.: Just came back from eating some Mexican food at the Casa Villa in Kingston. I'm not crazy about the place, but it wasn't half bad tonight.

Was out with Andrea, Sean and Andi and Andrea's new boyfriend Andrew.  Nice guy.  

Pip flew to Florida yesterday.  I'm still kinda bummed about that, but what are you going to do, right?

By you I mean me.

I'm tired, mildly depressed and full of refried beans.  Can you tell?

So far behind in the NaNoWriMo that I almost considered just dropping it from the rest of the things I have to do this month.

Then I said "Fuck it."

Have to do almost 5000 words a day for the next ten days, but that should be doable, especially since Pip is in Florida.

I really fucking miss her right now.

Enough!

Time to get some sleep and have fucking weird dreams brought on by refried beans and depression.

Because tomorrow, things will be better.

AB 

Read about it and comment back here.

.: I'm now further behind than I should be. 

Thursday involved a lot of running around after work, getting the car legal, meeting a friend for a serious/social visit, then meeting with other friends for a birthday gathering, then finally home in time to get to bed late (because I am an early to bed loser now).

Friday, woke up late for work and came home in time to take a nap, do a couple of chores eat dinner and then go to bed late (again) to be at work at 6 fucking am.

I'll play some catch-up tonight and tomorrow.   

.: Hit a major stumbling block yesterday with writing my NaWriMoNo.  

Just felt really shitty.  Piss poor mood.  I did nothing at all.  I mean black.  Black mood, folks.  I can't make it any clearer without possibly putting myself back there. 

But today was better.  Almost 2,000 words this evening and things are really looking sloppy.  But a really good sloppy, you know?

Most of the major characters have been introduced, even if not quite in order.  I needed to get the introductions out of the way because I need to know who these folks are beyond my notes.  I'll fix it in post, because I really like where this is going, so much more than last years (which I still like, but have hit major fucking standstill on, so the November break should be good for head clearing on that and the Bistro re-write).

I wish I was comfortable with putting more funny in it, because I really like the working title.

Fuck that.  Just hit a nugget of an idea for that title, will work on that post NaNoWriMo (or possibly start notes at work). 

So, 3,652 words.  7 days done.   

 46,358 to go with 22 days left.  (that's 2107 words a day)

Piece. Of. Fucking. Cake. 

Excerpt follows.

She had propositioned him, mistaking his disguise as a successful businessman with a mild tech fetish for the real thing. He had noted the tell-tales of her hardware upgrades, noted the tear in the synthetic skin that had been stretched over the biomech implants in her left arm. It wasn't hard to miss though, since as two wires crossed and gave off a spark and pop, she bent her neck to light her cigarette off her faulty mech, and blew it out with a breath of blue-grey smoke.
“How much?” he asked, seriously interested.
“Hundred bucks, old cash,” she said. “Five hundred new cash, I don't have citizenship anymore. Harder to unload. If you have some good tech in that case, something I can use, maybe we can make a better deal for both of us.”
He looked at her, blinked once ignorantly, and then laughed.
“No, no,” he said. “How much of you is mech? If you don't mind me asking?”
She grinned, cynically. I had him pegged. Tech fetish asshole. “Sixty-five percent, give or take,” she lied. It was really about forty-seven point nine three two zero five percent, according to her last back alley Doc.
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“So, you wanna make a deal or what?” she said. “I've got better things to do.”
“No,” he smiled. “You don't. I'll give you two hundred old cash to come with me to that coffee shop over there, let me buy you a cup of coffee, tell me how much of you really is mech—because I know for a fact that the highest mech/bio ratio ever accomplished and allowed to go free is about 53/47—and let me make you an offer for a real job, with possibilities of more work as it comes.”
Now it was her turn. “Get the fuck out of here!”
“You wanna make a deal or not?” he said. “Because while I don't have anything better to do at the moment, I have to do it off this street.”

AB 

.: I finally got some time in tonight, to get a little more written, which is good because I have a good opening (or good enough, anyway) and I'm on a path. 

Working title of the novel is "Cogito Ergo Err: I think, therefore… oops!"  Which is a working title that I'm going to swipe from myself at some later date for something funny.  

This novel isn't funny, though it can be at times.  

I actually have a real friend doing it this year as well, which is so kick ass that I can't tell you how excited I am about it for fear of bruised buttocks.

From, you know, the 'kick ass'?

Never mind, if I have to explain it to you…

.:Pip will be heading south for Florida ahead of schedule.  Sometime before Thanksgiving.  Major. Fucking. Bummer.

But that's all for tonight, because I am a shit blogger.   

Here's an Excerpt from the novel:

The businessman seemed quite surprised when he was told the cost of the code.
“Er… coffee?”
“Ten pounds, yes,” Carter said as he lifted the foam cup of what passed for coffee these days. “And all of it real, because believe me,” he grimaced as he gulped down the swill in the cup. “I can tell.” And because the businessman seemed so confused and unwilling to accept the terms, Carter included three pounds of real sugar and a quart of real milk. “For the coffee,” Carter explained.
In the end, he also accepted five thousand dollars, because that was what the businessman really wanted to hear. That far up the food chain, one so spoiled didn't think of real food as a commodity or a luxury. But cash was something that they understood, because that was the center of their lives. Carter even eventually did the man the favor of haggling over the price, so that the businessman could feel as though he had come out ahead, possibly even cheating Carter just a little.
“One week,” Carter had said. Then he went back to his base, wrote the program in three and a half minutes and thought about the coffee while he waited a week to deliver the goods.
The money was nice, but the coffee was heavenly.

There you go. 

1765/50000