THE NEXT STORY. THE NEXT FORTY YEARS.

The Next Shut Down

2011-01-31T22:27:00.002-05:00

I've been in bed with my back out for three days, with plenty of time to think, and have decided to shut this down.

In truth, I blog because I think I might need a record, publicly, when my next book comes out. But I also realize that committing to blog doesn't move me forward creatively - it narrates the process I do/would undergo anyway. A process that used to live in my journals. A private process that I miss.

So this is the last blog - again - for a while. I'm sure I'll pick it up again someday, but for now, I'm taking fiction, emotion, questions, questing back inside.

The Next Fear

2011-01-28T10:09:00.002-05:00

Tonight, I am co-DJing a happy hour and party at the Duplex Diner.

This should not cause me fear. But it does. I spent 20 minutes this morning changing clothes until I struck upon an outfit that is cute (enough) while being comfortable since I'll be eating and drinking gay Diner food for free.

It surprises me, the degree to which this is a true hurdle I need to overcome. I worked at the Diner for almost 8 years during grad school, and have a deep bench of friends and former customers who it will be great to see. The happy hour is a group I know quite well too.

So why the fear? Or, is what's important that I recognize the fear, but move forward anyway?

....

PS: Wrote a few words last night, and again this morning. Fiction creeping back in.

Snow Day (The First This Year, Not the Next)

2011-01-27T10:10:00.002-05:00

A great galloping pile of exciting comic books.

A bit of work to do - turning technical wonk-speak into compelling human interest tales (and yes, that's my justification to call it creative...).

THREE movies - all artsy - I want to see (which, yes, means I get a SODA).

The last hundred pages of FREEDOM by Jonathan Franzen.

Oh, it's going to be good.

The Next Release

2011-01-26T09:53:00.003-05:00

I've been feeling as if I should be attending the Association of Writers and Writing Program conference (AWP) up in Woodley Park next week.

I'm still a writer, a reader, a lover of literature, right?

And yet when I peruse the listings of seminars and lectures and discussions I felt... nothing. Sure, a few held a bit of excitement - turning short stories into novels, historical fiction, research, that sort of thing. But that gasping enthusiasm I used to feel, that need to devour everything AWP offered, had gone.

Good or bad? I don't know. But I like my life as it is now: writing, reading, choosing images to complement the words. So I think I shouldn't feel as if I must do any one thing. And that actually feels very good.

Rediscovery

2011-01-25T08:21:00.002-05:00

So I felt better yesterday, and actually got a few things done.

"Learned" how to wood-glue a loose floorplank. (Learning requiring only reading the back of the tube, but still.)

Rediscovered a story I'd begun working on long ago, and reconsidered short fiction, something that, post-novel, I'd tended to consider something for the past.

Taped the living room wall for painting (tonight's project).

And this morning we completeid the first of our training runs for a 10-mile race in April.

Now to work, with a print-out of the story idea in my pocket, and a gorgeous living room wall later tonight.

The First Stumble

2011-01-24T08:12:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, at church, I went from lively to dead-alive in about three minutes time, and slept the remainder of the day. I'm not even sure what the message of the sermon was, except, possible, to live fully, experience deeply, "pray unceasingly" and be open to the beauty of every day.

So I left, slept for seven hours, and now drag my ass to work.

But working with Glen's manuscript on Saturday was a treat and an honor, and those few fiction ideas continue to buzz around my head. Perhaps tonight?

The Next Coming to Terms

2011-01-21T08:26:00.003-05:00

I have always been a dabbler - before I was out of elementary school, I'd tried karate, trumpet, chorus, sign language, drawing classes, a failed physical activity here or there, petsitting and more.

So I wonder if this attempt to respect dabbling in my almost-40s has its roots in something fundamental?

Things I want to do:

Honor my family, and their needs, more.

Same for friends.

Write - but whether that's the football star, the reluctant son, the lost girl or someone else, who knows?

Remember what I love - popular arts and entertainment - and find myself a venue.

Be inspired - books, movies

So is that dabbling rather than committing? I don't know? Maybe - just maybe - it's simply LIVING life.

The Next Message From The Universe

2011-01-20T15:10:00.002-05:00

The universe is trying to tell me something.
Into fear about the dance class - a cancelled dance class.
Into time-driven stress about a potential freelance opportunity - a relaxed set of expectations but a still-open door.
Into terror about teaching again - excitement and inspirational words.
The universe is ready for this 40th year, even if it hasn't yet revealed exactly how.

The Next Stumble

2011-01-20T07:48:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow is my first intentional Friday. I need to send an updated resume and some clips to a freelance agency a friend connected me to. I need to work on my syllabus. And I'm seeing the retirement community Mom and Paul are moving into. Not sure it feels super intentional, but it is, at least, all new, good things.

The Next First Tiime

2011-01-18T18:53:00.001-05:00

A class! I forgot to remember I'm teaching a class.

Talk about fear-facing, cliff-leaping, bravery-tinged things that I'm (ultimately) quite qualified to do.

Starting in February, I teach an Intro to Writing Fiction class, and I'm actually beyond thrilled.

And the Result?

2011-01-17T14:58:00.003-05:00

Here's the thing. I love what I do professionally.

I look forward to helping someone by taking a close look at their writing and finding a way to make it clearer and more effective. I enjoy writing a story myself - sifting through information, collecting both discovered and delivered insights. The next issue of FOCUS needs to congeal relatively immediately and I'm excited by that prospect. I get to turn an Indonesian woman's answers to my questions into a personal profile. I get to figure out the best way to link stories about polar bears and ice floes with a tiger tagging project in Nepal. This is really cool stuff.

And maybe it's enough. Maybe this outlet - this creative job of mine, requires enough inventiveness to keep my soul moving forward. And that if I can see movies, and write a paragraph of fiction here, or a memoir-paragraph there, then my creative spirit (along with movies, and art, and good tv) is fulfilled.

Stuff to think about anyway. A good way to start the week.

The Next Inspiration-MLK Day Version

2011-01-17T10:34:00.002-05:00

I suppose that title is a misnomer. Today's inspiration: The Fighter. An awards-winning movie. At noon. (Oh, and the movie theater attendance also means I get a Coke!)

The Next First Thing in the Morning

2011-01-15T07:28:00.003-05:00

Well, this new little story idea is pumping!

It woke me up this morning, as new ideas often do, so I could get down some notes about how my latest character (brain-friend? visitor?) might gain some grit and texture, and even where she might end up one day.

But even when I'm not feeling inspired, characters often circle my brain, so what's different in the year I turn 40 about this development? Mainly just that, for the past two years, when a story woke me up at night, I'd gotten into the habit of telling it to go away so I could get some sleep. This year I'm remembering the worth inherent in listening to that voice and - if nothing else - jotting those inspirations down.

So I'm up, a little post-dinner and drinks blurry, early on a Saturday morning. Today is about health and art. They gym, the office (necessary and not that sad) and an exhibit at the Corcoran. I may visit my new friend/idea/interloper today, but I may not. Both options are OK. And I have a sense, my dear Fawn, that you'll be fine for a while, either way.

The Next Inspiration

2011-01-14T07:33:00.002-05:00

...came out of nowhere.

OK, not true. Two forms of inspiration came to the fore last night, both reliable, even if I wasn't looking for them last night. A new television series called "Shameless" that transfixed with its roughshod, creative pulse. And actually dipping into Franzen's "Freedom" which, for some reason, I'd been resisting.

Oh, and the third inspiration: silence. Silence, silence, silence. After a long, busy work day (from home, for which I'm deeply grateful) I took more work to dinner - just me, my notebooks and reports, and the new Entertainment Weekly magazine.

Somewhere in all of that, a new story started to flow. No promises! No promises. But I will say it felt good.

This weekend: an art exhibit I've been wanting to see for months.

The Next Blog (Friday's) Today

2011-01-12T18:13:00.002-05:00

Writing this a bit early, because I had an epiphany on the ride home tonight, as I read article after article about artistic events and expressions that I was passionate to see. And I felt guilty. Because, shouldn't I be creating something of passion? Shouldn't I have a story I feel I need to tell?

Well right now, I don't have a story I'm passionate to write. When I discovered what became The Zookeeper, I immediately knew that I needed to focus on it. When I take a new job I am invariably consumed by all the things I need to learn.

Right now, I am passionate about rediscovering my creativity. Classes (taking a dance class starting next week at a local dance school, and testing out a singing class at Church) and books (Freedom, The Lacuna, perhaps another dive into Susan Collins - the author of The Hunger Games), a photography exhibit at the Corcoran. An after work event at the Phillips.

Perhaps its justifying a lack of writing, but it feels as if right now I need to refill my well of inspiration. Read, take notes, explore, soak in. So while by tomorrow I may be off on a novel tangent, I think it's more important to let myself not.

