I’m not reading them just to read them. Well, mostly. But one piece of advice I remember about writing is that it’s not only important to write often but to read often. Which makes sense. That said, I’m going to read more than epic fantasy books I’ve read a dozen times already. I’ve read some of Hemingway’s short stories before, and may have read bits of Old Man and the Sea in high school, but A Moveable Feast is my first novel. I came across this quote early on:

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know.”

That sounds like good advice.

I’m not a fan of memorials or funerals. (I know no one is a fan of funerals, really. It’s just a phrase I use to indicate my preference or lack thereof for one thing or another.) I know the point is to gather and share your grief with those who have also lost a friend or loved one. To divide and reduce your sadness through the mystical mathematics of human emotion. Standing in small knots, stories are swapped that make you laugh, laughter that ends in an awkward silence that says you’ll never have any more of those stories to tell.

How do you say goodbye to someone you’re never going to see again? Certainly that word is not enough. It’s a contraction of God be with ye. Seems kind of a pointless thing to say now. I think the hardest part of death is coming to grips with the finality of it all. There really is nothing else in this world as final, as definite, as complete as death. Also, there aren’t many things that will cause a person to wax philosophical.

I’ve had my tears. I’ve shared a moment of grief. All that’s left is to sit here in Starbucks, finish my memorial vanilla latte, and remember the good times.

Goodbye, Bryan. I’ll see you later.

At least the universe had the good grace to skip a year.

Going to war does a lot of things to you. Arguably the best thing, if you can say such a thing, is that you come back with people who will forever be your friends. No, more than that. Brothers. Closer than family. It’s not something that can be accurately described to someone who hasn’t experienced it. You could go 10 years without seeing a guy and you’ll fall right back in where you left off. Because you have that one monumental shared experience. It never goes away. You’re always brothers.

And now I’ve lost another one.

I wonder if it gets any easier. Getting that phone call (which, by the way, I’ve received from the same guy all three times), hear those words, feeling that initial shock. In Bryan’s case, the shock was made greater by the circumstances: he had a heart attack at 34. I saw him not three weeks ago at a wedding and he seemed fine. He was fine. He was his normal, sarcastic self, smoking cigarettes and blowing the smoke out of his nose because he said it hurt his throat. His fiancee was there. They were happy together.

I heard an Ozzy song on the radio when I left work yesterday. I thought to myself, Why not take Ozzy? He’s old. He’s had a good life. Or Chad Kroeger. He sucks, you know? Not that I wish death on anyone but in times like these, I think we’re allowed to be a little selfish.

Yes I understand that every life must end
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go
I’m a lucky man to count on both hands
The ones I love…

(“Just Breathe”, Pearl Jam)

Monday is craft beer night at my usual watering hole and even though I tend to drink PBR most of the time (shut up, it won a blue ribbon), I can usually count on seeing a few friends there. Plus, the tuna steak was really good. It also gave me a chance to ride my scooter. I’ve had it for 2 weeks now and I’m working on breaking in the engine so I can go for longer rides. I took a longer route out there than necessary but when you’re on two wheels, it’s all about the journey. Plus, I was so close to 100 miles I could taste it.

Sadly, I didn’t break triple digits on the ride out there. It was right around rush hour and downtown Norfolk drivers aren’t the most courteous when you’re in a car. Imagine one of them getting stuck behind a 50cc scooter that will do the speed limit but takes a bit to get there. (Side note: drivers should start getting used to this scenario. Scooters are getting more popular all the time. Yes it may be “just a scooter,” but it is still a street legal motor driven vehicle and should be treated as such. Not that people treat motorcycles with any more respect, but that’s another story. Just, please, watch out for the scooters.) By the time I got close to the bar, I needed to get off the street, rather than taking a tour of downtown like I was planning.

My time at the bar was, as I said, typical. I saw friends, we talked, we joked, some friends left, other friends came in. One of my band mates stopped in and we made plans to get together this weekend for practice. (“Practice” is used loosely as we haven’t played together as a band in some months.) I got the inside scoop about a position opening up at a company to which I’d previously applied but was passed over for someone with more experience. I had a conversation with a female friend about friendships between men and women (which, despite what my mom says, can exist). All in all, a usual night out for me. Then I left.

