Here is a the beginning of my novel for National Novel Writing Month of 2014. It's about a writer trying to concentrate while dealing with noisy neighbors....who may have to die for his art to flourish. Should I continue with it? Tell me in the comments section. It will be divided into Days like a diary.
So I typed away, or at least tried to type away, on those tiny keys on that tiny device that looked so cute and compact and portable and all, but, fuck. It's too damn hard to type on. Sure it has great features, like instant on, tap screen, and that mini version of Windows known as Windows CE or Windows Lite or some shit like that. That's all you need, really. If it can save characters, allow you to italicize and bold and indent, then that's all you need. That's all I need, at least. And the screen just glows at night, making it so inviting to type my masterpiece in the mystery of darkness.
The truth: the damn keys are too small, and my mind, my goddamn mind, moves faster than I can type. I peck away, and I'm a good pecker, I have a good pecker, oh, that was uncalled for, but, you see, this is sorta how I got myself to this point. I started typing stupid stuff. Every time I got a hold of that terrific little thing, I wrote shit about what was going on in my head. I made it my diary. And how sad it is that part of my daily entries were how scared I was to type on that damn thing because my mind moves faster than I can type. I want it to flow...and it does flow...in my mind, at least. But my nimble fingers would accidentally hit the caps lock AND THEN EVERYTHING I TYPED HAD TO BE RETYPED AGAIN.
So I switched to the Dana. Oh, you've never heard of the Dana? Also a remnant of the '90s, it's this one-piece blue plastic thing that has a battery life of like twenty days and a full-size keyboard. That was the attraction there. That was what I needed. I needed a full-sizer. Then I could sit in my car, or on the couch, or on my bed, and type my masterpiece.
But the fuckin' thing has a screen about half the height of my middle finger. About fives lines at a time is all it'll show. But that's fine, really. Except the damn backlight is so weak and it's that '90s green color. Who can type on a screen with a green backlight? And if I used it during the day, you had to angle it just right so you can actually see the light-black text. Lovely keyboard, fucking awful screen. Another $200 wasted.
So shit. My main console is actually the best for writing. I mean, I can prop my legs over the left side of the desk—the one I purchased twenty years ago in 1984 after college—and slouch my butt down in the chair so my hands hit the keyboard at the optimal angle. And that's perfect. Perfect, except, I'm sitting where I don't want to be sitting to be creative. GOD, how I hate that. But, it will have to do. Because I refuse to have my fingers ttripp up on those other keyboards, or have to squint my eyes to see what I've written.
So today, I begin my novel. My masterpiece. And just three minutes in I'm reminded why I hate sitting at my desk in my home.
"Papi! Papi!" Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
My neighbors and their bratty kids. It's starting again. That pounding and screaming and pounding and running and screaming and fucking non-stop noise that makes me want to...want to...
Well, this day is shot. Can't do it with all that noise. And I really can't pick up my HP tower and take it with me to my car, or my couch, or my bedroom.
Maybe it's a sign. That I shouldn't be writing a novel anyway.