The New No Snow

2011-01-12T06:54:00.002-05:00

Bummer! I had such visions of a snow day today. Nestling at a coffee shop with Jonathan Franzen's FREEDOM and dredging up memories for the memoir idea.

Instead, I'm half-an-hour into work mode, and heading to the office early because my dear one and I are out of milk.

But hey - ate well yesterday, have still not caved on soda, and I've decided the new iphone will allow me to take instant dictation on the street (inspiration captured!) without looking like a madman. So there's that.

The memoir goal, by the way, is to physically describe both of the main players. To really dig in and use description to give a better vision of who they are.

The Next Deep Breath

2011-01-11T07:14:00.002-05:00

Christa's blog talks about patience today. The idea that all those" overnight successes" we constantly hear about are actually, usually, the end result of years of hard work.

Today's question (taking a deep, deep breath before I dare ask it) is: Do I have the patience for a major project like another novel? Do I even want it that much?

Next Time, I Won't Beat Myself Up

2011-01-10T07:39:00.003-05:00

That's become a mini-mantra over the past few days.

Don't beat yourself up. Do your best, but do it because it brings peace and pleasure, not as if not-doing is a failure of some kind. Go to joy.

And I've "given" myself two projects to play with - the nofiction and the fiction - which seems a nice way to give myself room without blame.

The Old Idea, Too

2011-01-09T14:31:00.002-05:00

And then this morning, between church and a cup of coffee with a creative friend, I realized: I don't have to pick one thing. It doesn't have to be this idea or that choice. If creativity, and fiction, and engagement are to be my bywords, then I have to allow for writing as play. (Even using all these italics and bolds goes against the mantras drilled into me during my MFA.

So if for a morning it's Michael V and next week it's "Divided Son," more the better. If on Saturday I sleep and watch movies - no guilt, let yourself enjoy. And if today, I write a few lines for both of my current story ideas, and then go to the gym, good for me. This year has to be about peace as much as ambition. I've got 40 more years of this balancing act to go.

The Next Idea, Part II

2011-01-08T11:52:00.001-05:00

I'd sort of given up on the "next idea" from last week's post. Last night, however, we had a huge family meal for Bonnie's 70th Birthday. Great big fun. Lots to drink. Lots of conversations with the sprawling extended family. And I thought: there's something there.

New Plans for Every Other Friday

2011-01-07T11:52:00.003-05:00

So suddenly I'm calling them "Intentional Fridays" and trying to define a list of activities that qualify.

Essentially, the idea is to treat my every-other-Friday-off as the gift it truly is: and opportunity to invest in

my LIFE, rather than the work I do to support it.

The deal I'd cut (the idea I'd proposed) was that every other Friday I'd get up with Matt and leave the house with him, so I could be out in the world (even if only at coffee shop) and engaging in something meaningful at the opening of the day. The idea continued that I'd stick to my "intention" for at least 2-3 hours, so that I could still benefit from the joys of pure, unplanned time in the afternoon.

And then I realized that I'd just assumed that to be of value, that time had to be writing time.

But wait, aren't I also committing to a bigger, broader approach to this 40th year? So I've expanded the "intentionals" list. Here we go: writing, fostering fiction/creativity/inspiration (research, reading a good work of fiction or seeing an artistic movie), exercising, or providing support for family and friends – particularly family.

Because I realized that a serious strain of guilt has been growing in me over the past year or so - the idea that I'm not doing enough as my parents age and my friend's lives (and Matt and my life too) accrue complexity and challenge.

So instead of feeling guilty for not writing (or whatever it is I'm not doing on any given day) my goal is to commit that time simply to moving onto a positive path for the next 40 years. To dedicating at least 3-4 hours, every other week to the things that will sustain me in the long haul.

The Next Big Idea

2011-01-06T07:51:00.002-05:00

I think I know what I want to start writing about.

Without giving too much away, I'll say that it's very personal, it's inspired by what I call the Nate stories, and it's wildly, embarrassingly influenced by the friend's manuscript I'm reading right now. And that I'm both excited and nervous, which is always a good thing.

Tomorrow - my off-work Friday, is the first day I'll attempt to dive in.

The Next Disappointment?

2011-01-05T06:05:00.003-05:00

I'm finding myself thinking a lot about writing. Lying in bed at night spinning elegant, emotionally rich sentences. Sentences that speak volumes about character and motivation and backstory and plot. I'm finding myself not getting up from bed to capture those ideas.

Is it that my physical health seems to be taking precedence this first week of this 40th year? That my need to feel on a healthy path is more powerful than my need to feel on an artistic one? I mean, I'm reading and editing a ton, and having a smart, artsy movie renaissance.

So perhaps "the next disappointment" is too strong. Maybe I should trust my "I'll write on every other Friday - at least" plan. (Ask me on Monday how that went.) ;)

The Next Reality (started Monday, finished Tuesday a.m.)

2011-01-03T13:06:00.006-05:00

I still need to go to work.

Ah! There's the rub with all this planning/organizing/reading/silence/breathing.... work. How did I manage to forget?

Yesterday, I organized and read, giving in to the siren call of a clean, open office where I can look out the window and write novels so gorgeous that virgin hearts break. Or something. Call it the "Room of One's Own" procrastination. The idea that with "just the right space," the next novel would flow.

I also saw 127 HOURS, the James Franco/Danny Boyle movie about the hiker who, trapped in a canyon, cut off his own arm to survive. So whatever complaints I may have, let's keep a little perspective, shall we?

I also spent the entire day silent, moving like a quiet mouse through my busy, productive day. It was wonderful.

Today, at work, I resolve to talk less and listen more. To enjoy the gifts this job offers, and to be intentional about my Fridays off. This coming Friday, we have plans in the afternoon (family event) but the morning is mine, and 9-12 will be work time. What work? Which fiction? I don't exactly know, but Nate seems closest to ripe for re-starting from scratch.

The Next Challenge

2011-01-03T08:05:00.003-05:00

Today is a silent day, eyes open to eyes close.

Matt is 100% supportive, and even having some fun with it - making some notes of things we'll talk about when I talk again, "blocking three hours" tomorrow to hear what I have to say. Last night I even nervously asked him if I was crazy for doing this (something I'd never have done back in my Ptown/post-Ptown artist days) and he shut the self-doubt down for me. Told me it was great, and valuable. Reminded me that his parents have both done silent retreats all their lives as they search for insight. While I don't aspire to follow his parents footsteps, I'm reminded again how incredibly lucky I am to have him.

But beyond the silence, I don't have a real goal for today, which causes me to clench up a bit. Because if I'm taking a day for myself (note to self: why the word "taking"?) don't I then have a responsibility to pay it forward with art, or fitness, or organization, or capital-P "peace"?

Or can I just try this not-so-easy day of silence out, and see what follows? (See Christa again, #s 1, 2 and 5).

So today is about feeling the day as it comes. I do have an organizing project in mind; I'm daunted by Day 3 of no soda (my only official resolution); excited to finish the novel I'm reading and start reviewing a friend's manuscript. I even put in some time for work last night, so I could truly sign off from all communications today. Matt and I kissed goodbye, and I think today was the first time he said "I love you" when I didn't say it back. I'll have to tell him extra tomorrow, in trade. :)

The organizing project has also reacquainted me with some old stories and made me miss a few of my characters again: this week, it's the Gare du Nord ladies and Nate Wheeler and his stepdad.

But, again, today's goal is simply silence. It's one I'm excited to have underway.

Alex

PS: Anyone know of a non-religious silent retreat, maybe out in nature, I could try?

The Next Question

2011-01-02T08:08:00.003-05:00

How Quickly Will I Falter? (Yes, I put that in all caps.)

Right now, I'm fighting frustration at skype and ichat, both of whom - on this fancy new computer - are telling me they don't know who I am.

Maybe it's a sign of being in the year I turn 40? The continuing chasm between me and my effectiveness in the digital world? (Irony alert: I question tech-savviness via blog. Or is that even ironic anymore? Are blogs "so" 2010?)

The faltering, however, is more due to my lack of enthusiasm for what, by all measures is a lovely day. A friend in town for brunch. A movie with a few other friends later this afternoon. And yet somehow those minor events read to me as obstructions from what I "should" do: get to the gym, do a little work reading, finish the book I'm reading, see if I can't bring one of my fallow characters back to life. (I'm also sitting here fighting with free video-messaging software because I've got an 8a.m. chat-date with a buddy in London. OK, techies - it's not all bad.)

So that's the question for the day: Here, on January 2nd, can I call it failure already, when it's only 8a.m.? Or do I need to drop the whiny pretenses, and just get up and go about my day?

What's Next? Why Now?

2011-01-01T13:38:00.004-05:00

I've been reading a friend's blog of late.

She writes consistently, every single day, but freely acknowledges the importance of marking things like holidays, turns of season, and a new year. So while I cringe a bit at re-launching this blog on January 1st (the same day I quit soda - again, as I have almost every year in the past decade) I also realize that I don't have to let anything get in my way. Thanks, Christa, for that.

