(No Title)

I, too, have joined the ranks of those who have enlisted in National Novel Writing Month, an event in which as many people as can attempt to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. I'm going to put excerpts from my story on this site, and let you hazard a guess as to what in the world my novel might actually be about. Let me be clear: According to the rules of the contest, it's about finishing 50,000 words! Not rewriting, not editing, not working much on outlining, or plotting, or involved character development, just finishing. So, with all the pressure to "be good" removed, I'll give you an example of my typical brain dump. By the way, I've written about 6000 words so far, so I'm almost on track.

Last night my mom and dad had what has hopefully turned out to be a Starbucks-induced medical event. They bought this car yesterday, and as part of the celebration (the way I understand it, the only other part involved two ninety-nine cent orders of Wendy's chicken nuggets), they ordered coffee. Mom got her usual latte breve grande, iced, sugar-free vanilla syrup, easy on the ice. Like I've said, she can be difficult. Dad got his usual grande caramel machiatto, only this time, it didn't sit well with him. Mom swore from the hour she imbibed that the guy who made the drinks was trying to kill someone-that he was a cappucinno terrorist trained within these very United States by unsuspecting Starbuck's managers to do the unthinkable. We citizens have been recently advised to beware of all suspicious activity, and Mom has put her radar to good and frequent use. He looked like a regular guy-no racial profiling for any middle eastern appearance would have singled him out-but, oh, my! There was so much caffeine in that one large coffee that Mom had to speed-through Wendy's for nuggets to try to neutralize the effect. Dad didn't think the coffee had given him much of a buzz, though; at least he didn't say anything. He joined her in the nugget fest, because he had the munchies, and didn't seem any the worse for wear. Six hours later, when they got the new car off the show room floor and onto their gravel driveway, she was starting to chill. Unbeknownst to her, he was starting to freak. My dad doesn't freak. He doesn't argue, fight, swear, yell or turn beet red when he's mad. He doesn't get mad. He has been accused of being comatose, and that's on a good day. But he just smiles and goes on about his business. So late last night, after he watches Mel Gibson lose his ever-lovin' mind trying to get his kidnapped son back in "Ransom," he joins my mom in bed. "Erin," my mother reported by phone around seven this morning, "I was right in the middle of a nightmare around midnight, and something kept waking me up. I hate it when that happens, because then when I go back to sleep, I end up right back in the same nightmare loop, which won't end until I finish the darn nightmare. Your dad kept interrupting me with his tossing and turning, so finally I smacked him with a pillow and said, 'What is wrong with you?'" "Mom," I interrupted this present nightmare, "where is Dad? Is he OK? What's happening?" "Oh, he's fine," she concluded, but then went back to where she had left off. "After I knocked some sense into him, he told me how his heart had been racing and jumping out of his chest all afternoon, and how it had gotten worse when he was watching Mel try to get his little boy back from the bad guys, and how in spite of everything, Rene Russo's hair held up, and while he's thrashing around on the bed and telling me this, he breaks out into a cold sweat all over his body, and that's when I said, 'I'm taking you to the E.R.'" They had had the suspicious laced coffee at 9:30 in the morning, and it was now past midnight. She had a hard time believing the cappuccino terrorist had succeeded in having his way with them. Surely, there was another, more plaque-ridden-artery type reason for his malaise. So she got Shawn out of bed, an amazing feat for a woman of her slight build and sweet temperament, and insisted that his services would be needed in transporting Dad from our rural residence to the hospital 20 minutes away. She gave a passing thought to calling an ambulance, and that idea gave her the one good laugh she had all night. "911" wouldn't be able to find my parent's house if their lives depended upon it, and since that seemed to be the point, she took matters, and Dad, into her own hands. He could do worse. Emergency rooms don't mess around with guys who come in with complaints like my dad had. Before my mom could finish the paperwork with the check-in lady, Dad had already had all his vital signs checked, the heart rate monitor hooked up, and was being wired for the EKG. They drew so much blood so fast his head swam. Then they took his blood pressure lying down, sitting up, standing up, and okay, let's do it all again. "They lavished so much attention on him," my mom told me, "that, I swear, they wore him completely out. After a while, they said they were just going to let him rest there with the heart monitor in place, since they couldn't find any indication of anything wrong. Here I was on 'red alert,' with my eyes bugging out of my head, imagining again that maybe the terrorist had hit his mark, and your dad and brother are blissfully sawing them off…" So she took him home, and put him to bed, with doctor's orders to let him rest, and forsake Starbuck's for what may turn out to be the rest of his natural life, and see our doctor on Monday. I drove in from college this afternoon, just to make sure everything was really OK, and that Mom was being a good nurse, and taking care of him. Brian had the same idea, so for an hour or so, we all hung around. It was…weird, in a nice kind of way. I've gotta' say, I don't know when I've ever seen my Dad look happier, more content, or more healthy. What's that about?

