niece, but she’s a mature young woman who probably realizes that her guncle is a horrendous pottymouth and that she can express herself much more eloquently without resorting to four-letter words. Right?) At one point, when I was much, much (much) younger than I am now, my father told me that my mood was always written right on my face, and eventually, I took that as a sign that I should just speak my mind because I wasn’t going to be very good at hiding it anyway. Of course, he taught me that by example, because my dad was always willing to tell anyone (regardless of their rank) exactly what he thought. Rickers, apparently, were never destined for diplomacy.

And since it’s Veterans Day as well as the day after the Marine Corps birthday, even though he will not likely read this, I just want to say again, Thanks, Dad—for answering the call to duty, and for not getting shot in the process.

“Cats come and go without ever leaving.” — Martha Curtis

And yet there’s a space here where he once was.

“So please don’t tell me that the bigotry that overturns or denies protections and equal rights to gays and lesbians in places like California and Maine doesn’t affect me. It does. And please don’t tell me how you really do love your gay friends, but you think that ‘marriage is between one man and one woman,’ because as far as I’m concerned, that isn’t love. I’ve never yet been told of one single incident in which a minister or priest or pastor was forced to marry any couple that he or she didn’t feel comfortable marrying. This isn’t about religion. This is about civil law, and treating all people with equality and dignity.”

Becky is so much more eloquent than me when it comes to expressing conviction while gripped by a righteous, blinding rage. And her sentiments are probably more effective than what I would say, which is this: if anyone ever comes between me and mine, I’ll kill them.

And no. that is not a metaphor. For anything.

My 40th, to be precise? Well, Jodi did.

Actually, a lot of people, friends and family and co-workers, made this a wonderful weekend. First and foremost of course was the big guy, Mike, who helped organize the nice shindig we had at the house on Saturday afternoon. Then there are Scott and Jay, my friends from Indianapolis who came into town with their adorable beagle Lucy and spent the weekend. And then there’s Jodi, who flew in with her boyfriend Dave from the fabulous city of New York and brought her own special brand of fabulosity with her.

I have not been looking forward to 40. Entering my fifth decade has just made me realize how much more I want to accomplish. True, this life is not a race and I’m not operating on a definite schedule, but there is a finish line, and I can’t see it but I know there is so much ground I want to cover between here and there.

I’d better get a move on.

Me: Hey, nice turn signal, Mister Gateway Ambulance Guy. Next time why don’t you wait until the very last minute to use it? Oh wait, you did.
Mikey: Well, you know if they can’t find the crash victim, they’ll just make one.
Me: (after laughter) You know I’m blogging that.
Mikey: Who knew we were funny when we’re hungry and under-caffeinated?
Me: Not me, but then my memory is like herpes: it comes and goes for no apparent reason.
Mikey: And doesn’t seem to serve much of a purpose.
Me: (silence)
Mikey: What?
Me: I’m looking for another ambulance.

Today’s WTF moment came when I was listening to a podcast of “To the Best of Our Knowledge” segment on “Re-Considering Crafts.” A writer and graphic designer, Leonard Todd, was discussing the slave Potter Dave, a remarkable man and a gifted potter who signed his works (unheard of at the time for a slave to do, to say nothing of the fact that he was literate) and even wrote poems on some of them. Leonard Todd’s family for a number of generations “owned” Dave, who was treated with varying degrees of compassion, but particularly so by Todd’s great-grandfather, which was around the time Potter Dave wrote poems on the pots he created.

My moment of mental disconnect came when Todd said he was proud of his great-grandfather.

I can perhaps see taking some comfort in the fact that your great-grandfather was not a brutal and oppressive slave owner, but he was still a slave owner. Is there anything in it that even leaves room for pride? I can’t see it. If I had any connection with slavery (and as Americans we all have a connection), I can’t see feeling anything but tremendous shame.

It occurred to me as I was putting away groceries that my relationship with Chapter Nine of the book is somewhat adversarial, and it made me think of the relationship between Kirk and Khan….)

ME: Nine, you bloodsucker! You’re going to have to do your own dirty work now! Do you hear me? Do you?
CHAPTER NINE: Jeffrey! You’re still alive, old friend?
ME: Still. Old. Friend. You’ve managed to kill just about every other thought I’ve had but like a poor marksman you keep missing the target.
NINE: Perhaps, I no longer need to try. I’ve done far worse than kill you: I’ve hurt you. And I wish to go on hurting you. I shall leave you as you left me, as you left your characters: marooned for all eternity  inside the center of a convoluted mess: buried alive… buried alive….
ME: NIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!!!!!

(Let’s just say I’m not sure when I’m going to be able to move on to Chapter Ten….)

I’ve noticed a new recurring element that’s been appearing in my writing lately. Before now, one of the things that came up a lot (“recurring theme” sounds pretentious, but I guess that’s what it is) was the notion of home and how to define it. Lately, though, I’ve been coming up with characters who’ve reached—not a crossroads; more like a mile marker, and they’ve turned around to look behind and take stock of everything that’s happened to them, everything that’s brought them to the point in their lives where I start writing about them, and wondering why it’s taken them so long to get where they are.

I wonder if this is in any way related to turning 40 this month. (Of course, just asking that question implies an answer.)