I also realized, just around the stroke of midnight, that while I don't turn 40 until late June, this is the year I turn 40. And that it's very important to me to feel as if I'm creating a life that will give me another 40 years as rewarding as the 39 years, 6 months and 1 day I've had so far.

So this blog takes another turn. The alphabet prompts and "Danny Gets Fat" remain on hiatus, but I'm hoping to take a new look at things, here, starting today.

What will it mean to be 40? Who do I expect to be at 40, and in the hopefully many years beyond? What stories does a 40-year-old need to write?

The year I turned thirty, I started the year lost. I'd been left by a man I loved; I'd gained weight I didn't want; I'd recently taken a job I knew was a mistake. In short, I felt trapped by the life I'd built. At 29, I didn't trust the track I was on.

I also realized, in January of that year, that I could change things. That I could upend the "rules" and expectations of my life, and do something new. I did some great things that year, all of which helped me get where I am today.

So, what great things will I do this year? I know we will run a 10-miler, and intend to run a half-marathon. (The we is Matt and I. He is not something I want to change.) I intend to make more of my free time and to be more accepting of times that seem out of my control. I need to be a more engaged brother to a harried sister, and a more helpful son to two sets of parents who are quite quickly growing old. Finally, and this blog should be a central part of it: I need to write.

In retrospect, I did a lot of writing last year, putting down tens of thousands of words on 3 new novel ideas. As of today, none of them shout to me that they are "the story," but I do believe "the story" is there. Perhaps, I should say "the next story" instead. Perhaps that should be the new title of this blog: The Next Story. The Next Forty Years.

Here's to the next half of my life. Cheers.

Its Been A While

2010-06-23T17:28:00.004-04:00

Since I've written. I think I gave up a little bit, back in April, when I was departing for a 2-week international work trip, attempting to hire a new writer at my job, and (frankly) just feeling overwhelmed.

I had intended to post a notice announcing a break - a long break or a short break I didn't know -but failed to even deliver that.

So let this announce a break. I'm on a break. Hopefully (given that I enjoyed reading a bit about Danny just now.....) I'll be back sooner than I think.

Y8: Yowl (there is no W)

2010-04-25T21:42:00.003-04:00

From V8:
The next morning he woke ravenous, the sugary sludge in his mouth a tease for what was to come. And on his second shift, he turned up the volume again.

Danny tore through the restaurant, racing past his trainer and showering every guest with smiles and jokes and a hand run down the back. His eyes felt glittery, like diamonds. His heart and stomach raced. The coffees (three sugars) and Cokes (free refills!) powered him to a sick degree - when he bumped another trainee and was told to "chill out," he yowled like a junkyard cat over a tossed bone.

V8: Volume

2010-04-25T21:39:00.004-04:00

From U8:
Danny hadn't been so furiously focused in a long time. He thought about nothing other than food, food, food. If another thought crept in, he found something salty or sugary to push it down.

The next morning, he woke ravenous, the sugary sludge in his mouth a tease for what was to come. And on his second shift, he turned up the volume again.

U8: Universalist or "another word for omnivore"?

2010-04-19T07:01:00.003-04:00

From T8:

On Danny's first day, he threw a food-tantrum of epic proportions, snatching french fries off diner's plates as he ran them out to their tables, downing hundreds of free Cokes and breadsticks, and -- at the end of his shift -- making two 'mistakes' in his ordering so he could scarf an Oreo cheesecake and a cookie dough cheesecake in the parking lot when he finished his shift that night.

The entire day felt flushed and feverish. He knocked back Cokes, coffees and juices like a Unitarian Universalist samples different strains of religious belief. His trainer, a girl named Mindy with chubby elbows and one half-lazy eye, hovered near him like a terrified confessor.

Danny hadn't been so furiously focused in a long time. He thought about nothing other than food, food, food. If another thought crept in, he found something salty or sugary to push it down.

T8: Tantrum

2010-04-12T07:56:00.003-04:00

From S8:
The Cheesecake Factory would be safe, he figured. Miriam, he knew, despised the place.

***

On Danny's first day, he threw a food-tantrum of epic proportions, snatching french fries off diner's plates as he ran them out to their tables, downing hundreds of free Cokes and breadsticks, and -- at the end of his shift -- making two 'mistakes' in his ordering so he could scarf an Oreo cheesecake and a cookie dough cheesecake in the parking lot when he finished his shift that night.

S8: Stone or If He Couldn't Be A....

2010-03-21T17:33:00.006-04:00

From R8:
Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.

******

And he quit his job, electing to wait tables at the Cheesecake Factory across the mall.

He wasn't stone. He wasn't hard and impassive, and he couldn't take the story Miriam wanted to tell. So he walked through the bookstore, grabbed his bag and his coat, and walked back out the door. In the parking lot, flecks of snow hit his lashes but failed to reach the ground.

The Cheesecake Factory would be safe, he figured. Miriam, he knew, despised the place.

R8: Repetition or Again, Danny Runs Away

2010-03-17T21:49:00.006-04:00

From Q8:
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.

"Well I ran away, of course" she continued, scuttling her two fingers across the table, "right up to my room. But he won me, over the next few months of parties and the small circuit my parents enjoyed." She looked away, and Danny wished they were on a broad lawn somewhere, in the sunshine with a river running below. "He was subtle, of course - he wasn't a smart match for me, old as I was. Repetition," she added. "Persistence. Yes, he found his ways... until." Her eyes and smile trailed away, and Danny pulled back. It felt as if his Adams apple was pressing into his throat.

"Miriam, I should really-" His eyes skittered over the food court, bouncing of garish neon signs. The big clock glared at him. He didn't need an "until" right now. He was already late for his shift.

"He died, Danny. That summer, and I married my husband that fall."

Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.

Q8: Quotable or Trembling with Anticipation

2010-03-16T17:30:00.006-04:00

From P8:
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."

Pushing the great, white lock back, she leaned in. "Stavros was a waiter who had worked plenty of events at my parent's house, and the parties of their friends. He was quiet, polite, and handsome. His hair was black enough, and his features... strong... enough, that it was easy enough to smile at him and accept a canape." Danny thought of Marina. Quotable, no matter what.

"But to me, he was terrifying." She placed a hand on her chest. "More beautiful than I knew a man could be. More of a man than any of the boys I knew at school. He was my woodcutter." She looked at her lap.

Danny knew the type - that longing. The lifeguards at the pool, impossibly tan and muscular and at ease on foot, in the water, or on their high lifeguard chairs. Their feet gripping the edge of the pool, their bodies knived over the water. He could still name individual coaches and football players. A cop who monitored the school parking lot his senior year. All those men who were the opposite of what Danny was, or knew he was, inside.

"So when he spoke to me, I nearly died."

Danny remembered his first heightened brush against a man in the bathroom on a trip to visit colleges during his senior year.

Miriam was lost in her story now. "It was at the end of the party, and my parents were on the lawn saying a few last goodbyes. I'd stayed inside to help tidy up - unnecessary, really, but I wanted to let the air back into the room - and he'd stepped quietly into the dining room where I was watching my parents through the blinds. 'Beautiful,' he'd said, in his thick accent, and I'd dropped my glass on the floor. His hand touched mine when I stooped to help him rather than let him clean up alone."

Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.

P8: Pester

2010-03-16T17:23:00.003-04:00

From O8:
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.

Danny took a closer look. Even hooded, her eyes caught and reflected the lights above and people walking past. Her steel-gray hair had a single, luxurious sweep of white that hung with her bangs over her eye. Her track suit, fitted smartly to her trim, lady's frame, was a soft but electrifying blue.

"I'm laughing," he admitted, keeping his face very serious but hoping his eyes would smile. He could pester her a bit, he thought. She won't leave me alone, let's see how she does when the tables turn. "But just a bit."

"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."

O8: Oligarchy or "Oligarchy?" A surprisingly helpful word

2010-03-15T08:05:00.006-04:00

From N8:
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.

Danny leaned in.

"A Russian no less," she added. "And not. A. Jew." Her voice sang.

Danny laughed. Images of oil-rich oligarchs paraded by in fleets of limousines and fur coats made from snow leopards and Siberian tigers. Gold bars piled at their feet. It made him want a brownie sundae.

"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.

N8: Not or "Are the Words I'm Getting Uninspiring or What??"

2010-03-08T22:07:00.006-05:00

From M8:
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.

"Now at the time, we had a little bit of money. Not a lot," she assured him, looking demurely at the floor. "Enough." She appraised him. "You understand?"

"I do." Danny said it slowly. He wasn't sure if she was a half-wit, of if she thought Danny was a fool.

"Good." A forkful disappeared between pursed lips. "So we had service. Waiters. A silver buffet."

"OK...." He tried to imagine something else - a porno? Motorcycle magazine guy?

"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.

M8: Mainline or "Seriously?"

