Writing a book in 365 days – 28

Day 28

Today we have another writing exercise, that comes under the banner of “She was never happier than the day she realised she could never truly be happy”.

Interesting.

Does this imply that no one could ever be happy?

What is being happy all about? Have enough money, a big or small house you own, no bills, credit cards not maxed out, 2.4 perfect uncomplaining and undemanding kids?

Hell, put like that, no one could possibly ever be happy.

But, let’s give it a go…

…

It was quite something to wake up, stare at the ceiling once it came into focus, look at the bedside clock and note she woke five minutes before the alarm went off, as she did every morning workday or not, and think where did the last twenty years go?

A better question, and one posed by Elsie the previous evening, was whether or not she was happy. The four women, all friends since high school, all now in their forties, met once a month and usually it was about children and work, but last night it was about happiness.

What the hell exactly did Elsie mean, are you happy with your life?

The point she was trying to make, despite the fact she was very drunk, which was usual, in fact for some odd reason they all were, was that she needed a definition of what happiness was because she was feeling decidedly unhappy.

That got her thinking, ergo the reason why she was staring at the ceiling trying to think of one good reason to say she was happy with her life.

Because until last night, she was. Now, in the col,d hard light of dawn, she was not so sure.

Marriage had gone from the wonderful happy-go-lucky let the chips fall where they may bliss, to drudge the moment she got pregnant. From there, it had been a running battle to convince Jake that she could work and look after a family, one that eventually grew to three children, and at times, with the pressures of work, it was almost impossible to find a work-life balance.

And while she battled to get the kids up, give them breakfast, make sure they had all their school stuff, take them to school, bring them home and have food on the table at a specific time, and cope with the ever-increasing demands of work.

All while Jake sailed on with his charmed life of doing nothing but mow the lawns, pull a few weeds, and puddle in his work shed. When he was not playing golf, drinking with his friends, or off on yet another work conference.

Yes, it was all Elsie’s fault. If she had not said anything…

…

The advantage of having children early in life, Jake being the sort who never wanted to go away for a vacation, was the last of them had just moved out, off to college and hopefully bigger and better things, and to be honest she was glad to see him go.

Jake said he would be home in time to see him off, but typical Jake, there was always something else more important. A last-minute invitation to a conference on the other side of the country. By the time she got home, the bag was packed and he was going out the door.

So much for going to the airport together as they did in the early days, along with the offer to join him one day, the one day that never materialised.

She glanced at the clock and sighed. Then she remembered it was Saturday, and there was no work. No husband, and no children. The first day of bliss.

The phone rang, and she had to get out of bed to fetch it from the table on the other side of the room, placed there deliberately so often she didn;t answer it.

This time she did.

Jake, and his usual platitudes and beef about how it was a hard life and someone had to do it. She was surprised he still called while he was away.

“Had a night out with the girls last night. We all got very drunk and disorderly and I had to call a neighbour to come and bail us out. Not feeling too well this morning.”

Yes, that went down very well, he didn’t even acknowledge it before adding he would be staying another two days.

“That’s good, Jake. Now, I can tell Elsie we can go to the male strippers tonight.”

She could hear rustling in the background and smiled to herself. Winny from sales, the girl all the men wanted to seduce, Jake had been telling her about it. She’d known about their little fling for a month when one of the women at his workplace called her and suggested something was going on. Of course, it would be. Jake had turned 40 a few years back, but the menopause hadn’t hit. Then it did. She knew the signs, her father had gone through it.

She heard him suck his breath in.

“Do you think that would be a good idea? You never know who might be there.”

Yes, there it is. About his image, not hers. About the effect it might have on him, not her.

“You won’t be. Say hello to Winny for me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. See you in a couple of days. or not.” She hung up the phone, walked back to the bed and flopped on it.

The phone rang again, but she was not going to answer it. Let Jake think what he wants.

Her eyes went back to the ceiling, and this time, it didn’t show a life of drudge. It was a life of many possibilities.

It wasn’t the fact Jake was having an affair; he had never been the sort to be monogamous and she knew that before marrying him. It was, her mother said, a matter of what you were prepared to compromise. As long as he was discreet, she didn’t care. He knew the consequences if he wasn’t.

It also had nothing to do with her responsibilities to the children. They were grown up and didn’t need her anymore. They’d said as much, in their usual throwaway manner, that, she admitted, hurt a little, but it was the way of things.

No, it was about time she lived her life, the life she had always wanted, but sacrificed.

What did Elsie say, almost unintelligible as she out her in a taxi to go home, you’re never truly happy until you realise you can never be truly happy.

Or words to that effect.

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 27

Day 27

Today it’s about writing English, the perfect words, the sentences, the paragraphs, the use and abuse of punctuation.

What is that we are supposed to start learning seriously in Grade 3 or 4 when we are 8 or 9 years old, and there are more interesting things to learn about.

Oh, and you start to write in ink, not those terrible biros that used to leak everywhere and smudge on the page, but a real pen, nib, and ink, with ink wells that an ink monitor would fill every Monday morning, and discover what the rodent children stuffed in them.

(Usually blotting paper).

I remember my first attempt was a disaster and the teacher sent me back to writing in pencil.

Then there were the words, adjectives, adverbs, nouns, verbs, subjects, predicates, etc.

That was four words too many.

Then there were commas, full stops, semicolons, colons, exclamation marks, question marks and other things that I think I have forgotten about.

Then there are all those words that are so confusing, they are spelt the same, spelt differently, but when pronounced are exactly the same to the ear. Blue, blew, so, sow, you get the idea.

I’m with Truman Capote, I do not practise what I preach!

That’s called writing style, and yes, I spell the words correctly, I review and correct any grammar errors, and then have an editor tell me it all runs like a well-oiled machine.

Writing a book in 365 days – 27

Day 27

Today it’s about writing English, the perfect words, the sentences, the paragraphs, the use and abuse of punctuation.

What is that we are supposed to start learning seriously in Grade 3 or 4 when we are 8 or 9 years old, and there are more interesting things to learn about.

(Usually blotting paper).

I remember my first attempt was a disaster and the teacher sent me back to writing in pencil.

Then there were the words, adjectives, adverbs, nouns, verbs, subjects, predicates, etc.

That was four words too many.

Then there were commas, full stops, semicolons, colons, exclamation marks, question marks and other things that I think I have forgotten about.

Then there are all those words that are so confusing, they are spelt the same, spelt differently, but when pronounced are exactly the same to the ear. Blue, blew, so, sow, you get the idea.

I’m with Truman Capote, I do not practise what I preach!

That’s called writing style, and yes, I spell the words correctly, I review and correct any grammar errors, and then have an editor tell me it all runs like a well-oiled machine.

Writing a novel in 365 days – 25/26

Days 25 and 26

We have another writing exercise, this time a thousand words about a storm, a cat, and a disease, an interesting combination.

This is what I came up with:

…

Chester first alerted me to the situation. Animals seemed to have that sixth sense.

It was the usual Tuesday. I got up late after he jumped on the bed and started patting my head with his paw and using his loudest meow right near my ear.

He usually did that when he was hungry, but this was an hour earlier than usual.

Going from the bedroom to the kitchen, I noticed that it was darker than usual for this time of year, and Chester was following me, making strange sounds.

When I reached the kitchen, I went over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the wall that overlooked the ocean, opened the blinds, and was met by a sight I’d never seen before.

Dark clouds stretched all the way to the horizon, and rain fell, a huge stream of whitish blue slowly coming towards us.

Below the cloud, hundreds, thousands of birds heading away from the clouds, the storm that was coming.

I turned on the radio and searched the stations until I found one that was broadcasting a weather report.
I had tried to get the television to work, but it was showing a notice that there was no signal.

That had never happened before.

