NaNoWriMo Week 4: Sliding Home

Current NaNoWriMo Word Count since November 1: 50,161

Cool, celebration music video for proper writing atmosphere:

I am thankful for: The opportunity to live a well rounded life and appreciate that this day will never repeat, ever, in the history of the universe. So you better fill it to the brim. And I did, in between turkey and pie and maybe some shopping at the mall.

I poured over 50,000 words into a document, one bite at a time, and it even looks like a really fun book. Who knew?

Excerpt from a random bit of writing (with great reservations because we are not allowed to edit until December and you know it’s making me crazy):

He had his stetson in his hand and offered me the other. I smiled and took it, whereupon he gave me a spin right there in front of the hostess. “Oh, my,” he said, “I believe we’d better get the best seat in the house tonight, ma’am.” Then he winked at the hostess and I’m fairly certain she had to hold on to her podium to stay upright.

“Gina, darlin, you can’t be more than knee-high to a grasshopper, but aren’t you just all lady.”

He held me out at arm’s length and I actually couldn’t do anything but let him.

“Not exactly serving the salad tonight,” I said with a smirk. I was half flattered and half annoyed.

“I should say not,” he said as he tucked my hand in his arm and we followed the hostess to our seats. The table was in front of a window wall with a view of the Torrey Pines lagoon and beaches of Del Mar. Below us was the highway and beyond that was a line of train tracks. The sun was at the end of it’s evening rituals and the sky was several shades of blue. Shane held out the chair for me and the hostess added a napkin to my lap.

“Wow,” I said as he took his seat. We enjoyed the scene for a minute in silence. When I looked his way again, he was watching me. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. Maybe that my nose could use some work. His hat was on a corner of the table, and I set my little black clutch next to it, friendly-like, and smiled.

The sommelier arrived with the wine list and Shane gave it a quick look and ordered a bottle for us. I was grateful. I buy my wine by the label and I’m certainly not above two-buck chuck. This date was his idea. But just in case he thought I was a women’s libber, Gramps’ stash was in my little bag. I crossed my toes for luck. Luck that I could return the money to the freezer before anyone noticed.

“How are you, darlin?” he asked and it really looked like he meant it.

“Oh, fine, just great,” I said, with a mental face palm, “How are you, Shane?”

“Never better. It’s been a good week. Thank you,” the sommelier was back and poured him a little taste from a fresh bottle. Shane approved it without the whole swirl, sniff, smack of lips or other antics I’ve seen on TV. Two glasses were poured and the rest left in a bucket at his side. He lifted his for a toast and I raised my glass as he said, “Happy Friday. Here’s to a weekend free of weddings.”

I took a sip and said, “As much as I’d love to applaud that sentiment, I may have to object instead.” He waited politely for the punch line. “I might just have a new job in the industry. Fingers crossed.”

“I knew there was something going on, there. I’m just not sure I understand your interview methods.”

We perused the menu for a minute and I focused on the options, not the price tags.

“I hope you’ll order something more than a salad,” he said, “the filet mignon is first rate and I can speak personally for the prime rib.” He looked my way. “And before we get into the nuts and bolts of sexism and cliche and other weary female adages, let me tell you up front that this evening is on me. My mama raised me right, but I have no problems taking your little bag away from you until you’re on your way home again.”

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