2010-03-08T22:01:00.005-05:00

From L8:

"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."

"Uh huh." Seriously?

"When I was twenty-three, I was still unmarried, living in my parent's house on the Main Line-"

"Philadelphia?"

"Philadelphia," she confirmed with a nod. "I was already too old to make a good match," she chuckled and tassled his arm with her napkin, "so my parents set about hosting a series of parties that summer - any old excuse - to introduce me to all the young men."

Danny took a sip.

"At the, oh, third of these parties," she continued, leaning in like Danny was her oldest girlfriend, "I met HIM."

"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.

L8: Lint or, "Finally, Miriam's story begins"

2010-03-03T21:56:00.000-05:00

From K8:
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room.

"Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.

"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."

K8: Kick-off or "Whoa"

2010-03-02T10:58:00.002-05:00

From J8:
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick-looking blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.

It was like the kick-off to every team sport he'd ever had to endure in school. The captains not choosing him. Even his friends avoiding his eyes. That pitying school-teacher smile.

He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room. "Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.

J8: Just or "Just the Tip"

2010-03-01T07:47:00.008-05:00

from I8:
He managed to polish off the fries, crumpling the greasy half-cone and tossing it two booths down. When she returned, he sat waiting, as expectant as a homebound puppy, when she returned.

The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.

Danny Takes a Hiatus

2010-02-18T07:13:00.001-05:00

Hi folks:
Sorry to say that the old ball and chain (and by that I mean my job) is doing another round at full-time "plus," so I'm taking a quick break from Danny.
Look for a new post on Monday, the 29th.
Thanks,
Alex

I8: Ignorant or Miriam's Story Begins

2010-02-15T21:10:00.006-05:00

From H8:
Danny sat back in his plastic seat.

"If I could, I'd like to tell you a thing or two."

More than enough thoughts jostled to reach his lips: Seriously? Who ARE you? No offense, but I only have a half-hour for lunch... "OK?" he settled on instead.

"Good. Thank you." She looked around. "I'm just going to get some tea. Can I treat you to...?" Her eyes roved the creamy salad, the small side of fries, the massive coke.

He put his hands behind him and pushed his chest forward while sucking his stomach in. "Oh, no, thanks. I'm fine." He tried to put a twist on it so she'd be clear he wasn't some needy fool.

As she sped nimbly off toward the salad place, he wondered what was going on. "Heartsick," she'd called him. Who was she? He jabbed his fork deep into the bowl and pulled up a huge chunk of blue cheese which filled his mouth with enough flavor to push off the bad mood. He was a manager at the bookstore. He was paying his own rent. He was thinking about designing again some day. He wanted to lose some of the weight. Who was she? Ignorant, is what she was.

He managed to polish off the fries, crumpling the greasy half-cone and tossing it two booths down. When she returned, he sat waiting, as expectant as a homebound puppy, when she returned.

H8: Heartsick or Miriam Puts it On the Table

2010-02-15T20:28:00.006-05:00

From G8:
"Danny, right?" She placed both hands on the table and deftly slipped into the seat across from him. "Miriam," she offered, placing on mottled hand to her chest. Danny stared, straw in mouth: the diamond on her finger was insane. "Nice to see you again."

"You too?" A sprig of cold lettuce hung from his lip. He didn't want to be rude. Miriam reminded him of his Jewish grandmother: a Jewish grandmother he actually - not being Jewish - never had. She smiled.

"Listen, Danny," the diamond sparkled across the table and the fingers that supported it stopped his hand from forking another pile of sodden lettuce. "I know you probably want to read your..." her eyes trailed the bright pink cover and bikinis of US Weekly, "magazine, but, well," she sighed and looked over at the movie theater across the way. "You just look so heartsick." She tapped his hands again.

Danny sat back in his plastic seat.

"If I could, I'd like to tell you a thing or two."

Writing: A Quick Detour

2010-02-14T11:38:00.003-05:00

This is an odd process, writing always forward with no revision, without having planned a true narrative arc and without taking the time to assess too closely what's come before.

Going into this, I knew Danny would be broken quickly. I knew that he would be far quirkier, funnier, and more stylish than The Zookeeper's Sam. I knew he'd eat the way I dream about eating all the time.

I didn't know I'd have to return over and over to Roddy's death, in order to figure out how Danny gets through it. I didn't know how remarkable this starting prompt - this loyalty to the alphabet rosters I created a year ago -would be. That the word "elegy" would detour me back to more mourning. And I didn't know that a word like "Unitarian" would introduce me to a mall-walking Miriam who I now think might matter to Danny quite a bit.

It makes me wonder - who are Danny's parents? We know his friends a bit now - Marina, now Miriam - but where are his gay boy friends? His parents and siblings? Does he still dress so dapperly as he did on page 1?

OK - detour over. Tomorrow will bring another Danny day.

G8: Grate or She Walks Back In to His Life

2010-02-14T11:23:00.005-05:00

From F8:
Walking into the food court, he stalked and strutted and drummed the air with his hands.

From the corner of his eye, he spied some free samples at the Bourbon chicken place, and detoured to pop a sweet glazed bit of chicken into his mouth. Kelis pounded rhythm into his steps, and he bopped his head. He designed himself a special Cobb salad at Chop't, making sure the Asian girl behind the glass sneeze guard grated extra parmesan on top. Sweet soda in his mouth, he dropped into a quiet corner with the latest US Weekly magazine.

Head in the magazine, Beyonce screaming "Crazy In Love" in his ears, and fork-deep in creamy salad, Danny didn't notice her standing over him until she rapped two bony knuckles on the table.

"God!" His heart pounded. His body wanted to shake. He didn't want to recognize her, but the track suit and pointed squint made it impossible not to. "Oh. Hi."

"Danny, right?" She placed both hands on the table and deftly slipped into the seat across from him. "Miriam," she offered, placing on mottled hand to her chest. Danny stared, straw in mouth: the diamond on her finger was insane. "Nice to see you again."

F8: Fantastic, or Danny Let's the Music Move Him

2010-02-13T14:14:00.005-05:00

From E8:
He closed his eyes and focused inward, breathing carefully, gripping hand to hand. Every part of his body wanted to flail and shout and run for the back of the church, but he had to hold it together. Becca was up there, the family knew who he was. So he stayed in his seat through the service, clutching his own hand like a lost child's, and waiting for every person around him to disappear.

***

He felt fantastic, for the first time in months. His first morning as Assistant Manager had gone smoothly, and Kelis' "Milkshake" was pounding strength into his bones. In three hours he'd gotten a six-box shipment shelved, talked Jenny (the sheepish sixteen-year-old they'd hired for weekends) down from a panic attack, and - he thought - flirted with a big meaty Italian guy who was looking for motorcycle magazines.

Walking into the food court, he stalked and strutted and drummed the air with his hands.

E8: Elegy or The Funeral Makes Danny Quit His Job

2010-02-10T11:24:00.006-05:00

From D8:
On the couch, first pizza downed, moving onto just a slice or two of the second, Danny was happy. Glad to have donated the nine dollar tip to Mike's middle-aged life. It felt like a down payment on something, he mused, opening the Phish Food and nestling under a blanket with only the ice cream and spoon exposed. A down payment, he thought, on the skinnier, happier Danny he couldn't yet find it in himself to see.

****

During the elegy, Becca had talked a lot about how happy she was that Roddy had found "someone" and was finally living his life for himself. She was wearing a black Anne Taylor suit that fit well at the waist but pinched her shoulders in. An inverted triangle of Roddy's favorite red poked out where her cleavage should be.

Danny sat more than halfway back, his ass sore on the hard pews, his suit pinching, his chest tight. A sheen of sweat rose and receded like nausea on his forehead. The idea that Roddy - nearly closeted, afraid of his family, only tentatively peeking his neck around the corner of life in D.C. - had it all together terrified Danny. A panicky, shaky realization rose in his throat. He wouldn't go back to the office, or any other day. Sassy Marina. Sexy Mitch.

He closed his eyes and focused inward, breathing carefully, gripping hand to hand. Every part of his body wanted to flail and shout and run for the back of the church, but he had to hold it together. Becca was up there, the family knew who he was. So he stayed in his seat through the service, clutching his own hand like a lost child's, and waiting for every person around him to disappear.

D8: Donate or Danny Eats His Way Happy

2010-02-09T13:09:00.006-05:00

From C8:
When Danny had balked at Roddy's assumption that they'd share a pie, he'd joked that he'd promised some pizza to one of his housemates and her girlfriend. Quickly enough, they'd started calling the second pizza the "girlfriend" pie. Now, two years and fifty-two pounds later, the joke was flavored with bile.

He folded two twenties into Mike's hand and waved off the change, backing into the wall to swing the door shut with one hand, using the same hand to turn the bolt.

Feeding slice after slice into his mouth as he watched TV, Danny tried to imagine himself at the mall the next morning. To turn himself into the chipper, muscular host on TV.