Then I heard the announcer say, “People are advised to stay indoors and find a safe place. It is expected that in the next one and two hours, the coastal areas will be hit by hurricane-force winds and high seas. All those below 250 feet above sea level are requested to move to higher ground. There will be a list of alternative accommodation locations available.”

I didn’t believe what I was hearing. Chester meowed loudly, that same tortured sound he made when I was taking him to the vet for a check-up.

“I know,” I said. “We don’t have hurricanes. We’ve never had hurricanes ever.”

I heard a sudden buffeting, the wind picking up and blowing loose debris against the windows. Those windows were not going to withstand a hurricane.

“I think we’re going to have to leave.”

That statement was accompanied by a pounding on the door. Chester shrunk back. Was that an omen?

I went to the door and opened it. A fireman. “We’re directly in line with the incoming storm. This place will be a death trap. You have fifteen minutes to get anything you want to keep and get out. There’s a bus at the end of the street.”

I was going to ask a question, but he put his hand up. “Fourteen minutes. Don’t make me come back.” A severe look then he was gone.

I looked at Chester. He wasn’t happy, and neither was I. I had just taken possession of my new home three days ago, and now it looked like it might be my last.

“We have to go.”

Another guttural sound from him told me he was all of a sudden terrified, so terrified he came straight to me and almost jumped into my arms.

A second later, there was an explosion, and something hit the end window as it literally just exploded.

Time to go.

We made it to the bus, that exploding window impetus to forget about getting anything but the cat and what I had with me, and get out.

The bus didn’t wait the full fifteen minutes, but left as the last stragglers in sight ran to get on board, the last person, a teenage girl running to jump on the running board and get on before the door closed.

The wind had already reached us, and the fireman on board said the storm was moving faster than anyone anticipated.

For the last ten minutes, we sat in a traffic jam of buses heading to the underground bus station, the safest place for us to stay. People in cars were also trying to escape, but the winds had created obstacles on the road, and confusion and tempers were causing serious problems for those trying to run an orderly evacuation.

The last thing I saw before we went under was torrential rain and high winds buffeting a sign that just collapsed on a dozen cars.

For the next fourteen days, we lived in what I thought was a huge underground space, but when twenty-three thousand terrified individuals were thrown together, it was a living nightmare.

We were told that not one but a dozen storms started from the same confluence in the Atlantic Ocean, but nobody could explain why.

After the first night and the total disorganisation that came from having a calamity thrust on totally unprepared people with very little notice, and the sound of the endless e
What sounded like explosions, howling winds, and rain, combined with the relative calm of the next morning, made it no surprise that people wanted to leave.

They were told that was only the first. No one believed them and at the behest of one man who whipped everyone into a rebellion, led a group back out into the open. We didn’t know what was out there, well, we did, but we didn’t.

Most stayed. Several hours later, the wind and rain returned. Those who left never came back.

Others left at various intervals, particularly when it was calm. Some came back, and the rest didn’t. Those who came back didn’t speak. All of them were asked and speechless.

We asked the people running the shelter. They said they had no other communications except with the weather people. That’s how they knew more storms were coming.

And, after fourteen days, it was over. We woke to silence. The original twenty-three thousand had been reduced to fourteen.

Three things were clear.

The first, which might have started as a storm, didn’t end as a storm. Something else had happened, and those stultified people who’d left and returned almost empty shells of themselves had seen something they couldn’t explain or comprehend.

The second, starting from a few days ago. People were getting sick, really sick, and the hushed whispers said it was Ebola, but it was worse than that. It killed all the animals without exception.

Chester hadn’t stood a chance.

The third, while it was good to escape the confines of that underground labyrinth and away from the sick people, what was outside was far more unimaginable, even incomprehensible. Whatever the city had been before, it was no longer. It had been levelled, and all that remained was ashes, smoke, and death.

And something else. Several very large objects looked to me like spaceships. What those who went out and came back were trying to tell us was that we had been invaded by aliens from outer space.

The only question I had was who won?