Since I hadn’t hit 100 yet I decided to take another ride to a bird and wildflower sanctuary way out in west Ghent. The sanctuary is closed after 6:00 pm but beyond it there is a small parking lot next to the Norfolk Southern lines. I figured I’d sit, smoke a cigarette, and maybe watch some trains. Which I did do for a few minutes. Then I heard someone approaching from the field to the right.

He was walking a bicycle along a paved path that ran through the field and shouting something. I couldn’t hear him over the trains. When he got closer he had what looked at first like a tattoo on his face. Some lines running down from his eye to the front of his neck. He got closer and I could hear what he was saying.

“Man, I must look like shit, huh?”

Then I saw that it wasn’t a tattoo, it was blood.

“Uh, yeah.”

Apparently he’d run into a tree branch on his bike. It caught his eyebrow pretty good. Having some first aid training I took a look but couldn’t tell much because of the blood. There was quite a bit of it. Then I asked him if he was going to stick around, he said yes, and I hopped on my scooter and made for 7–11 to get some things. I grabbed some water, band-aids, wipes, and Purell (mostly for me), cleaned him up best I could then was on my way.

What struck me later was that I didn’t think twice about doing all that. There wasn’t an internal struggle, I didn’t once think that I shouldn’t help this guy. I just did it. I didn’t feel in any immediate danger. He was apparently homeless and waiting for his disability to be approved. I say apparently because he did, oddly, have a cell phone, while at the same time saying his pack was in the woods nearby. Regardless, I took the time and money to help out my fellow man, and that made me feel good. The last thing I heard was that he was going to walk to Sentara to get himself looked at. I don’t know if he did or not.

Then, when I got back to my apartment, I was putting my scooter up and a guy walked from the next building over and asked if I could help carry a TV up to their apartment since it was too heavy for him and his wife. I figured I’d keep the good deeds rolling and did help him. He offered me a ginger beer and when I turned that down, he offered me twenty bucks and wouldn’t let me decline it, which I tried. Based on that action, his name, and his wife’s accent, I believe they Muslim. Or at least of some middle Eastern descent, despite coming from somewhere in Michigan. They were nice people.

So that’s how my night went. Started out normal, ended up pretty weird. But hey, I garnered some good karma, I got twenty bucks, and I passed 100 miles on the scooter.

Word count: 911

Then, there was The Number. Most NaNo veterans know it by heart. One thousand, six hundred and sixty-seven. 1,667. The amount of words you have to write, each day of the month, to clear 50,000 by the time midnight on November 30th comes around. It doesn’t look like much, does it? In fact, that’s the point. Compared to 50,000, it’s downright tiny. Then I look down below this text box I’m typing in now and see my current word count: 194. That’s just 11.6% of 1,667. I’m not exactly sure how long I’ve been typing but I do know what thing: I have no idea what I’m going to fill the other 88.4% with. And this is just day one! Twenty-nine more days of 1,667 words. That’s impossible!

Well, of course it’s possible. 32,178 people did it in 2009. The website is full of forum posts with tips and tricks and whatnot. There are writing challenges and word wars (head to head battles to write the most in a given time period). Writing prompts, plots and characters that need adoption, and more. Everything you need to get going. Except for one thing.

The desire to sit down and write.

I really want to do it this year. I don’t know why. (It could have something to do with watching Wonder Boys yesterday. It’s a great movie, I recommend it.) I couldn’t tell you what’s different between this year and all the other years I’ve said I was going to do it and fizzled out on day three. To get started, I’m going to start writing here more. I’m looking at it as training for a run. You can’t expect to hop off the couch and run a 5k without risking death or shin splints. So, I’ll start here. Counter is currently up to 393. That’s nearly a quarter of the required 1,667. It’ll probably be hard to come up with topics, and I’m sure I’ll forget some days since I have a terrible memory, but I’m going to try. And this year, I have a netbook I can take with me to places other than my messy room. Perhaps a change of venue will help me churn out the words.

The thing I have to tell myself the most is that even if I type out 50,000 words of crap, it’s still an accomplishment. I will still have wrung 50,000 English words, in some configuration, from my brain via my fingers. And if they’re anything like that last sentence, they will be utter crap. Whatever. There’s always NaNoEdMo.

Word count: 514