He'd been made assistant manager by Solange largely, she'd informed him, "due to the quality of his displays, not the quality of his work." He'd grinned, given her the finger behind her back, and treated her to a giant mochachino in thanks.

On the couch, first pizza downed, moving onto just a slice or two of the second, Danny was happy. Glad to have donated the nine dollar tip to Mike's middle-aged life. It felt like a down payment on something, he mused, opening the Phish Food and nestling under a blanket with only the ice cream and spoon exposed. A down payment, he thought, on the skinnier, happier Danny he couldn't yet find it in himself to see.

C8: Courtliness or Pizza Brings Back Memories

2010-02-08T21:54:00.004-05:00

From B8:

"Hey, Mike."

"Two pies and breadsticks. Your lady friend coming over again tonight?" Mike winked - he was fatherly, with a mustache that obscured his upper lip. Somehow, Danny was still using "the girlfriend" to explain his orders away.

"You bet."

The "girlfriend" had started as a tiny lie between Danny and Roddy, when they first dispensed with the courtliness of downtown restaurants and museum dates and gave in to their first pajamas-and-take out night home.

When Danny had balked at Roddy's assumption that they'd share a pie, he'd joked that he'd promised some pizza to one of his housemates and her girlfriend. Quickly enough, they'd started calling the second pizza the "girlfriend" pie.

B8: Bet or Danny Lies About Food

2010-02-05T10:24:00.007-05:00

From A8:
Danny gave himself one last look, pulling down his lower eyelid to expose the red blood vessels underneath. Rather than take the shower, he left the bathroom and limped over piles of clothes and back to bed.

Chapter X

The buzzer rang, and Danny buzzed the pizza delivery guy in. His pulse quickened and he shoved a few pillows back into the proper places on the couch. It was Saturday night and he had a Buffy marathon planned.

Tugging the bottom of his t-shirt down with both hands, he trotted toward the door, already tasting the cheese and pepperoni in his mind. At the knock, he swung the door back.

"Hey, Mike."

"Two pies and breadsticks. Your lady friend coming over again tonight?" Mike winked - he was fatherly, with a mustache that obscured his upper lip. Somehow, Danny was still using "the girlfriend" to explain his orders away.

"You bet."

A8: Androgynous or More Self-Hate (sorry readers, I'm working through something here!)

2010-02-03T11:43:00.005-05:00

From Z7:
Instead he lay there, a specimen in a freak zoology experiment, while his phone buzzed and stung and he ignored everything from the outside. Light smacked aggressive shadows onto the walls.

On the third day, out of food and realizing he would be required to leave his studio for lunch, Danny set out to take a shower.

The whole process was a farce. The tiny bathroom barely had room for his fat frame, and his feet splayed on cracked, moldy tiles. The mirror showed him a pale, androgynous slug, more gelatinous than marshmallow, and his hair retreated from his forehead in slick, choppy disarray. As he peed, he scratched his butt until he realized how fat it was. Everything seemed green. Roddy was dead. He deserved all the shit he was in.

Danny gave himself one last look, pulling down his lower eyelid to expose the red blood vessels underneath. Rather than take the shower, he left the bathroom and limped over piles of clothes and back to bed.

Z7: Zoology or Danny Lays Still

2010-02-02T22:18:00.005-05:00

From Y7:
After the funeral, Danny had climbed into bed at six in the evening and stayed there, except to piss, shit or forage in the fridge, for three days.

The TV had never gone off: when he'd exhausted his ability to watch home improvement and cooking shows, he'd dozed through an entire bowling tournament, two seasons worth of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and a meticulously rigorous show about sailing - "Ask me what a yard-arm is," he'd have showed off, if he was able to talk to anyone, or even change his pajamas and the same black t-shirt that was starting to smell as rank as his sheets.

Instead he lay there, a specimen in a freak zoology experiment, while his phone buzzed and stung and he ignored everything from the outside. Light smacked aggressive shadows onto the walls.

Y7: Yard-arm, or "Danny Fell Apart" aka There is no X7

2010-02-01T07:39:00.003-05:00

From W7:
I'm so fucking weak, he thought, raising a hand to the departing fanatic and his collector's books. I can't even stare down an old lady in the store.

****

After the funeral, Danny had climbed into bed at six in the evening and stayed there, except to piss, shit or forage in the fridge, for three days. The TV had never gone off: when he'd exhausted his ability to watch home improvement and cooking shows, he'd dozed through an entire bowling tournament, two seasons worth of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and a meticulously rigorous show about sailing - "Ask me what a yard-arm is," he'd have showed off, if he was able to talk to anyone, or even change his pajamas and the same black t-shirt that was starting to smell as rank as his sheets.

W7: Weak or "Too Weak for Her"

2010-01-29T07:15:00.004-05:00

From V7:
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."

A step toward the sales floor and another customer's books slammed onto the counter, stopping him. He swiped the books' black bar codes in a sudden fury, ignoring the chatter of the decked-out baseball enthusiast he was ringing up. With one eye, he watched the old lady nimbly pick her way through the Saturday browsers toward the back of the store. The crinkly fabric of her track suit sparkled the harsh overhead lights.

I'm so fucking weak, he thought, raising a hand to the departing fanatic and his collector's books. I can't even stare down an old lady in the store.

******

An interruption on behalf of "W"

2010-01-28T11:29:00.003-05:00

Why
Where
Whippersnapper
What-not
Wallaby
West
Weak
Week
Water
Wanton
Wave
Went
Warrant
Wax
Wattle
Wind
Wedgewood
Whiff
Whine
Worry
Wig
Wane
Waft
Woman
Wrought
Woof
...26....
Wend
Wattage
Wedding
Whistle
Wed
Work
Worst
Written
I can't believe I'm only getting to this now, but...
Write
...35...
Wallop
Wagamama
Whore
Wraith
Western
Weep
Wyvern
...42... (I'm out of practice. "W" should be easy!)
Waterford
We
Wallow
Wade
Widget
Whippet
Waterfall
What

There we go. "Ws" for days!

W7: There is no W

2010-01-27T21:25:00.002-05:00

From V7:
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."

Since there is no "W", tomorrow, I'll do 26 "w"s and Friday, W7, as planned.

V7: Voice or "Even Old People Call Danny Fat"

2010-01-26T21:43:00.006-05:00

From T7:
Danny began punching "unitarian" into the key word search on his computer. He was tempted to send her to the information kiosk, but with the economy, they were short-staffed, and he was better off keeping customers happy from his perch. If he looked too idle, Solange might make him wander the store like a predator on the hunt. "Unitarian..." he said aloud as he typed, so she would know he was working on her issue even though he wasn't meeting her eyes. She was one of those mall walkers he saw every morning. "3 Circuits," he was pretty sure, meant she was in really good shape.

"So you're a walker?" He kept his eyes on the screen. Unicorn. Unitard.

"Clearly." Her voice was low and gritty, twisted with leftover yiddish or hebrew or something.

"Unitarian!" He announced. "Looks like we don't have much." He looked her over, noticed how fit she was, feeling a bit jealous. "You can try the 'Spirituality' section, I guess." He pointed over her head at the back corner of the store.

"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."

U7: Unitarian or "Danny Makes a Friend"

2010-01-25T07:53:00.005-05:00

From T7:
"Marina," he started, catching the time above him, still avoiding the look on her face. Two minutes to go. He still wanted a Cinnabon and a Coke, and he wasn't going to let her see him scarf it down. "I do love you, but my break's over. I have to go."

*****

Back from his break, Danny was behind the register for the afternoon, the taste of cinnamon and sugar dancing on his lips. He loved it there, the stillness masked as focus, the neat rows of twee gift books and book lights that he could arrange, and rearrange, without leaving his small stool. He could doodle on the Houghton Mifflin note pad. His mornings shelving and re-shelving exhausted him more and more.

Danny's heart was still racing from the meeting with Marina. He'd barely managed to push her into Crate & Barrel before dashing for the cinnamon roll and soda that were his only, best reward. He was still finding sticky spots on the sides of his fingers, but knew he couldn't ask for a break, again, so soon, to wash his hands, so he surreptitiously wiped his hands on his jeans.

As he looked up from his grooming, a short, gray-haired woman with large glasses and a larger nose stepped up to the counter, peering closely into his eyes.

"Do you have any Unitarian books?" She asked. "I've been all over the Religion section and a I can't find a thing. My daughter's 'converting' or something, she says, and I need to figure this out." Her hands toured the knick-knacks constantly as she spoke. She was wearing a track-suit and the "3 Circuits" button pinned to her chest.

Danny began punching "unitarian" into the key word search on his computer. He was tempted to send her to the information kiosk, but with the economy, they were short-staffed, and he was better off keeping customers happy from his perch. If he looked too idle, Solange might make him wander the store like a predator on the hunt. "Unitarian..." he said aloud as he typed, so she would know he was working on her issue even though he wasn't meeting her eyes. She was one of those mall walkers he saw every morning. "3 Circuits," he was pretty sure, meant she was in really good shape.