Posted by Katy on 11/04/01 at 05:59 PM

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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	(No Title) I, too, have joined the ranks of those who have enlisted in National Novel Writing Month, an event in which as many people as can attempt to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. I'm going to put excerpts from my story on this site, and let you hazard a guess as to what in the world my novel might actually be about. Let me be clear: According to the rules of the contest, it's about finishing 50,000 words! Not rewriting, not editing, not working much on outlining, or plotting, or involved character development, just finishing. So, with all the pressure to "be good" removed, I'll give you an example of my typical brain dump. By the way, I've written about 6000 words so far, so I'm almost on track. Last night my mom and dad had what has hopefully turned out to be a Starbucks-induced medical event. They bought this car yesterday, and as part of the celebration (the way I understand it, the only other part involved two ninety-nine cent orders of Wendy's chicken nuggets), they ordered coffee. Mom got her usual latte breve grande, iced, sugar-free vanilla syrup, easy on the ice. Like I've said, she can be difficult. Dad got his usual grande caramel machiatto, only this time, it didn't sit well with him. Mom swore from the hour she imbibed that the guy who made the drinks was trying to kill someone-that he was a cappucinno terrorist trained within these very United States by unsuspecting Starbuck's managers to do the unthinkable. We citizens have been recently advised to beware of all suspicious activity, and Mom has put her radar to good and frequent use. He looked like a regular guy-no racial profiling for any middle eastern appearance would have singled him out-but, oh, my! There was so much caffeine in that one large coffee that Mom had to speed-through Wendy's for nuggets to try to neutralize the effect. Dad didn't think the coffee had given him much of a buzz, though; at least he didn't say anything. He joined her in the nugget fest, because he had the munchies, and didn't seem any the worse for wear. Six hours later, when they got the new car off the show room floor and onto their gravel driveway, she was starting to chill. Unbeknownst to her, he was starting to freak. My dad doesn't freak. He doesn't argue, fight, swear, yell or turn beet red when he's mad. He doesn't get mad. He has been accused of being comatose, and that's on a good day. But he just smiles and goes on about his business. So late last night, after he watches Mel Gibson lose his ever-lovin' mind trying to get his kidnapped son back in "Ransom," he joins my mom in bed. "Erin," my mother reported by phone around seven this morning, "I was right in the middle of a nightmare around midnight, and something kept waking me up. I hate it when that happens, because then when I go back to sleep, I end up right back in the same nightmare loop, which won't end until I finish the darn nightmare. Your dad kept interrupting me with his tossing and turning, so finally I smacked him with a pillow and said, 'What is wrong with you?'" "Mom," I interrupted this present nightmare, "where is Dad? Is he OK? What's happening?" "Oh, he's fine," she concluded, but then went back to where she had left off. "After I knocked some sense into him, he told me how his heart had been racing and jumping out of his chest all afternoon, and how it had gotten worse when he was watching Mel try to get his little boy back from the bad guys, and how in spite of everything, Rene Russo's hair held up, and while he's thrashing around on the bed and telling me this, he breaks out into a cold sweat all over his body, and that's when I said, 'I'm taking you to the E.R.'" They had had the suspicious laced coffee at 9:30 in the morning, and it was now past midnight. She had a hard time believing the cappuccino terrorist had succeeded in having his way with them. Surely, there was another, more plaque-ridden-artery type reason for his malaise. So she got Shawn out of bed, an amazing feat for a woman of her slight build and sweet temperament, and insisted that his services would be needed in transporting Dad from our rural residence to the hospital 20 minutes away. She gave a passing thought to calling an ambulance, and that idea gave her the one good laugh she had all night. "911" wouldn't be able to find my parent's house if their lives depended upon it, and since that seemed to be the point, she took matters, and Dad, into her own hands. He could do worse. Emergency rooms don't mess around with guys who come in with complaints like my dad had. Before my mom could finish the paperwork with the check-in lady, Dad had already had all his vital signs checked, the heart rate monitor hooked up, and was being wired for the EKG. They drew so much blood so fast his head swam. Then they took his blood pressure lying down, sitting up, standing up, and okay, let's do it all again. "They lavished so much attention on him," my mom told me, "that, I swear, they wore him completely out. After a while, they said they were just going to let him rest there with the heart monitor in place, since they couldn't find any indication of anything wrong. Here I was on 'red alert,' with my eyes bugging out of my head, imagining again that maybe the terrorist had hit his mark, and your dad and brother are blissfully sawing them off…" So she took him home, and put him to bed, with doctor's orders to let him rest, and forsake Starbuck's for what may turn out to be the rest of his natural life, and see our doctor on Monday. I drove in from college this afternoon, just to make sure everything was really OK, and that Mom was being a good nurse, and taking care of him. Brian had the same idea, so for an hour or so, we all hung around. It was…weird, in a nice kind of way. I've gotta' say, I don't know when I've ever seen my Dad look happier, more content, or more healthy. What's that about? Posted by Katy on 11/04/01 at 05:59 PM Fallible Comments... Commenting is not available in this weblog entry. Next entry: (No Title) Previous entry: (No Title) << Back to main


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri