A Challenge

The first of this month marks the two year anniversary of the greatest writing challenge I have ever participated in. During this month two years ago I decided to join NaNoWriMo... the nerdy way of saying National Novel Writers Month. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel over the course of the, unfortunately, only 30 days of November. It's well set up online with a word counter and graphs of how close to completion you are. It's also terrifying to watch the number of days remaining until the "deadline" ticking away while the number of words remains approximately the same. I can't say that what I generated during that time was excellent writing, but it was voluminous. And that in itself was a new victory for me.

Perhaps NaNoWriMo is not your thing. Today I pose the question, what is? And I address that question to myself. It's easy to be easy on myself, not to challenge myself any more than an ordinary day requires. But then, I have no story! And if you're like me in this, you miss out on having a "story" as well, whatever your form of "story" may be.

So, I shall take on a new challenge this November! And I encourage you to do the same. My challenge this month is something that used to be a breeze for me before my beloved Tom and sweet baby Piper Joy came along. I want to read a whole book this month. Yep. You heard me. A whole one.

To inspire your November challenge (if it chances to be in the writing arena), here is an excerpt from my novel. One day, maybe I'll edit it.

This is an interaction between 2 characters, Billie, an 84 year old woman who has lived in the same house in small town East Texas for her entire life, and the main character, a newly-wed woman, mid twenties, who has begun to befriend Billie. The main character does not have a name as of yet!

Painting the Swing                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Once upon a time we painted the porch swing. Billie said anything but white would do. I thought the swing would look nice in a white coat. It would freshen up the dingy ply wood porch. But Billie had her opinions only occasionally and that made them quite strong. We decided periwinkle would be a nice color. Mostly because I already had a can of it sitting on a shelf in my pantry. Will and I had painted our fridge partially periwinkle, in addition to goldenrod and deep turquoise, and I still had the leftovers. Billie and I walked over to my house and I showed her the color.                  

                  “Looks blue to me.”

                  “It’s really closer to purple.”

                  “Purple? Well, do you like it?”

                  “Of course I do! I painted my fridge that color.”

                  “Well then, I like it.”

                  “Alright then. It’s decided. The swing will be blue, blue for Billie.”

                  “That’s right. And anyone who don’t like it can come and tell me so.”

                  “Yeah! Alright, here’s the plan - I’ve got time on Friday so I’ll get Will to teach me how to use his electric sander. Then I’ll come over and sand it all down. That will probably take a few hours, so we’ll wait on the painting until the next week. You can sit on it until next Friday when I’ll come and paint it. Sound good?” I really wanted to space out the process so Billie would have something to look forward to.

                  “Yeah it sounds good. Course you’re the one’s going to be doin’ all the work so what I think don’t really matter. I’m just goin’ to set out there on that porch and watch you work.”

                  “Sounds like a pretty good deal for you and me too. I’ll bring the sander on Friday then.”

                  The day before we began sanding the swing I told Billie she had dirty feet. She had her legs all stretched out with her feet just sitting there, toes caked in greenish grime.

                  “Billie,” I said, “When’s the last time you washed your feet?”

She looked over at me, scratched her neck and said,

                  “Last night.”

                  “Well, have you looked at them today?” I asked.

                  “No.” She looked hard at her feet, bending forward a little so she could be sure to see them. “Well God Almighty! Looks like I haven’t washed ‘em in weeks!”

                  From the way she responded you would think she had put on her glasses and could suddenly see the truth, but the bifocals were folded up on the kitchen table inside. She hadn’t bothered to look at her feet in a while I guess.

                  The next morning I tapped on the door. A clean footed Billie opened the screen. She had combed her hair down flat and wet against her head.

                  “Your head been itching again?” I asked. Billie had a queer way of washing her hair at seven a.m. if her head started itching. It must have been the chemicals in her permanent that she didn’t like by day four of a week. I always like it when she washed her hair because it made her look like a little baby just out from the bath. She had on her overalls and one of Harold’s shirts.

                  “Ready to sand?”

                  “You’re the one doin’ it. You tell me!”

                  “I’m ready. Will gave me a lesson on how to use the sander, so here we go!”

The main problem I foresaw was reaching the underside of the swing. It hung from the porch ceiling by chains caught on hooks shaped like s’s. Will would know exactly the way to get the chain off the s’s, but I had no idea. Billie, however, was a wildcard when it came to helpful information. I ventured a question of her many years.

                  “You know how to take this swing down?”

                  “Sure,” she crooned, “Jus’ take it down.”

                  “Thanks Billie. You’ve helped me a lot.”

                  She chuckled.

                  “It’s not like I’m helping you out or anything. Not like I’m working and you’re over there lounging around while my arms are vibrating off with this silly sander. Right. You are so helpful.”

                  When a person with no teeth chuckles, that’s something to see. They stretch their lips out which makes the lips go into their mouths a little bit and heightens the point of the chin. Then it’s a matter of stretching and loosening a couple of times while the chuckle makes it out the nose. Billie’s eyes always smiled under all the layers of skin that fell down over them when she chuckled.

                  We commenced sanding, and by we, I mean myself while Billie sat with her back against the porch pillar drinking Hawaiian Punch. Sometimes I tried to convince Billie to drink water since she was drying up. Literally. Her skin had started to itch all the time. She always defended her poor beverage choices by saying she just picked up whatever bottle happened to be handy. I don’t think she ever filled up any bottles with water. Or maybe she did and then stuck them up in the top cabinet above the refrigerator where she couldn’t reach them. Either way there seemed to be a lot of Hawaiian Punch “handy.”

                  The sander vibrated my arm and hummed a stingingly high tune. It moved the circular paper in a circle and I moved the tool in a circle. I hoped our combined circles would equal enough force to push away the paint from the swing. It was the kind of paint New England barns are painted with. Billie had worn away a path with the seat of her overalls through the course of years. Slowly, I too wore away a patch. My patch got bigger until it connected with Billie’s. I sanded the arm rests and back of the swing and paused fifteen minutes later for a break. My arms still buzzed even though the machine was off. Billie was watching a squirrel climb up her oak tree. She called him, Little Squirrel. Occasionally she would tell me stories of the escapades of Little Squirrel and his partner (who I had seen a few times before), Little Deer. Billie was not one to elaborate, so you could always know her stories were true. As long as she had had her glasses on at the time of the event.