T7: Turtle or "Danny Can't Do It"

2010-01-22T06:55:00.004-05:00

From S7:
And he also felt foolish. They had, essentially, broken up the night Roddy died on the wet road back to Richmond. Danny had, essentially, decided he didn't want to be with Roddy anymore. So Roddy was gone - isn't that what he'd secretly, deep below the surface in the cold tanks inside, wanted? Thank God he hadn't told anyone what he'd been thinking before he got the news. And now, he never would. He shifted his stance. He wanted a Coke. He couldn't look Marina in the eye.

"But Danny, you can't hide away like a turtle in this... mall!" They looked around together - at the faux-wood kiosks selling spinning colored toys and translation software, at the abstract-but-comforting "sculpture" hanging from the sky-lit ceiling 100 feet above. Danny was hurt, again. He actually loved this mall. It's shell was solid and inside there was food and warmth.

"Marina," he started, catching the time above him, still avoiding the look on her face. Two minutes to go. He still wanted a Cinnabon and a Coke, and he wasn't going to let her see him scarf it down. "I do love you, but my break's over. I have to go."

S7: Slippery or "Danny Can't Explain"

2010-01-20T09:11:00.004-05:00

From R7:
"No. No, Danny. Talk to me. You lost Roddy, who you weren't happy with anyway. You quit your job." Here it comes, he thought, "and you've gained- I don't even know how much weight." She actually started laughing when she said that. Through tears. At her audacity, he guessed. "What the hell's going on?"

He felt slippery on the glossy marble floor of the mall, the waves of geriatric walkers huffing cheerily past. He felt unmoored; from Marina, from his family, from his life before Roddy died.

And he also felt foolish. They had, essentially, broken up the night Roddy died on the wet road back to Richmond. Danny had, essentially, decided he didn't want to be with Roddy anymore. So Roddy was gone - isn't that what he'd secretly, deep below the surface in the cold tanks inside, wanted? Thank God he hadn't told anyone what he'd been thinking before he got the news. And now, he never would. He shifted his stance. He wanted a Coke. He couldn't look Marina in the eye.

R7: Repetitive or "Danny Gets a Talking To"

2010-01-19T07:29:00.004-05:00

From Q7:

She stopped, creating a ripple in the stream of shoppers, disrupting the carefully calibrated flow. A heavy woman balked at the little shoal Marina and Danny were creating, and muttered, loudly, “rude.” That's what life is like, he thought. Interruptions. Obstruction. Being dislodged.

"Seriously, Danny?"

He feels like a stupid adolescent pig. "Yeah?"

"Can you even see how repetitive you're being? How fucking stubborn? She began to tear up and Danny shrunk a little bit. The mall air parched his throat. He badly wanted a Coke. "I mean, I don't come to this fucking mall in suburbia because I like soft pretzels and the Gap." Marina was jabbing her finger at him and her voice was tight like air from a punctured tire. "I come here for you, you asshole, and every time - every time -" she repeated when he started to protest, "you act like I'm the biggest pain in the world."

"Marina...."

"No. No, Danny. Talk to me. You lost Roddy, who you weren't happy with anyway. You quit your job." Here it comes, he thought, "and you've gained- I don't even know how much weight." She actually started laughing when she said that. Through tears. At her audacity, he guessed. "What the hell's going on?"

Q7: Quotation or "Danny says 'Oh fuck off'"

2010-01-16T10:54:00.007-05:00

From Q7:
In the breakroom, he re-tucked his shirt and adjusted his sweater, arranging and rearranging the cloth so it wouldn't cling so stubbornly to his fat. It defeated him, the greenish lighting in the mall's bowels. His pants, pinching tight at his waist, barely reached his shoes - none of this cute skinny jeans made it past the bulb of his belly anymore. He couldn't help envisioning his useless mouse of a penis, cowering in fat beneath his (shudder) pleated khakis. He's never realized that they were designed to hide the fat.

Flushed, he noted the clock - he'd managed to kill four of his 15 minutes. He'd only have to talk to Marina for 10.

She was in Reference, flipping through a thick book.

"Listen to this," she commanded when he walked up. "'As only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.'" She stared him down. "Dorothy Parker. So, advice from a soused literati. Maybe you'll listen to her since you won't talk to me."

"Marina..."

"Nope. Stupid quotations aside, Danny, I've had enough." She put her arm through his and jerked him into the mall. A Muzak version of Madonna's "Holiday" eked through the air. "Listen, this whole... thing of yours.. quitting your job, moving out here to the suburbs..." he waited, but she specifically did not mention his weight, "I get it, I guess. You lost Roddy. You feel- You're dealing with a lot. But it's been months, Danny. You know this isn't your life."

"Not 'my life'?" Danny took back his arm. According to the faux-Victorian clock at the mall's central rotunda, he had only six minutes until he could head back. "Marina, you don't know 'my life' at all."

She stopped, creating a ripple in the stream of shoppers, disrupting the carefully calibrated flow. That's what life is like, he thought. Interruptions. Obstruction. Being dislodged.

P7: Pest or "Danny....

2010-01-13T08:10:00.002-05:00

From O7: And he'd left the cold funeral the way he'd entered it - alone.

Danny ran his hand along the spine of the last book, keeping to his squat, hoping to escape notice. Hoping no one would need him, or realize that he was done.

....

"Hey Pest!"

He didn't need to look up. Marina. It must be Saturday.

Danny hated Saturdays. At the mall. In his life. Not only was it the day when, after a week of recycled-air anonymity at the mall, the crowds returned. It was the day, each week, when his friends and family remembered he was alive. Marina now meant a late-afternoon call from Mom.

"Hi Marina," he rolled his eyes and lowered his voice into a groan. Looking over the register, he gave Solange the thumbs up to confirm he could take his break. "Give me a minute, Mar."

In the breakroom, he re-tucked his shirt and adjusted his sweater, arranging and rearranging the cloth so it wouldn't cling so stubbornly to his fat. It defeated him, the greenish lighting in the mall's bowels. His pants, pinching tight at his waist, barely reached his shoes - none of this cute skinny jeans made it past the bulb of his belly anymore. He couldn't help envisioning his useless mouse of a penis, cowering in fat beneath his (shudder) pleated khakis. He's never realized that they were designed to hide the fat.

O7: Oleander or "Danny remembers what happened"

2010-01-13T07:54:00.000-05:00

From N7:
"Danny." She came over. "I love you. You're great. But what I need is one hundred and forty Grishams stacked before your break." She actually patted his shoulder, and turned back to her shelf. He could hear the starched music of the Galleria laughing in his ears.

As he stacked the books, he remembered the days immediately after Roddy died. First, he'd called Marina to tell her, his mouth wet like raw oysters and his voice nearly illegible. She'd sent him home and told their boss he was sick. The walk home had been collapsed and extended in time; he remembered the gray streets sighing into lame prisms from the tears in his eyes, the confusion over what it meant that Roddy was dead, the guilt and - he had to admit it - relief that their two year tug-of-war was over.

It wasn't that they'd been so happy together. He'd been remembering a fight over Danny's choice of cocktail, "another fruity drink," as Roddy put it, when Danny had detoured into the corner store on his block for two pints of ice cream, a canister of potato chips, and a large bottle of wine. He remembers cradling the red sleeve of chips against his chest as he watched Michelle Pfeiffer overact in "White Oleander" on the couch as he finished the merlot and avoided the incessantly ringing phone. It had been one of his favorite things about the apartment - something he missed terribly in his reduced, group-house circumstances now: the fact that no one could get close enough to barge in through the door.

That weekend he'd rented a car for the drive down to Richmond and made the journey alone to the strains of the "Garden State" soundtrack. He had given up on answering the phone or going back to work. He'd scrolled through their pictures on his camera, crying as much for his lack of reaction as for the false, sunny picture the images conveyed. For four days he had subsisted on delivered pizza and Chinese food, and when he'd emerged to the parking lot at the funeral home, it was only his darkest sunglasses that kept the low winter sun at bay. Becca had hugged him and sobbed. Roddy's parents had nodded and -briefly - taken his hand.

And he'd left the cold funeral the way he'd entered it - alone.

Danny ran his hand along the spine of the last book, keeping to his squat, hoping to escape notice. Hoping no one would need him, or realize that he was done.

N7: No or "Danny Shouldn't Bother Any More"

2010-01-12T18:39:00.005-05:00

From M7:
The weight gain, he knew, should be the least of it.

"Hi Danny," chirped Solange as she passed by with a tower of romance novels. Solange - the manager - was twenty-two years old.

"Hey Sol." He knew she was looking at his fat ass, probably smirking, probably wondering why he was such a mess. Twice now, she'd found him crying in the storeroom during his break. And the one time they'd gone upstairs for drinks at Ruby Tuesday's, he'd poured back three sweet daiquiris and she'd had to walk him to the Metro in order to get him home. "Did you get the chance to read my idea about those new storefront displays?"

He was trying; that much he could tell himself. He might have killed his ex-boyfriend, quit his job, moved into a group house, and gone from chubby to pitifully close to obese - he tugged at his jeans - but he still had ideas. For a new arrangement of impulse-sale crap, admittedly, but... ideas.

She was focused on her shelving. Jotting each book down on an unnecessary ledger, and gazing at each spine thoughtfully before sliding it into it's place.

"Solange? My idea for the displays?" He'd worked hard on them. Actually opened his design software for the first time in months. "What'd you think?"

"I thought," she turned, slowly and fixed her eyes on his over the half-glasses she wore to show she was smarter than her age and tight-fitting wardrobe implied, "that I didn't want to tell you 'no'." She smiled as if at a dog. "Corporate doesn't like store-staff to create their own designs. I'm pretty sure I told you that when you brought me the idea."

Danny focused on the hardbacks in front of him, on the clotted dust that shrouded the base of every shelf . "No, you told me. I just thought -"

"Danny." She came over. "I love you. You're great. But what I need is one hundred and forty Grisham's stacked before your break." She actually patted his shoulder, and turned back to her shelf. He could hear the starched music of the Galleria laughing in his ears.

M7: Misgivings or "Four months later, Danny's gotten fat"

2010-01-11T08:13:00.004-05:00

From L7:
Danny pressed the off button on his phone until the power went off, and then he stared at the black, empty screen for a while. Roddy was dead. A car accident. Roddy was gone. A freezing gust of wind hit his neck and ears, and he hunched himself against the side of the building, twisting his neck to look up and down the street. What am I doing here, he wondered? Why am I even alive?

Chapter 2

Danny had misgivings about the stack of John Grisham's on the floor. He squat-crouched low, working around his new Santa belly to get a better view, until a cold draft from the mall's concourse whipped the small of his back. He'd been showing his behind to the entire mall, he realized, and scooted back to standing. As assistant manager of the bookstore, he need to show some class. Four months had passed since Roddy died, and Danny had gained almost 30 pounds.

The weight gain, he knew, should be the least of it.

"Hi Danny," chirped Solange as she passed by with a tower of romance novels. Solange - the manager - was twenty-two years old.

L7: Listen or "Danny Is a Chicken Shit"

2010-01-09T16:52:00.002-05:00

From K7...

With the words "last night," she tripped into sobbing again, and Danny leaned into the glass front of his cold building and listened as she cried. He was grateful she was crying so hard so he wouldn't have to answer her. Yes, he'd sent a broken-hearted Roddy away.

"Listen, Becca," he started, and then followed along, incredulous, as he spoke the words. "We weren't fighting. Everything was," he choked, "fine." Tears felt like ice on his eyelashes and cheeks. What was he doing? Why lie? Why this lie?? "Maybe he was, I know he was, worried about work?"

Becca sighed into the phone. "You're right. I know." He didn't say anything, exactly, but he just sounded so blue." She took a huge, shuddering breath. "And now he's gone." Her voice swooped and shook. "Danny, Roddy's gone."

And I'm a chicken-shit, Danny thought. He felt like his heart was swollen and chapped. Like his something was scratching inside his chest trying to find its way out. "Becca. Listen, Becca, I - I'm at work. When's the - what are the plans? I can't talk right now. I have to go."

"Um, we don't know the details yet, I'll-"

"Just call me when you know something," he squeaked into the phone. "I really really have to go."

Danny pressed the off button on his phone until the power went off, and then he stared at the black, empty screen for a while. Roddy was dead. A car accident. Roddy was gone. A freezing gust of wind hit his neck and ears, and he hunched himself against the side of the building, twisting his neck to look up and down the street. What am I doing here, he wondered? Why am I even alive?

K7: Killer, or "The Mixing Bowl Guilt Creeps In"

2010-01-07T07:34:00.007-05:00

From J7...
"Bec?" He felt his own chest starting to heave and a painful shove of tears into his eyes, "Becca, what's going on?"

"Oh, Danny, Roddy's dead."

"Becca... What? How?" Another thunk to his chest. He tik-tocked an awkward pirouette, staring up at the sky.

"He was driving home last night, on that stretch of 95 where all the roads get all twisted up, you know, just before D.C., where the -"

"The mixing bowl," Danny supplied, feeling a folding in his chest. The mixing bowl was a killer - the junction of multiple highways, and Roddy had been drinking yesterday afternoon. Danny knew that much about his boyfr- his now-dead boyfriend, at least. He felt ashamed, flushed with guilt. He yanked at his scarf.

"Yeah, the mixing bowl." She sniffed and he heard her move her lips very close to the phone. "Danny, were you guys fighting this weekend?" Her whisper reminded Danny how young she was. "He just seemed really upset when I talked to him last night."

With the words "last night," she tripped into sobbing again, and Danny leaned into the glass front of his cold building and listened as she cried. He was grateful she was crying so hard so he wouldn't have to answer her. Yes, he'd sent a broken-hearted Roddy away.

J7: Jester, or "Danny talks to Becca"

2010-01-06T07:20:00.003-05:00

...from I7:

"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.

Danny had always felt a bit like the court jester with Roddy's family - the chubby, gay appendage that most of the Bakers could easily have done without. In the six months since he'd first met them, Danny had never managed to move beyond small talk with any of them: except Becca.

Rebecca Baker was a pistol. As tall as Roddy or her father, Becca towered over Danny and most of the wiry boys she coveted at the few arts-and-disaffection joints she frequented downtown. She wore her hair in a classic bob that she'd had sheared off like a terraced cliff in the back, and was as likely to steal "Daddy's" truck or come home drunk as any of her brothers. She was the youngest, the only girl, and Roddy's absolute best friend in the world.

Standing in the cold outside his office, his nose and hand freezing, Danny paced back and forth, watching his new black boots hold their shine against the grit of the sidewalk. He walked and waited, heart pounding, as he listened to her cry.

"Bec?" He felt his own chest starting to heave and a painful shove of tears into his eyes, "Becca, what's going on?"

I7: If or "Danny and Roddy's Family"

2010-01-05T18:40:00.003-05:00

...from H7:
That was all he heard the first time. It took him two full replays to get through the rest of the details, zombie out of his office and down to the street outside, and dial Becca's number on his phone.

"Becca? It's Dan."

Even now, it stung. Roddy had introduced Danny as "Dan" when they'd all met for the first time. Even though Danny had coughed out a nervous correction, in Roddy's family's eyes, "Dan" had stuck. More appropriate, he was sure.

"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.

I7 is not for Vacation

2009-12-22T07:23:00.001-05:00

Hi folks:
Forgot to post this last week - I'm on holiday (yes, I have to say it that way, I'm off to the U.K.!) until January 5th!!!
We'll have to see how Danny reacts to Roddy's death after that.
Happy Holidays,
Alex

H7: Hemorrhage, or "Bad News Arrives"

2009-12-18T22:55:00.005-05:00

From G7:
"Ugh. Never. It's like he's gotten a boring-graft to his brain." Danny turned, finally, to the morning's work. "No thanks. I'm done with him," he winked at her, despite a twinge of ugliness in his throat. "He just doesn't know it yet."

***

Becca's voicemail hit him like a brain hemorrhage. Roddy's sister. Not the parents, of course.

"Danny? Roddy's - Roddy didn't - Roddy died, Danny. He got in a car accident on the way home."

That was all he heard the first time. It took him two full replays to get through the rest of the details, zombie out of his office and down to the street outside, and dial Becca's number on his phone.

G7: Graft

2009-12-17T23:52:00.002-05:00

...from F7... Marina had gone back to the erasable wipe-board sheeting she'd used to cover her half of the desk. "Boring. Call me when it's over, why don't you. Or to tell me you've gotten engaged."

"Ugh. Never. It's like he's gotten a boring-graft to his brain." Danny turned, finally, to the morning's work. "No thanks. I'm done with him," he winked at her, despite a twinge of ugliness in his throat. "He just doesn't know it yet."

F7: Federal

2009-12-16T20:33:00.002-05:00

"Really? A fight? But you guys never--"

"No it was a fight," he confirmed as he jabbed the power button on his computer. "'Where is this all going'? and all that. The old elephant in the room."

Marina frowned at Danny.

"Come on... you two have been doing so well this past year."

"I don't know..." Danny slumped in his ergonomic chair. The palette wheels and mock-ups were shreiking his name. "You know how it is. He's so proper and quiet and ... safe?"

Marina stuck out her tongue. "He's been 'safe,'" she injected, "for the last two years. What happened now?"

"So Friday I called him - you know this - to see if he could ditch early. I figured, Sasha's working in London, we might as well have a little fun too. But instead, he's like, it's not a federal holiday," Danny dumped the word like Eeyore, "so he won't leave early, not even an hour.

"Anyway, it's nothing. It just sort of set us off, and we fought all weekend. I just want to do something interesting with my life."

Marina had gone back to the erasable wipe-board sheeting she'd used to cover her half of the desk. "Boring. Call me when it's over, why don't you. Or to tell me you've gotten engaged."

E7: Elephant

2009-12-15T07:54:00.003-05:00

Danny stopped arranging his desk in order to formally raise an eyebrow. "Decried, have you?" He laughed. "Well, I do declayah." When she passed him the marked up mock-up, his humor failed. "Seriously?" Whatever mood he'd tried to carry in with him deflated. After the weekend he'd had, he couldn't deal with Sasha's crazy demands right now. "I'm getting another coffee. Roddy and I had a fight."

"Really? A fight? But you guys never--"

"No it was a fight," he confirmed as he jabbed the power button on his computer. "'Where is this all going'? and all that. The old elephant in the room."

Marina frowned at Danny.

"Come on... you two have been doing so well this past year."

D7: Decry

2009-12-14T08:04:00.002-05:00

"Pudding!" Marina cried, coming around the plateau of their massive, shared desk. Eyes on the collateral, she added, "We do good work, don't we?" and gave Danny a peck on the cheek.

"We do," Danny smiled. Marina was wearing a fitted purple sweater over a tight, pocked-leather skirt and striped stockings. Her hair was pulled back in tight braids that reminded him of antelope horns. She was ready to fight. "I want you to know, the bosswoman has requested a raft of changes, but I've already decried half of them."

Danny stopped arranging his desk in order to formally raise an eyebrow. "Decried, have you?" He laughed. "Well, I do declayah." When she passed him the marked up mock-up, his humor failed. "Seriously?" Whatever mood he'd tried to carry in with him deflated. After the weekend he'd had, he couldn't deal with Sasha's crazy demands right now. "I'm getting another coffee. Roddy and I had a fight."

C7: Courting

2009-12-11T07:43:00.003-05:00

...."Sorry, Europe," Danny sometimes joked with Marina, his office-mate, copy writer, and best friend. Mitch was one of the handsome economists; after recoiling from the "artistic" comment, Danny hurried a bit to his office and Marina's warm, frizzy blonde embrace. All up and down the hall, Barter's color palette repeated a brick red and mustard theme.

He entered their office like they were courting, swaying a bit with his hands clasped behind his back. When she looked up, he proffered a handful of their newest brochures like a bouquet.

"Pudding!" Marina cried, coming around the plateau of their massive, shared desk. Eyes on the collateral, she added, "We do good work, don't we?" and gave Danny a peck on the cheek.

B7: Barter

2009-12-10T08:00:00.002-05:00

....(from A7)... "I do the posters." He closed, pointing to the line of blown up advertisements on the wall. They parted at the reception desk.

Danny and Mitch worked in different departments at Barter, a non-profit focused on developing a variety of income sources for the rural poor in Africa, Asia, South America and the U.S. "Sorry, Europe," Danny sometimes joked with Marina, his office-mate, copy writer, and best friend. Mitch was one of the handsome economists; after recoiling from the "artistic" comment, Danny hurried a bit to his office and Marina's warm, frizzy blonde embrace. All up and down the hall, Barter's color palette repeated a brick red and mustard theme.

A7: Artistic

2009-12-09T07:21:00.002-05:00

"So you're artistic?" Mitch asked, brushing some droplets from the shoulder of his Patagonia vest. Danny flushed as if he was last-picked boy for the playground kickball team, and busied himself with his phone. The elevator doors finally opened at their shared floor.

"Graphic designer," he shrugged, pointing to his ears with what he hoped was an apologetic, slightly dismissive smile. Danny was the graphic designer; he was short and chubby, wearing a purple bow tie, with jean cuffs rolled up to his knees. Was Danny "artistic"? What did Mitch think? "I do the posters." He closed, pointing to the line of blown up advertisements on the wall.

the Sevens

2009-12-08T07:42:00.002-05:00

Rather than dive into A7, I want to be sure I'm making the right commitment for the entire 26-word run of "sevens." If I'm going to continue doing this hundreds of times, I need to keep shaking things up.

So - the plan for the sevens is to write the first 26 sentences (or so... going over is allowed) of a new project. Tomorrow, whatever sentence incorporates A7 must serve as the first sentence of the paragraph, chapter or story that follows with B7. Friday will be C7, and so on, until this particular exploration runs at least 26 sentences long.

A new challenge, then! See you tomorrow morning, ready to write.

Z6: Zygote

2009-12-07T07:54:00.002-05:00

(I can't believe I need to look this one up: the cell produced by the union of two gametes, before it undergoes cleavage according to dictionary.com)

Sometimes, Raina felt as if she and Zev were designed like a zygote - recently unioned from disparate sources, and destined to split down the center, and part.

Y6: Yard

2009-12-04T08:08:00.002-05:00

In the small patch of thin grass between the stoop and the curb - what my mother dismissively called "that yard" - the dog snuffed at the dried remains of other dogs, and barked, once, at the empty street.

X6: There is no X6

2009-12-03T07:31:00.003-05:00

Perhaps my vision will falter a bit here, as we clamber up our alphabet, and the more challenging letters begin to fall away.

She is exotically disfigured, her features almost fish-like, the angles of her face stretching up and away.

At least exotic has an "x".....

W6: There is no W6

2009-12-02T08:35:00.003-05:00

Last night I reclaimed some writing time - real writing time - for me. Starting last night, I'm spending 3 hours every Tuesday evening writing across from a former professor at a local coffee shop. No rules other than silence, 3 hours, and talk breaks allowable only every 45 minutes or so.

Our inaugural event was marked by nerves and excitement, and the near-full revision of a story I'd lost touch with years ago. Next week's 3 hours hopefully won't seem as scary.

So "W6" is a win.

V6: Vociferous

2009-12-01T07:49:00.002-05:00

"I am not vociferous!" Reston bellowed, which would have made me laugh if not for his size, anger and disorder. I eyed the one older couple sitting in the corner and chucked my chin, granting them permission to go.

U6: Utilitarian

2009-11-30T07:24:00.003-05:00

Her body had become something less and more than a body, something utilitarian. She was an elaborate set of wrenches or hammers to be applied to a delicate money-making process. She thought of herself as a drain.

U is not for Flu

2009-11-24T09:26:00.001-05:00

Have had the flu for two days. Will resume tomorrow/after the holiday.

T6: Tortoise

2009-11-20T08:32:00.001-05:00

The tortoise sat lumped at the side of the road, monolithic, leathery, unblinking.

S6: Sleep

2009-11-19T08:13:00.002-05:00

He just wanted to sleep. It was the cinnamon rolls after dinner that did him in. Cinammon roles after pizza. It wasn't like him to eat this way. At least it hadn't been.

R6: Repeat

2009-11-18T07:33:00.002-05:00

It was a repeat motif - on the rooftop of Guadi's La Pedrera, a blonde bride leaned against her husband and a sand-colored smokestack sentinel, while the rooftop salon at our riad in Fez became the setting for the bridal photo shoot of a young Chinese couple from Singapore.

Q6: Quote

2009-11-17T07:38:00.002-05:00

He didn't want to come off like a fag, quoting Funny Girl or The Way We Were, but that was the language of his new community, he supposed. No more "Brown Eyed Girl" or Phish. Now it was Madonna, Barbara Streisand, and Cher.

P6: Pontiff

2009-11-16T07:36:00.000-05:00

Was there some pontiff I was supposed to appeal to? Some old man with wrinkled earlobes who could tell me what to do?

O6: Only

2009-11-15T18:16:00.001-05:00

Only a trip to the the Walmart outside Culpepper could make Jamie feel skinny. Only returning to his own neighborhood could make him feel unforgivably fat.

N6: None

2009-11-13T15:43:00.001-05:00

Sometimes the words are a jackpot, other times, a dud.

Today's word offers almost no inspiration. In fact, it inspires "none."

M6: Marriage

2009-11-12T08:08:00.001-05:00

It wasn't marriage that tired Dennis, it was the fact that Marjorie expected him to think about "their marriage" every single day.

L6: Lift-off

2009-11-11T07:47:00.002-05:00

Both of them knew it. Lift-off, which usually freed them, with a chiming silver spring of release, from the pressures of everyday life, wasn't going to be enough this time.

Winter Clothes

2009-11-10T09:25:00.001-05:00

Thought I'd refresh the look for winter.
And I think my next challenge, albeit still more than 12 letters away, will be consecutive sentences. I've still got 18 rounds of the alphabet to go. That's 144 sentences. It might just give me a solid start.
New look!

K6: Kill

2009-11-10T09:16:00.002-05:00

"I would kill for a moon pie right now," Reston said, the tension in his jaw making Heck wonder if perhaps he really would.